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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 month

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If it’s alright, I have a question about Vil and Epel’s relationship. I understand that the accent changing plot line is just a cultural politeness thing that didn’t carry over outside of Japan, but the other parts of changing Epel’s behavior don’t quite make sense.

Why exactly is Epel being forced to call macarons his favorite food? And act very soft-spoken? I can’t see how these fit in with the politeness aspect of the table manners, no abrasive language, etc. It just doesn’t give a very good impression, especially in combination with the unfortunate implication of giving Epel a Southern accent for the “change your accent” plot point.

Before I get to responding to the questions posed by this ask, allow me to explain for those who may not be familiar with this controversy! This is so we can all go into reading this post from the same starting point.

I've made titles to denote the explanation of background knowledge and to denote responding to the questions actually asked to me! If you're already familiar with the Vil-Epel-accent debacle then feel free to skip the first section!

Disclaimer: I’m speaking on these concepts as I personally understand them. However, I am not a native Japanese speaker so I’d advise that you consult additional resources with a better understanding of the language and culture. Two resources I enjoy are Yuurei and MysteryShopTLs, who have both also addressed Epel’s accent and how it was localized.

The Accent, EN vs JP

It’s well-known that Epel is a character with a heavy accent who has been explicitly told by Vil, his dorm leader, to alter the way he speaks. In EN, Epel speaks with what appears to be a southern (as in, “from the southern United States”) accent. Therefore, when Vil tells him to stop speaking in the accent, it feels as though Vil is shaming him for his southern roots and culture. This has also led to fans (especially of the EN-only sphere) thinking that Vil believes Epel’s accent is “unrefined” and “makes him sound uncouth/uneducated”, which is why Vil tells Epel to cover it up. I have even received asks conveying as much in the past (here is one example).

In the original JP, Epel speaks in a way that does not closely resemble any real-world Japanese dialect but rather a blend of them. If you ask a native Japanese speaker, they would likely tell you that it is difficult to understand what Epel is saying and that it sounds as though he is speaking rudely or too casually. People could genuinely take offense to the accent because it can be mistaken as something else entirely. This is obviously very different than the real-world accent (which many people can still understand and wouldn’t perceive as rude) that Epel was localized to have. The decision to give him a southern accent, then, does not completely carry over its original JP connotations into EN.

What remains the same in both EN and JP is the reason Vil provides for telling Epel to adjust the way he communicates. As he says in EN, “Speak properly" to which Epel immediately assumes the command comes from a place of elitism/classism and Vil thinking Epel's manner of speaking is beneath him. Vil responds with, "Stop misinterpreting my instructions. I have nothing against your home or its dialect. What I object to is your attitude. Being proud of your home is all well and good, but there is a time and a place for that. The way you address your superiors is entirely unacceptable." (Keep in mind that before this, Epel was the one instigating a fight with Vil and subsequently got his ass whooped for disrespecting an upperclassman. As the victor, he declares that Epel must do as he says--that's the "culture" of NRC. The weak obey the strong, so if Epel wants to do whatever he wants, then Vil challenges him to beat Epel in a fight. Until then, the loser must obey the winner. Epel agrees to these conditions.) This may be a little hard for western English speakers to wrap their heads around, but MANY Asian countries, Japan included, run on a hierarchical system which is embedded even into their languages. Japanese, for example, has honorifics to denote the relationship between the speaker and the listener, as well as variations on the same word depending on the context ("boku", "ore", "watashi", "atashi", etc. are all valid ways to refer to oneself, "onii-san", "onii-sama", "aniki", "kyodai", etc. are all ways to refer to a brother, whether blood-related or not). In some cases, it's considered rude to call others by their first name unless you know them well, and even then it's not common to see a first name without an honorific. This is not as strictly adhered to in English, which is perhaps where a cultural disconnect occurs. What Vil is referring to in his instructions to Epel is what is known in the world of linguistics as "code switching", or changing how one communicates to suit the situation. Part of code switching is changing one's "register", or the level of formality you use. So for example, I could use a colloquial/casual register when I speak with my friends, but I may shift to a more polite and formal register when I speak with my professors, a boss, or an older relative. Vil, then, is critiquing Epel for not speaking politely to his seniors (something which is expected in Japanese culture, but not expected among those in similar grade levels in western cultures).

In the Harveston Sledathon event, we get to venture to Epel's hometown and hear how the locals speak. Indeed, we get more instances of people who speak in the same way Epel does. It's the Harveston dialect, which is so distinctive that it basically sounds like a whole different language. (There are also languages like this in real life; consider Mandarin and Cantonese; technically they are both "Chinese" but Mandarin and Cantonese speakers would not be able to comprehend one another even if they use the same written language). However, it's notable that Marja (Epel's grandmother) and the mayor of Harveston are able to code switch flawlessly into a more standardized tongue. They explain that this is a skill they have developed because it helps in communicating with tourists/visitors to the village and for whenever they travel to the nearby city to sell their wares. This reinforces Vil's point that there is a "time and place" for certain ways of speaking, which Epel needs to consider.

Macarons and Soft-Spokeness

Accent thing aside, some English-speaking fans take issue with Vil's stern treatment of Epel, particularly in instances in which Vil seems to be exerting significant control over his underclassman's behaviors. (Japanese-speaking fans largely do not hold the same sentiment.) Examples of this include Vil forcing Epel to state that his favorite food is macarons, as well as making Epel present as soft-spoken even when he's just among his peers. I will now be addressing both of these points. TO BE CLEAR, I am NOT trying to defend Vil but rather I'm just going to speculate about why the circumstances are the way that they are and/or why perceptions of his attitude may differ.

Starting with macarons! It is stated in Epel's official profile and by Epel himself in his Birthday Boy vignettes that his favorite food is yakiniku (Japanese grilled meat). However, macarons are also listed as his favorite food, and this is notable because he's the only character with two foods listed instead of just one. In the aforementioned Birthday Boy vignettes, Epel is quick to qualify his love of meats with, "Well, I do have one thing I like even more. It's, ah, macarons." When asked what he likes about them, he says, "They're... cute. And sweet! And they come in lots of different flavors." His voice here sounds hesitant, so it's not clear whether he's being entirely honest or not. He even admits in a whisper that, "[Macarons] are not very filling, but still." Epel again complains about macarons being good but not very filling when he has some in the City of Flowers/Fleur City. To this, Azul asks, "Why do you look so unimpressed, Epel? I thought macarons were your favorite food. [...] But was my intel mistaken? Would you prefer something with a stronger flavor profile?" Epel insists he is fine, and Azul responds with, "Excellent, then my intel bears out." This creates some confusion over whether Epel actually likes macarons or not. I doubt that the information Azul has on others is inaccurate. Plus, Epel states of his own free will to the player (who is interviewing him) that he also likes macarons. This leads me to believe that while Epel doesn't outright hate macarons, he does like them alright (but still prefers grilled meat more). The only thing he seems to have an issue with is how unsubstantial macarons are as a food item.

Now... why does Vil make him state that macarons are his favorite food instead of grilled meat? It's sort of touched on in Epel's Ceremonial Robes vignettes. In them, Vil chides Epel for his poor table manners and asks him to state his favorite food. Epel responds with grilled meat/barbeque, which earns him a smack from his dorm leader. (Vil actually smacks Epel multiple times in these vignettes as punishment, which ended up being another source of ire in the English-speaking part of the fandom; such a thing is more common in Asia and its media, so it's not seen as too outrageous in Japan.) "Do my ears deceive me?" Vil says. "I could've sworn I heard a word unfit to be spoken in this noble dorm. I will ask you again. As a student of Pomefiore–a dorm founded upon the tenacity of the Fairest Queen–what is your favorite food?" From this dialogue, it can be surmised that Vil's reasoning for drilling the macarons in as Epel's favorite food is because it is something that is more befitting of the regal "image" of the Fairest Queen and the dorm made in her honor. Vil seems to regard grilled meat as an inelegant food which does not suit the Fairest Queen nor Pomefiore.

The second thing the asker brought up is Epel's soft-spokeness. I guess I'm a little confused by this??? Soft-spokeness is a part of being polite; it ties back to volume control (ie "indoor voice" being softer than "outdoor voice"). I also don't recall a specific instance of Vil chastising Epel for NOT being soft-spoken at all times. He allows Epel to be loud sometimes and raises his voice himself. I feel like volume is not something that Vil harps on as much as other things like cursing or speaking politely to the correct authority figures (unless, of course, volume is important to the level of politeness required for the current conversation). I could be wrong on this though, so please let me know if you know of any specific instances of Vil being mad about Epel speaking loudly that I may have missed! What I do find odd is how... consistently (?) Epel tries to keep polite even when Vil is not around to monitor him. When Vil and Epel first met, Vil makes it clear that there is a "time and place" for Epel's accent, and it's not when addressing seniors. So... by the logic, shouldn't Vil be okay with Epel acting more relaxed or rowdy around first years or more casual settings in general? Why does Epel need to maintain the facade of being polite even when not in the presence of his superiors? Why does Epel seem to even act fearful about word of his misbehavior/rudeness getting back to his dorm leader and even make others swear they won't divulge the incidents to Vil?

One theory I'll propose is the entirety of book 5. Vil was insistent then on having Epel in the NRC Tribe. He wanted to weaponize Epel's cuteness, which he believed could compete with his long-time rival, Neige. This probably fed into Vil's demands for Epel to appear and act dainty and innocent, traits which Neige effortlessly possesses. Vil literally even refers to Epel as his "Poison Apple" that will help him defeat Neige. After book 5, Vil seems to have eased up on his rigidity. However, I will caution that this explanation may or may not align well with vignettes and/or event stories, which do not always work in a cohesive timeline with the main story.

Perhaps a more all-encompassing explanation is... this is probably because Vil is just very strict about how his dorm members present themselves at all times, since they are expansions of Pomefiore and of himself as the leader. Both the macarons and Epel's attitude are reflections of the dorm he (a celebrity who is very aware of the public eyes on him + his reputation) is affiliated with, and Vil won't have them poorly represented. He is the dorm leader, so he has the "right" to rule and impose his ideals as he sees fit. It's a similar situation to Riddle forcing the Heartslabyul students to follow silly, nonsensical rules (because they're tradition) or risk a scolding or a beheading. And again, Epel is following along because (as established in book 5), he has agreed to submit to Vil’s orders until he beats Vil in combat.

At the end of the day, I don't think Epel being forced to call macarons his favorite food is a huge deal. Is anything that big lost in claiming you like something that isn't your actual favorite food? It's not like Vil is forcing Epel to claim he likes eating something that would actually harm him (like, if Epel had an almond allergy or something).

What's more dubious is how VIl governs Epel's attitude and temperament at seemingly all times (to the point of eliciting some apprehension from Epel). Given the most generous reading, maybe it's Vil's way of teaching Epel maturity and how to keep his voice down since Epel had zero of it and acted loudly brazen when he first enrolled. It doesn't help Epel if he's quiet and well-mannered in very limited social situations; it has to be "generalized" or expand to other scenarios for Vil's lessons to truly be instilled in him. (Like... what would happen if Vil DIDN'T hold Epel in check? His classmates would not be able to understand Epel's speech, and he might get into trouble by picking fights with others.) This is a life skill that Epel lacks, unlike his grandma and the Harveston mayor, and Vil's teaching it to him via "tough love" (though whether you approve of his methods or not is up to interpretation). Recall that Vil also teaches Epel to embrace femininity as its own strength and to disregard outdated gender norms--this could be considered another "lesson". I doubt that anything Vil imposes is done maliciously, but rather comes from a place of wanting others to be better and to shine their brightest, even if that path is difficult or painful. Epel, as the rebel in this circumstance, of course does not enjoy being told what to do and misbehaves in small ways. There’s a limit on how much he can misbehave though, as it would hurt his pride to be reminded of his failure to one-up Vil. He's like a kid that doesn't want to be caught cussing or acting out by his parent. It can be seen as immaturity and an unwillingness to change or to grow up, but it can also be seen as someone who wants to freely be able to express themselves or to be their "truest" self. Epel is rowdy and headstrong, and it's difficult for him to repress these parts of himself. Given the least generous reading, Vil is oppressing and stifling Epel in many ways that extend beyond what his dorm leader position should reasonably allow him to do. In fact, a popular fan translation for book 5 is "The Beautiful Oppressor", as Vil is frequently shown limiting the liberties of his NRC Tribe members during their training arc, not just Epel's.

Which is the truth here? Why do those in the English side of the fandom decry Vil's actions and side with Epel whereas the Japanese side see little issue with this?

I wager that this predominantly comes down to, again, cultural differences. Many English-speaking fans are based in the west (particularly the USA and Canada, where the EN servers first launched), places which emphasize individuality and self-expression. Of course they would be more likely to take Epel's side, as he's the one trying to be himself and stand out in his own way. Meanwhile collectivism--an ideology which stresses conformity with a group--dominates in the east. They are more likely to see no problems with Vil's actions because, to them, he is acting in the ways he is to "guide" Epel and show him how to best "fit in" with Pomefiore and at NRC. I believe the whole "being soft-spoken" thing also ties back to cultural differences; speaking loudly is something else that can be considered rude in Japan, so it's entirely possible that Vil encouraging Epel to be soft-spoken is another element of politeness that did not translate well to English (as the western world tends to be much louder and more animated in their conversations).

What it boils down to is that the way Vil and Epel's relationship was written did not work well for a western audience, whose values and perspective is VERY different from the original audience TWST had. It appeals far more to a Japanese fanbase than a western one, and has resulted in many misunderstandings or anger about Vil's character because of this.

I'm not sure if I managed to adequately explain everything, but I hope that this at least helps you to see from a different perspective!!

#twst #twisted wonderland #Vil Schoenheit #Epel Felmier #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #harveston sledathon spoilers #Marja Felmier #notes from the writing raven #question #book 5 spoilers #twst en #twisted wonderland en #Neige LeBlanche #Azul Ashengrotto

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ay0nha · 10 months

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Venus Rising | Thomas Shelby

SUMMARY: Three moments in which you run into Tommy, the final provoking a deal neither of you are prepared for.

“I am afraid of getting older. I am afraid of getting married. Spare me from cooking three meals a day—spare me from the relentless cage of routine and rote. I want to be free…I want, I want to think, to be omniscient.” Sylvia Plath (1949)

PAIRING: Tommy Shelby x f!reader

WORD COUNT: 2.4K

WARNINGS: ANGST, swearing, smoking (tobacco/weed), criticism of time-period misogyny/misogyny in general, canon-typical things, angst again, rich people being annoying, no proof reading, rushed ending, slow burn, etc.

A/N: Oop, another Tommy fic, apparently it’s not quite out of my system. Inspired by the film How to Steal a Million (title is inspired by the original title of the book!) and @huntingingoodwill‘s post (here), ESPECIALLY with the third part of this as it comes from Carmen’s beautiful brain. Inspo is taken from various feminist writing and particularly an Agnes Varda quote. MIGHT do a part two, idk yet.

Comments are VERY encouraged! Enjoy.

“Thanks for that…” Tommy was finally catching his breath but still searched for your name. He hadn’t seen you in the gathering below and questioned if the room he found himself in belonged to you.

“We’re better off strangers.” You weren’t defensive, nor was your guard up; you were just focused. Fixated. The painting was borderline mesmerizing, and you struggled to tell if it was from the art or how your joint dwindled steadily.

Your isolation was purposeful.

The reception provoked the start of a migraine; its noise bleeding through the thick walls of the stately home only grew more deafening as the evening furthered. To find relief, you wandered the empty halls, the stairs that led to darkness, and every door that seemed particularly off-limits.

It was a simple measure of self-preservation until your seclusion was fractured.

The door opened abruptly, a body sliding through the narrow space to hide in the most prominent shadow. You thought you were caught, but the man held a finger to his lips, expression prepared for the obvious chase.

You were the perfect accomplice.

Those who came looking for him were met with your theatrics, a role well-rehearsed; your eyes never glanced to where Tommy hid in the most prominent shadows; your upset alone secured you hadn’t seen the man with the razor-lined cap; you simply wanted to return to your silence.

“You stick out, you know…” You filtered smoke through your nose, half-lidded eyes remaining ahead. The thought was absentminded, your lips tingling with indifference.

“I have an invitation.” Tommy had it forged, making it nearly identical to the one you’d received in the post.

You hummed with amusement. “I mean—you don’t belong.”

Considering how you equated his presence with his class, Tommy considered taking offense. However, your humor exposed no ill intent. You were trying to relate to him. To offer some solace, you offered the joint to him between pinched fingers.

“Let me guess, neither do you.” Tommy accepted your olive branch with a drag.

“Oh, I never will.” Although your smile remained, your tone became distant. You didn’t glance at Tommy until he took another puff. His eyes were ahead, just as yours were, attempting to see what had enraptured you in the painting. “Just like her.”

The face of the young woman depicted was covered, but her body was exposed. You were sure the owner of the canvas only valued the misinterpreted eroticism. Yet, the scene’s voyeuristic purposes were to convey the end of a very long day. You were convinced if you reached out, you could soothe her aching muscles from her obviously laborious job.

The painting's size didn’t speak for its cost. You wanted to laugh at how something so precious was stored on a wall as a forgotten decoration. However, you would do the exact same if it were in your possession. It would hang on your ceiling that way; when you rested your head against your pillow, you could get one final look at it as if it were a mirror, a grounding reminder that there was company in such an empty space.

“You pity the poor.” The statement held a questioning tone. Tommy interpreted the painting and your thoughts literally; a woman relieved of farm work was being judged by you—someone worse than the bourgeois.

“Don’t you see it?” Bitter ecstasy carried your words. You wanted to be heard. “Her and I are the same…”

Tommy returned the joint, realizing its purpose was to aid and calm you from the turmoil you hoped to escape. He felt an odd sense to comfort you but wouldn’t.

Instead, he repaid his earlier debt with unaccustomed humor, “I doubt someone like you shovels shit for a living.”

“Doesn’t matter.” You let the smoke settle in your chest, its warmth comforting. “From inception, we’re indistinguishable, born with an innocence that is only nurtured to be stolen. Our very being is never our own. Once our bodies are pried from our minds, we starve because of it.”

“Ah, I see…” Tommy started, “You’re a modern woman.”

The joint was almost a roach, but you passed it back, ridding yourself of its responsibility. The man beside you was a stranger, and you were thankful for that position. Anything said didn’t matter. It would evaporate and leave no trace. Tommy understood this well, participating in a game he didn’t know the rules of.

“Modernity is irrelevant.” You corrected. Your words sunk into your stomach, weighing you down. “This is beyond time.”

—

“Gave a try shoveling shit, eh?” Tommy crossed his legs, leaning back with an ease you were envious of. A cigarette was rolled along his lips, a habit formed by comfort.

Once lit, the image was complete. It had clicked. “You.”

Thomas Shelby. Your memory of him held a haze, that night's intoxication cherry-picking how you retained the interaction. But your vague image of him was enough to understand his occupation. You were warned against his world, but you could only do so much when your worlds overlapped so bizarrely.

“Me.” He confessed with mitigation. There was a cadence even in his silence. Clearly, he was thinking of how to approach you, but you failed to recognize how he always remained ahead in his business. “You were found near the stables.”

“Apparently, I’m a witch.” You mused. Cheltenham was never dull.

Tommy hummed, entertaining your wit only slightly. “They think you’ve cursed the horses.”

Horses were efficient beasts that were often mistreated, that much you knew. However, they intimidated you into submission. Their role in your life was distant, typically involving a reflection of wealth and nothing more.

You hid behind the stables because you misunderstood the distance you created. It had a false bottom that showed those in your world never enter their stables, allowing others to do the hard work. Those around you wouldn’t dare stain their fine fabrics how you chose to.

Although the air was foul, the stables were the only place you could breathe without the hands of your arranged date finding home where they weren’t welcomed.

You knew the man who caught you was Tommy’s brother. Though they looked different, the air surrounding them was suffocating. They were driven by brutal confidence that manifested physically and for Tommy mentally. The mind game you were presented with was just as predetermined as the races.

“I want us to understand each other.” Ash fell from Tommy’s cigarette in thought. “We do not share the same fantasy.”

“And what fantasy is that?”

“Poor little rich girl—” His words were punctuated. “—thinks she can play gypsy until she hears the dinner bell.”

Your laughter made him flinch. “And what’s for dinner?”

Tommy had vetted you. No one knew anything worthy about you. So everyone simply fantasized about you, spinning tales. Yet, you were an extraordinary nobody—an amazing unknown. Suspicion wasn’t necessary, but there was no need for his growing intrigue.

“That man you came with…” Tommy knew who he was. He was another kid that thought one day he could rule the world. But all he was capable of was poorly executed white-collar crime. “Who is he?”

You shrugged. “To him, I am his girlfriend.”

“And to you?”

“Does that matter?”

Tommy quickly learned that your only form of retaliation was posed through questions. The more philosophical, the more your guard remained. “I've been thinking about what you've said…”

The admission alone was out of character and also misrepresented. Tommy's mind was riddled with your sentiments. It was a thoughtful comment on something broader, something Tommy knew of and was growing to understand. But that wasn’t what preoccupied him.

It was how your poise wasn’t carried through your posture. It was how you expressed yourself indifferently but spoke so sharply. You were a constant contrast that perplexed him, possessed him to look into you, into your life. He planned to search until he found a moment where you put your thoughts to use the way he had.

“You, a suffragette?” Your lip curled at the thought. “Now, that, Mr. Shelby, is a fantasy.”

—

Planning an escape was satisfying but little compared to the follow-through.

The feeling solidified when the silk hem of your dress billowed was the only trail of your escape. You could hear your name echo along the corridor wall, someone sent to find you and force you back into the festivities.

“Where are you going?” The voice was a mix of a whisper and shout, reflecting nothing but urgency. The guests weren’t privy to your behavior, but your absence was clear. You heard your name again.“You must come down! You’re upsetting the guests!”

Although your home, the walls felt like they were shifting, creating a maze to your safety. The click of your heels was like a countdown to being caught. That was until your hand frantically found an antique handle of the most inconspicuous door.

Sliding into the broom closet, darkness invaded your senses.

With its veil, you could make out the sliver of light that fought to illuminate the room from the other side. It tracked the shadow of who chased you, showing you how they inched closer, hoping to hear your rapid breathing. Once enough time was given to their search; the footsteps receded in the wrong direction, their voice calling after you growing faint.

Your relief was borderline euphoric; your body demonstrated success as the tension drained the further you calmed. You sunk toward the door, forehead against the smooth, cool wood.

The sound behind was as quick as the movement. Identifiable and surprising.

The match created friction that illuminated the small space with an orange glow. You moved fast, your breath pinned to the roof of your mouth.

“Cigarette?” Tobacco filled the cramped room, the burning end of the cigarette not quite exposing your companion. But you could feel the amusement at the situation radiate from the corner.

Your stupor made you move with shock. “Christ!”

Your hand shot up to feel around for the light switch above you, yanking on the cord. Awash in light, you took in the sight of the man who was casually nursing a cigarette.

“Mr. Shelby?” You blinked at him, dumbfounded.

“Tommy.”

“What are you—

“I’m a guest.” The cigarette bobbed with his chiding.

“A guest.” You repeated, your tone brimming with doubtful sarcasm. “And what is a guest doing, hiding here, so far away from the party?”

“I could ask the same of you.” He quipped, icy expression holding your own.

“Ah, but I’m not a guest.” You defended yourself, holding up a finger as you corrected him. “This is my family’s party. I am technically a host.”

“Well—” He began, taking a puff of his cigarette, silver smoke spilling from his lips as he spoke. “—not a very good host if you’re hiding up here, eh?”

Your eyebrows cocked as you took him in. His presence meant business. “I don’t seem to remember my father mentioning gangsters would be on the guest list tonight.”

“Why not?” He replied, shrugging nonchalantly. “We’re good fun at parties.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” You mused. “But I doubt this is your kind of party.” You wished to witness him in action, for him to live up to all the stories you’ve heard about him firsthand. And you could tell he was itching for you to ask. “What have you got planned tonight?”

“If you must know—” Tommy remained externally stoic but revealed himself bluntly. “—I’m here to rob your family blind.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your father has come into quite a bit of money recently,” Tommy said, words calculated and measured. “He’s been stepping on the Blinders’ business. So, I came here tonight to take back what’s ours.”

“How much?” You asked.

“A million dollars.” He sighed, highlighting his statement with a drag of his cigarette.

“That all?” You scoffed.

“You’d hardly miss it,” Tommy explained. “And, with your family’s yearly legendary holiday party going on tonight, I figured I could hide until all the…” He took a second to ponder, searching for the words, “...rich fucks down there were drunk enough. Then, I’d take what’s mine and leave. No one would be any the wiser.”

There was a pause. He wanted you to protest, but he knew you wouldn’t. You were reading him just as well. It quickly became a stalemate, but you had the advantage of toying with him.

“Well, I should fulfill my host duties.” You sighed, tone wrapping up the unorthodox interaction. “Find my father while I’m at it; tell him bookkeepers are infested in our walls.”

“You’re not going back down there.”

Another pause. Your skin crawled with jest. “And why’s that, Mr. Shelby?”

He shook his head casually, eyes boring through yours. “You’re not going back down there because you don’t want to.”

“What?” Your laugh was soft and unexpected. It was hard to determine, but some of you would have rathered a threat. This was almost as entertaining.

“I can tell you don’t want to go down there. So don’t.”

Behind your back, you reached for the doorknob, but as your fingers grazed it, you lost your nerve. You sighed, flexing your fingers.

“Move over.” You instructed, and Tommy listened. He slid closer to the wall as you squeezed beside him, arm against him in a one-sided comfort. “Poor little rich girl opening up to a gangster. Never saw that in the cards.” You plucked the cigarette from his fingers, taking a drag, carefully considering your next words. “It’s never as simple as it seems, really.”

“Sure it is.”

“It really isn’t.” You chuckled, eyes trained on the glowing end of the cigarette.

“Enlighten me.” He replied, taking the cigarette back as you passed it to him.

The emotions you kept bottled up bubbled in your throat. Living in the gilded cage of high society had privilege but was equally emotionally destructive. It felt foreign, the thought of exposing yourself with such vulnerability; you grew nervous at the prospect of having to do so.

“Simplicity is a pipe dream when your life relies on codependency.” Just the thought of it made you dizzy. “It’s better to hide than risk being a blemish to the family.”

Tommy stayed quiet. Then against better judgment, he spoke. “Why not just leave? You’re a clever girl. Surprised you haven’t figured that out yet.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” You countered without edge; you knew his slight dig was only to lighten things. He said his part out of decency. “Why do you think I was at those stables? If it weren’t for your brother…”

The crackle of your drag filled the new-found silence. You weren’t sure how long you’d stay there nor how long you subject Tommy to your company. It was a moment of brevity you both seemed to need. You hadn’t meant to find him, and his plan had nothing to do with you, but that in itself sparked your idea.

“Hey, Tommy?”

He turned to meet your contact, eyebrows raised, air mixing from the proximity. “Hmm?”

“How’d you like some help with stealing that million?”

#q #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x f!reader #tommy shelby fluff #tommy shelby angst #tommy shelby fic #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x f!reader #thomas shelby angst #thomas shelby fluff #tommy shelby smut #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fic #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader

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saprophilous · 3 months

Note

just letting you know that that ask you rb'd about glaze being a scam seems to be false/dubious. I think they're just misinterpreting "not as useful as we had hoped" and interpreted it maliciously, based on the replies?

not positive but yeah!

Ah yeah, I see people fairly expressing that being “debunked” as in, not a scam; I wasn’t personally particularly aligned to whether or not its “dubious origins” are true or not… so sorry about that.

From what I’ve read, I was more focused upon the consensus that it doesn’t work, and therefore isn’t worth the effort. So having a positive takeaway on glaze outside of its “scam or not status”, as potentially saving us from ai learning doesn’t seem useful to pass around.

Correct me if there’s better information out there but this from an old Reddit post a year back is why I didn’t continue looking into it as it made sense to my layman’s brain:

“lets briefly go over the idea behind GLAZE

computer vision doesn't work the same way as in the brain. They way we do this in computer vision is that we hook a bunch of matrix multiplications together to transform the input into some kind of output (very simplified). One of the consequences of this approach is that small changes over the entire input image can lead to large changes to the output.

It's this effect that GLAZE aims to use as an attack vector / defense mechanism. More specifically, GLAZE sets some kind of budget on how much it is allowed to change the input, and within that budget it then tries to find a change such that the embeddings created by the VAE that sits in front of the diffusion model look like embeddings of an image that come from a different style.

Okay, but how do we know what to change to make it look like a different style? for that they take the original image and use the img2img capabilities of SD itself to transform that image into something of another style. then we can compare the embeddings of both versions and try and alter the original image such that it's embeddings start looking like that of the style transferred version.

So what's wrong with it?

In order for GLAZE to be successful the perturbation it finds (the funny looking swirly pattern) has to be reasonably resistant against transformations. What the authors of GLAZE have tested against is jpeg compression, and adding Gaussian noise, and they found that jpeg compression was largely ineffective and adding Gaussian noise would degrade the artwork quicker than it would degrade the transfer effect of GLAZE. But that's a very limited set of attacks you can test against. It is not scale invariant, something that people making lora's usually do. e.g. they don't train on the 4K version of the image, at most on something that's around 720x720 or something. As per authors admission it might also not be crop invariant. There also seem to be denoising approaches that sufficiently destroy the pattern (the 16 lines of code).

As you've already noticed, GLAZING something can results in rather noticeable swirly patterns. This pattern becomes especially visible when you look at works that consist of a lot of flat shading or smooth gradients. This is not just a problem for the artist/viewer, this is also a fundamental problem for glaze. How the original image is supposed to look like is rather obvious in these cases, so you can fairly aggressively denoise without much loss of quality (might even end up looking better without all the patterns).

Some additional problems that GLAZE might run into: it very specifically targets the original VAE that comes with SD. The authors claim that their approach transfers well enough between some of the different VAEs you can find out in the wild, and that at least they were unsuccessful in training a good VAE that could resist their attack. But their reporting on these findings isn't very rigorous and lacks quite a bit of detail.

will it get better with updates?

Some artists belief that this is essentially a cat and mouse game and that GLAZE will simply need updates to make it better. This is a very optimistic and uninformed opinion made by people that lack the knowledge to make such claims. Some of the shortcomings outlined above aren't due to implementation details, but are much more intimately related with the techniques/math used to achieve these results. Even if this indeed was a cat and mouse game, you'll run into the issue that the artist is always the one that has to make the first move, and the adversary can save past attempt of the artists now broken work.

GLAZE is an interesting academic paper, but it's not going to be a part of the solution artists are looking for.”

[source]

#artist asks

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naomihatake · 8 months

Text

In search of freedom (Ch. 3)

3. A change of heart

Chapter 2 ; Chapter 3 ; Chapter 4

⠀⠀⠀⠀She's been searching for freedom her entire life and everytime she thought it was laying right in front of her eyes, she was mistaken. She was running around the East Blue, seeking herself and her dreams, meeting people she never forgot. No matter how much she traveled, she could only catch a glimpse of peace before realizing everything would crumble at her feet.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Maybe it was destiny that brought her on that ship with three strangers — foolishly, that's what she tried to believe when the moon shined beautifully and hope settled in her chest, squeezed by the same ribcage where feelings were blooming.

Pairing: female!reader x OPLA Zoro Roronoa.

Warnings for this chapter: anxiety, tarot readings, canon typical violence, tension, mutual pining

Word count: 8k (um? It wasn't supposed to be that long, but I'm not unsatisfied at all)

Theme song: “Hoist the colors” by Bobby bass (click on the link)

A/N: I tried my best to add Zoro's perspective in this part. I don't know if I did a good job or not, but I'm experimenting with writing specific characters and personalities. I think I understand him a tad bit more than I did last time — in case you haven't noticed, I love psychoanalyzing my favorite characters and Zoro is one of them. The last chapter felt quick paced because of the fight, but this one is slow paced; I wanted to stretch the tension that way.

The reader is referred to as "Witch" because I have no intentions of using "Y/N".

I'm open for comments and opinions <3

"He has quite the bounty on his head," the witch commented as she looked at Buggy's wanted poster.

Zoro's fingers gripped tighter at the hilt of his white sword after he huffed.

"I should've killed him."

"And how were you supposed to be paid for it when you're a wanted man yourself?" Luffy laughed at him.

Another huff left the swordsman's lips and he averted his eyes with a scowl.

"I guess that's also right."

He tore the poster from the wall and squeezed it in his fingers, the paper getting destroyed right in front of his eyes.

"Stupid clown," he muttered.

A light chuckle got his attention; the witch who stood with her arms crossed right next to him didn't seem lively at all. Ever since they stepped on land in the Syrup Village, color drained from her face and she was constantly fidgeting and playing with her fingers. It was weird; the swordsman didn't spend much time with the other three, but they weren't impossible to read.

She didn't seem the type to be so awfully quiet. She had smart comments sitting on the tip of her tongue and it wasn't necessarily hard to make her smile; if anything, Luffy's smile was so contagious and it influenced her greatly, Zoro observed. The straw hat wasn't the only one in that situation — each one of them was. The witch somehow knew what to say and how to treat them, how to approach a topic.

Maybe that's why she was called a witch. For the life of it, Zoro didn't like to read between the lines and his usual blunt personality drew people away because they misinterpreted it as rudeness. Did he care? Not really. So why did he suddenly think too much about it? Why was he thinking of ways to get a word out of her mouth?

The woman his eyes were fixated on didn't hear Nami when she appeared, coming back to earth only after Luffy nudged her side with his elbow.

"Let's go find a ship."

She only nodded and followed along, burying one hand in the pocket of her pants. He saw when she bought a pocket knife from a stand and hid it. Zoro guessed her fingers were always curled around the knife for safety reasons, even if her fear seemed irrelevant — nothing was suspicious in that village.

They were the only suspicious people around there. A navigator who is a thief, a green-haired tall man with three swords attached to his hip, a pirate who wore a straw hat and a beautiful witch.

Beautiful, indeed, even if that word alone didn't do the woman enough justice. Not only the way she looked was pretty, but the way she carried herself, how stable she was on her feet, the sparkle in her eyes, the taunting mischief of her gentle smile.

A smile that has been gone for half of a day, now replaced by anxiety. Even a blind man could see the unsettling feeling she was carrying.

Zoro didn't realize when he took the opportunity of looking at her hair bouncing with each step after he chose to walk behind them all. He shook his head and shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants, moving his gaze away. His mind shouldn't be wandering on useless things.

Nami stopped in her tracks once they reached the dock.

"We don't need something flashy, we have to sneak it out of here without anyone noticing."

"You mean we're gonna steal a ship?" Luffy furrowed his eyebrows.

"Yes?" the navigator frowned. "Wasn't that obvious already? How else are we gonna get a ship?"

"We can ask for one!" he beamed.

"So you think that just talking with someone would bring us a ship?"

The witch only sighed and shook her head at the other two's argument.

"Fine," Nami gave in after looking for too long at Luffy's puppy eyes. "But if it doesn't work, we do it my way."

"Deal."

Instantly, he walked away in search of a ship.

"So, what's the actual plan?" Zoro asked nonchalantly.

"You two look around and see how lax the security is around here. I'm gonna look for a ship and if we have enough luck, we will bribe Luffy into stealing one."

"I wish you luck," the swordsman smirked.

That's how they split up, Nami heading in a different direction while the witch walked straight up ahead with one hand still in her pocket. He approached her after a few long steps, merely looking at her from the corner of his eyes.

"If you keep walking around so stiff, people will guess we have something to hide."

"The only thing I have to hide is a pocket knife. On the other hand, you have three swords and no one looked at you suspiciously yet."

Finally, she said full phrases. However, there was no change in her expressionless face.

"What's up?" he fully turned his head towards her.

"Hm?"

Those beautiful eyes looked up at him curiously.

"Is someone suspicious?" he asked.

"No, just the air."

Once again, she turned her face away before he was able to read what she was hiding. It didn't seem like something big or dangerous, but she was definitely acting shady.

On top of it all, she wasn't exactly paying attention to her surroundings, since she didn't notice the two marines walking around the corner. Zoro wrapped an arm around her middle and placed a palm over her mouth, shoving the both of them between two buildings.

Her fingers grasped at his wrist and if she wouldn't have reminded herself to let go of the knife, she could've cut him.

"You could've just warned me," she whispered to him after she moved his hand away.

They both noticed their situation way too late. Her back was pressed against his chest and his arm was holding her securely next to him. His fingers burned her skin even through the large shirt she was wearing. The air got knocked out of her lungs and for a moment, she remembered the second reason for her unsteady feelings — him. The pirate hunter she didn't like thinking of because it was better that way.

When Zoro noticed the marines went away, he let go of her, even if too slowly. He let his suspicions get the best of him.

"What are you hiding?"

The witch — who just grabbed at his arm to move it away — was in that moment frozen on the spot.

"Nothing important."

From behind her, he couldn't see the way she frowned.

"You're like a walking ball of anxiety."

"I told you, it's just a shift in the air. Nothing important," she gritted her teeth, getting irritated.

Why was she distant? Did she think he wouldn't believe in her intuition? — that's what she'd probably call it.

She moved away after what felt like years, but her shoulders relaxed. It seemed like she figured out God-knows-what.

"I don't like the energy. It feels like I'm gonna die soon."

"Did you see a black cat?"

"No, I feel something crawling up my throat."

She resumed her walking and he kept up with her for the second time that day.

"Everything seems fine. I saw only those two marines and they were awfully relaxed," Zoro changed the topic.

"Then, just like Nami guessed, the security isn't exactly top class," the witch responded.

They walked around in silence, spotting Luffy on a ship with a goat figurehead. The swordsman could see the happiness bouncing around the straw hat who just called out at them.

"Guys! I found it!"

"Did you think for more than two seconds before choosing it?" the witch arched her eyebrow, amused.

"Actually, one glance was enough to know this was the perfect ship for us."

"Why am I not surprised you were right?" Nami sighed.

"He will sell it to us," Luffy pointed at a young man who walked behind him.

"Um, actually, this is not for sale," he tries to smile, rubbing at the back of his neck in embarrassment.

His golden-brown skin glistened in the early sun rays, which most probably meant he was working on something.

"And I'm not a salesman," he added. "But my friend owns this ship."

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

They found out his name was Usopp and the friend he was talking about was a girl who was celebrating her coming of age on that day. Kaya not only invited them to dinner, but insisted they could sleep over, considering they were “Usopp's friends”. The witch was still getting used to being called a friend or comrade, since she doesn't remember the last time that word was met with serious intentions.

The girl's mansion was… big. It was like a labyrinth and even if Zoro was bad at directions, she thought it started to rub off on her the moment she walked towards the dressing room after taking a bath. The lights weren't particularly bright and the sun was setting by that time. The curtains were tied together, leaving space for the warm golden lights to bathe the hallways.

Mystery clung to each artifact and painting. It was beautiful, yes, but there was a certain aura of that place that unsettled her.

Not to mention the staff — she never thought it would come a day when she'd say “these people are weird”. For the past two years she's been traveling alone around the Blue East and she met dozens of people, one more intriguing than the other. However, that butler was suspicious. She wanted to believe he was just a father figure for Kaya and he was protective of her, but she couldn't.

From the moment when she entered the dressing room — she's surprised she even found it —, she decided to answer some questions of her own.

She shuffled her tarot cards in her hands, meticulously arranging each card that fell, putting them in order. It was confusing her — it was the second time she does the same thing, with the same question in mind, and she received the same ambiguous answer. Why did the cards have to be particularly hard to guess on that day?

She ran her fingers through her hair and ruffled it, accidentally tugging harshly enough to make her frown deepen, but she held back a hiss. Maybe some pain would help her focus, instead of letting her mind waver. Luffy, who sat cross legged on the carpet, just like her, was analyzing her reactions because he had no clue what she was doing.

"What do you see?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"Why are you whispering?" Zoro asked.

The swordsman hasn't moved since he came into the dressing room and sat on a comfortable chair. He flexed his arms when he crossed them over his chest and threw one or two glances at the swords leaning against the armrest.

"I don't know," Luffy whispered again, snapping his head towards him.

She didn't pay attention to them at all. She had to admit that she felt better than an hour ago, before having the opportunity to take a bath, the reason why she was wearing a dressing gown only. It was so soft and the material felt perfect against her flushed skin, her collarbones exposed entirely.

She was completely unaware of the gaze locked on her. The woman had no clue a specific swordsman was thinking more than he usually does. There was an inner battle he couldn't fight by using his three swords style. He occupied himself by focusing on the material things; the carpet was soft.

Just as soft as her body when he glued her back to his chest to avoid those marines.

"What do you think?" Nami smiled proudly after she appeared from behind the room divider.

"You look like Nami," Luffy shrugged.

The witch chuckled at the response. She didn't smile once since she entered that mansion, but she couldn't help her reaction. Instead, she raised her head to the orange-haired woman whose shoulders fell at the answer she received.

After a few seconds of thinking, the witch decided to give her a real opinion:

"It compliments your body, but it isn't necessarily flattering — maybe you can find a few other options?"

Nami nodded, moving around to search for something else.

"I kind of feel bad for Kaya… she must feel lonely in such a big house," Luffy commented.

The witch decided to avoid the conversation, her eyes stuck once again on the few cards splayed over the carpet. She took in a deep breath and then sighed. It made sense, but it didn't feel like a complete answer. She decided to turn the rest of the deck upside down and take the card on the top.

"Dammit," she cussed out.

It confused her even more, so she just put the card back in the deck.

After a minute of spacing out, she managed to focus on the other three in the room.

"Rich people don't feel emotions the same way we do," Nami said flatly.

"She seems kind, though," the witch hesitated as the words left her lips.

"That's a big word," Nami probably rolled her eyes, considering her tone.

"Probably. She seems better than the butler, by the way."

"Have you guys seen him before?" Zoro asked, shifting in his seat.

Immediately, the witch moved her head towards him. He answered a question she didn't even ask and her fears felt validated for a brief second. So he also found that man suspicious.

"No, but I don't like him at all," the witch responded firmly.

"How come you can talk so easily about people you just met? No offense."

Nami was still looking around for a dress when she talked.

"It's not that I'm being judgmental — I can't assume what those people did or not. However, tell me, what about the staff makes you go 'oh, yes, they're good people'?"

"Good point," she pulled her lips together in a straight line. "They're weird."

The shuffling through clothes stopped, which meant Nami found something. Except, it wasn't for her, but for the swordsman who caught the caramel silky shirt that was thrown into his lap.

The witch let out another long exhale and closed her eyes. She hoped she could ground herself in a way or another, despite the unhelpful air surrounding the entire house. It was suffocating and it felt as if there was a heavy press on the crown of her chest, making it hard to breathe.

Seconds passed and the only thing she found in the depths of her thoughts was doubt and uncertainty. Nothing felt right, but she couldn't point out exactly what gave off that kind of aura. Slowing down her breathing didn't help either.

By the time she gave up and huffed, Nami and Luffy were out of the room. She saw the glimpse of a red silky dress pooling around someone's legs. Said person was Nami, surely.

A dress. Maybe it would be easier to hide a knife in her thigh holster.

"You're staring at these cards like you're gonna find out something, but I doubt you found anything," Zoro got her attention.

Once again, her fingers gripped at the strands of hair. Putting her confusion into words left a lump in her throat.

"I don't know what's going on and it's annoying. I don't have time for life lessons."

"Going on with what?"

"This entire mansion, maybe?" she looked at him.

His gaze made her skin tingle and she didn't know if she welcomed that foreign sensation or not. Everytime he talked, he managed to get her out of her thoughts, and she was both grateful and angry about it. For some reason, his stoic personality was safe in that maze.

"The butler is hiding something, that I know for sure," she whispered this time. "I never saw him, but something doesn't feel right at all. Protecting Kaya? It sounds like bullshit to me, Zoro."

She was stubborn about the opinion she has of that man and maybe it was wrong, but did she really care?

The swordsman didn't expect the sound of his name rolling off her tongue to stir something inside of him. It almost stung, her voice craving words in languages he's never spoken on his ribs. He paid attention, even if on a normal day he wouldn't listen to superstitions and the words of a probably insane witch.

Except it sounded like she was the most sane of them all.

"It probably won't make sense for you, but he's lying about something. He's not just a butler," she continued after glancing back at the cards. "He's fooling everyone and he's doing it well. This isn't what I'm actually concerned about — there's another lie I can't point out. The cards don't help. It feels like I'm being deceived, but for a good reason."

"By who?"

"I don't know. Or maybe I just want to avoid the answer."

She always hated her suspicious nature, the way her trust could be gained only by a few, and all of these people have been gone for years. She shouldn't be like that, it would be better if she'd have some faith in the people around her, if she'd allow herself to believe in them and their words. The ability to trust was a desire — something she wanted, but didn't have.

Zoro's body tensed and his frown deepened when he realized she was suspicious about one of them. At the same time, her attitude didn't match up because she seemed to despise her own suspicions.

Why was he so concerned about her? Yeah, right, he has no clue. Amazing. Perfect.

"I hate this," she muttered under her breath.

The witch put all of her cards in the deck and threw it on a chair after she stood up. Her eyes fell on the variety of clothes and she wondered what the fuck she was doing there in the first place.

Why was she there? She didn't promise to stay with Luffy. She had the opportunity to remain in Syrup Village for a while and then leave, just like every time. What was she doing in that mansion, looking at too many clothes hung in a huge room?

"Aren't you also gonna change?" she said without turning towards him.

"Do you even trust us?"

The question had the same effect as the tight embrace she was pulled into a few hours ago. Her breath hitched and she hesitated, fingers clutching at the material of her dressing gown.

The truth was other than what she thought of this entire time; yes. Yes, she did, and that was the most dangerous situation of them all.

"I wish I didn't," she whispered.

It was inexplicable, the faith she had in humanity after meeting Luffy. She would clutch at her heart and talk about how humans don't deserve her trust, she would talk for hours about how mischievous people are, that they adore taking advantage of others.

So it was normal to despise that feeling of longing, the desire to get attached to people, the need for a connection. It was normal to fear a bad ending and it was even worse that she thought such a thing couldn't happen anymore.

That was why the tarot cards confused her. They told a story different from the one her soul knew. What betrayal? What secret? Who was in pain they couldn't express? And why did she get the feeling that it wasn't exactly betrayal?

Her answer probably satisfied Zoro, since he got up from the chair and took a black suit he noticed minutes ago. He didn't say a word, but his shoulders were relaxed again.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

The witch was the last one to arrive downstairs, in a room that seemed like a living. She found it uncomfortable to wear a dress in a house filled with strange people, since it held her speed back and it wouldn't be exactly easy to defend herself. She opted for a dress she could move in, only squeezing her waist and chest, fluttering around her knees. It was long enough to hide a knife in her thigh holster. Getting discovered wasn't on her to-do list, but she had to ensure her own safety.

While she changed, her mind wandered… would any of them help if something happened? Her guess was that yes, they'd jump into action.

Without noticing, after she walked down the stairs, she gravitated close to the swordsman. She was with her back at one of her comrades, never out in the open, sharp eyes scanning each corner of the room. The table in the middle was strong, she figured out after she tapped her nail over the surface. If there were guns involved, she could use it as a shield.

"You should try these!" Luffy spoke with his mouth full of cookies as he looked towards her and Zoro.

"I have everything I need right here," the green-haired man responded with a smirk.

There was a glass of cocktail in between his fingers and he took a long gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Only now, the witch took her time to gaze at the expense of his shoulders, the suit fitting him perfectly. Considering how casual he dresses, it was surprising to see that kind of formal attire hugging his body so deliciously. The usual cockiness of his smirk was still present, just like the hand shoved into the pocket of his black suit pants.

Roronoa Zoro was more attractive than she liked to admit. His sharp jawline and the smallest bump at the base of his nose, the tall stature, those deep brown eyes sparkling in the light of a candelabra — damn, he looked like he'd been sculpted by the gods, despite the lack of belief he had in such almighty beings. The air was tight when she inhaled and she almost felt bad for ogling at him — almost, because the first time she met him, she was busy sweeping the floor with some Marines.

A feeling of control and steadiness oozed out of him, pulling her closer like a spell. For the briefest moment, her shoulders relaxed at the reminder that she's not alone there, that there are three other people she can put an ounce of trust in. That was the least she could do at that time.

With her arms crossed loosely over her stomach, the witch watched the interaction between Nami and a businessman — he looked and acted exactly like one, but lacked the mischief.

She missed the glance the swordsman threw at her, a look that lasted for too long to be friendly, but short enough to miss it. No, he thought to himself before taking another gulp of the liquor in his glass. He doesn't have time to indulge into such things.

The witch sighed at her own observations; she should unwind for a little while. She picked another glass of cocktail that was on the table and sipped, furrowing her eyebrows.

"It's sweet," she mumbled, surprised after licking her lips.

"Don't confuse sweetness for how strong it is," Zoro chuckled.

That simple sound made her heart skip a beat or two, bringing an uncomfortable sensation in the pitch of her stomach.

"Beginner's mistake, I suppose," she shrugged.

Too bad she wasn't exactly a beginner.

The talkative Usopp and Luffy stopped, which caught her attention; these two were the loudest people she's ever met in her entire life. Kaya was walking down the stairs, her slim arms curled around one of Klahadore's — the butler.

Only now, the witch took her time and looked at her. The pastel pink dress drained the life out of that girl, as if her pale skin didn't do that enough. Her cheeks were sunk and her smile seemed fragile like glass. She still remembers the cough that ripped through Kaya's lungs like an old knife.

Usopp looked at her as if he saw his dream before his eyes. He was love-struck.

The witch smiled at the realization. A puzzle so easy to solve.

The only thing Luffy loved as much as his dream and crewmates was food. Behind the door where the stairs ended, there was a big table filled with too many plates to count and a variety of dishes. His eyes sparkled as if there was gold.

A simple minded person, indeed, and maybe that was for the best.

She couldn't rest. She was on high alert, her heart beating faster each time her eyes glanced over at the butler. The fork in between her fingers stabbed the meat in her plate once in a while, but the knot in her stomach was difficult to undo. The only reason why she managed to remain steady was the swordsman who sat to her left and — by some powers bestowed by the gods — felt steady and safe. His presence pulled her back to reality, stealing her attention. The witch has never been more glad not to be alone.

"We wanted to talk with you about a ship," Luffy said with a big smile on his face.

"Right," Kaya smiled back, letting her fork down. "Usopp told me you are sailors."

"We aren't sailors, we are pirates."

Damn it, Luffy!

The witch gulped, squeezing her eyes shut at their captain's excitement. This was about to end very badly.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

The dinner ended abruptly. Kaya had a coughing fit and she wasn't feeling well, meanwhile, the butler blamed it on Luffy, who got on the table and had an entire speech. They weren't welcome there anymore and were supposed to leave at the first hour in the morning.

The witch found each opportunity not to be alone, aware it wouldn't be in her advantage in case something happened. When she saw Nami head back to their guest room, the witch followed her. She needed to change out of that dress into something she could run and fight in, like her usual clothes.

After locking the door behind her, she looked at Nami who was already slipping her arms out of the sleeves of that beautiful red dress.

"I didn't get to tell you that you look stunning in that, by the way. Definitely the best choice," the witch mumbled as she averted her eyes to offer some privacy.

"Not really the moment to talk about dress up, is it?"

"I know, but some compliments wouldn't hurt anyone, right?"

Wrong, apparently, since Nami stilled in her tracks. The witch decided to sit in silence for a while, while she changed from the dress as well, pulling on a plain t-shirt and some comfortable jeans she tucked into her boots.

The woman was aware of Nami who was moving behind her, now holding a pillowcase in between her fingers. It was clear she tried to move fast and leave the room before she could be noticed.

"Wanna be petty towards that rude butler?"

"It's not like anyone would notice. She's filthy rich," Nami mumbled through gritted teeth, disappointed about being caught. "Do you have eyes at the back of your head, by any chance?"

"Nope," the witch accentuated the p sound. "Just associating the rustling with the source."

"Did you eat some kind of sensory devil fruit?"

"Got born with it," the woman joked lightly.

Only then, she turned towards Nami, who stood tall, head tilted towards her. The witch was convinced about the suspicion she had while doing that tarot reading, but this time there wasn't a turmoil in her chest. The thunderstorm stopped, despite the clouds still covering the sky of her mind.

"Be careful roaming around with a pillowcase in your hand. We'll get in trouble if anyone catches us, especially the staff. They're creepy as hell."

"The girl hissed at me," Nami scoffed.

"Gods," the witch placed her hand on her forehead and shook her head. "Do you have any guesses about where the others might be?"

"Zoro drank like two bottles of alcohol, so I'll suppose he's searching for more."

The witch smiled softly at the response, despite the fact that she missed the undertone of Nami's answer.

"Don't tell me you were curious about Luffy or, worse, Usopp."

"Hm?"

An intelligent retort. The witch gulped down and looked away, biting at the inside of her cheek.

"I mean, Luffy gets himself in trouble all the time, it's not hard to find him."

"Are you acting stupid with me?"

Nami was grinning like the devil itself. Dammit, did she really have to be so observant?

"I'm pretty aware I'm smart, actually, so I don't get where this comes from," the witch whispered.

There was a hue pink covering her cheeks and she was fidgeting with her fingers behind her back, doing all of these gestures unconsciously. She felt like an idiot at that moment, she had to admit.

Then, as if lightning struck her, she widened her eyes for a brief second. She didn't even know why she was there, in that mansion, surrounded by strangers she wanted to put her trust into.

"What are you thinking of?" Nami asked.

"None of us promised to become a crew," she shook her head. "It doesn't matter."

The navigator narrowed her eyes at the witch whose shoulders fell, the shyness she felt earlier deflating.

"It looks like it matters to you, though."

"That's exactly why I'm saying it," she smiled sourly. "Gotta make myself believe otherwise."

Silence stretched between the two of them. Two women who had stories and feelings to hide knew when to stop from asking questions, even if it would end up bloody later. It was clear both of them wanted to avoid sensitive subjects, even if the witch barely noticed when Nami started being the interrogator.

"Be careful, Nami," the witch smiled at her sincerely. "Usopp may be good at bluffing, but I'm better at playing the innocent. If you need someone to gaslight the shit out of the butler, just tell me."

I know what you do is wrong, but I believe you'll make a wise decision by the end of this all. I believe in your reasoning and I hope you can put your trust in me as well.

"Noted," and with that, the navigator left the room.

The witch almost got lost in that labyrinth again. She wanted to go to the kitchen, place where Luffy most probably was, but maybe she walked down a bit too many stairs and headed to the wrong side of the mansion.

She saw a tall figure in the dark basement where barrels full of wine were arranged with utmost care. She furrowed her eyebrows when she saw Klahadore standing in the way, making one step back. Face to face with him was Zoro, who was ready to draw his sword out of its scabbard, but he quickly got hit in the back of his head by someone.

The witch's eyes widened, but she received the same treatment by someone who managed to sneak behind her back.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

Her head ached, sending daggers all the way to her forehead. The witch let out a guttural groan and her hand flew to her nape, caressing the sore spot.

When her eyes opened, she was greeted by the dead body of Merry, the business man she noticed at the dinner. She flinched, scrambling to her feet, which wasn't an intelligent idea. Her vision blurred black and she felt dizzy, suddenly unsteady. If not for Zoro's grip on her arms, she would've fallen ungraciously on her butt.

"What the heck?" she mumbled.

After a few seconds that felt a bit too long, she couldn't understand exactly why it was so cold in that place. Her chin tilted back so she could look up at the night sky.

They were at the bottom of a well.

"We have to get out," Zoro spoke in a gruff voice.

He sighed heavily and let go of the witch, while she looked at him with the face of are you fucking serious?

"How?" she spoke without thinking.

After a failed attempt to escape by using a long rope with a big hook attached to it, she tried using her short knives to stick the blades in between the rocks; it didn't work either.

There was only one option left and she was speechless.

Her heart sank when she watched Zoro grip at the rocks. He was strong, yes, definitely stronger than her on the physical side, but what if he couldn't climb up? What if he would fall?

Then I'd catch him. We either die here together or we get out together.

Her mind was set. She watched him carefully, gulping when she watched him struggle. His weight might do some damage if she dared to be reckless enough to catch him, but he was the only one who could climb those rocks. If she would've tried, she'd surely fall.

Just like she supposed, his fingers didn't grip well enough at one of the rocks and his feet slipped. He lost his equilibrium and wasn't fast enough to clutch onto another rock or stabilize his foot in time, and he fell back.

Maybe that witch was more reckless than anyone would've guessed. On top of it, she was selfless enough to believe that if he managed to get out and get help, it didn't matter what happened later, so she tried her best to mitigate the impact.

She was right — air got knocked out of her lungs when his body fell on top of hers and she groaned, but at least he didn't break some ribs. Her arms were wrapped around his waist and her fingers clutched at his shirt. Pain traveled through her body quickly and didn't disappear, but the adrenaline paid off.

"Are you alright?" she asked him in a hurry.

"You're insane," Zoro concluded, exasperated.

His back was glued to her chest and he tilted his head to the side to look at her. Maybe, for once, he was right about her.

"I'd rather break one of my ribs. You're the only one who can get us out," she argued with a frown between her eyebrows.

The witch looked away and blinked. She didn't want to focus on how hot the air felt, despite the bone chilling cold in that tight space. The butterflies in her stomach could be ignored if she gathered enough self control in time.

However, Zoro didn't move. He seemed troubled, completely out of it as he continued to look up at the night sky with a scowl on his face. His entire body was tense and he was deep down in his thoughts, especially since he didn't move a finger since he disagreed with her idea of "helping".

As if struck by lightning, he got back up, following the same steps from earlier.

"Be careful."

He stopped in his tracks right after his fingers gripped at some rocks.

"Move away if I fall again."

"I won't move and you won't fall."

It pushed him at the edge, mingling with the memories flowing through his mind about his long lost friend, about the girl whose strength he admired so greatly it made him move again. For a brief second, he thought of himself as a coward for overthinking the process. He either got out alive and managed to get her out as well, or they were both doomed — there was no in between.

Steadily, a tad bit slower than before, he climbed up the wall. His body ached at the effort when he was more than half way through and he would stop for a few seconds before making another move, clutching at another rock that would get him higher.

Despite being so low, several meters under the ground, her trust in him didn't waver. Her heart squeezed with worry, but she wanted to follow her instinct and how much she believed in him, even if it was unusual. Maybe it was because of his stubbornness, since if he was set on something, there was no way of stopping him.

He lost his equilibrium for a fraction of a second. Her breath hitched, eyes widening, his name stopping on the tip of her tongue.

His foot slipped and some dust fell to the bottom of the well, next to her. She breathed out in relief when he was quick enough to grip at another rock.

The witch didn't doubt him one bit when he finally got out of the well. He kept the rope he found in the well at his waist while he climbed up, so he could help her get out too.

From up there, Zoro held tightly onto the rope, just as tightly as she did, even if her fingers hurt and she didn't exactly trust her body to be strong enough. She gripped at the cord and climbed the stone wall, gritting her teeth whenever it seemed like she might fall.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat.

It was a slow process, which was worrisome from her perspective. She advanced, but the longer she struggled, it felt endless.

For the record, she believed in Zoro more than she believed in herself — she didn't have low self-esteem either.

"Look up," he reminded her firmly.

He prompted his feet into the ground and held tightly, waiting for her.

"Trying," she mumbled to herself.

Slowly, she got closer and closer to the exit. Zoro bent his torso and curled his fingers around her forearm, managing to help her out.

"Fuck," she cursed.

Her breath was labored and she was sweating heavily, a droplet falling from her temple to her jaw and down her neck. She let herself on the grass, her arm still in his hand.

"I owe you my life," she breathlessly mumbled.

Unconsciously, her fingers were clutching onto his arm for support, even if her knees trembled from the tumult she went through.

"We have time for that later," he brushed it off. "We have to find the others."

"That butler isn't new to killing people who stand in his way. We better hurry before he chops us off."

"His name is Kuro. He was the captain of the Black Cat Pirates and supposedly died three years ago, when Axe-Hand Morgan killed him — the Marine Captain we encountered back in Shell Town."

The swordsman kept his grip firm on her, carefully bringing her back to her feet while he talked.

"I saw his face on a wanted poster some time ago, but since he was presumed dead, no one cared anymore."

"He looked very much alive to me," the witch retorted.

"I was with Usopp when I went to get wine and he managed to escape from the butler. Maybe he went to search for help, even if I doubt any untrained person could harm these pirates. Luffy was in the kitchen, eating some weird blue food."

Zoro let go of her and walked in the opposite direction of the mansion and she looked at him confused.

"Oi, Zoro, the house is the other way—"

Then, when she looked at the path that went through the forest surrounding the mansion, she felt a pull towards it. She furrowed her eyebrows and continued staring.

"You go that way. Nami is surely still inside."

"You just said I went in the opposite direction, though?" Zoro arched his eyebrow at her.

"Usopp searched for help, but if we think about it, Kaya said he has a lot of stories to tell. He's bluffing a lot, even if with no bad intentions. Maybe he found someone — if there's no sign of life on the path, come back."

"And you?"

"I'll find Nami and Kaya somehow."

Zoro didn't believe in superstitions and higher beings, but he trusted her instinct, so he headed the other way. The witch opened the door slowly, making no sounds. She slipped inside and looked around for an insane pirate who hisses — these two were creepy.

The young woman flinched when all the light suddenly disappeared and behind her, a heavy metal wall met the floor, stopping everyone from moving in or out of there. Fuck.

She gripped with both of her hands at the daggers she held at her hip, holding them securely. With slow steps, the witch made her way through the house. The big candelabrum hanging from the ceiling marked the way to enter and leave the house. To the left was the kitchen and to her right was the living room. The guest rooms and dormitories were upstairs. She still remembers which one was her room for the might and the bathroom.

If she didn't want to die there, she had to quickly figure that place out.

She heard one single step from the stairs and her attention shot up. Sham looked at her perplexed, but grinned widely.

"You were supposed to be dead, little mouse."

"Don't confound me with your food," the witch held the knives tighter.

Instantly, the woman jumped at her with a mop in her hands. The witch dodged the attack with a knife and the one that followed, bending her knees to avoid getting hit again. She tried to cut Sham's leg with her knife, but the maid was fast, jumping back in time.

Zoro, if you get lost on the way back, I'll wake up from the dead and kill you, she thought to herself.

"Captain Kuro will kill Kaya tonight and there's nothing you can do to stop him."

Sham's wooden mop clashed against the witch's dagger and avoided the knife which almost sunk into her shoulder. Sham attempted to make her fall by kicking her legs, but the witch made a light jump before she could fall.

It would draw attention to her and the cook might appear out of nowhere, but the witch sheathed one of the knives and pulled a pistol, aiming at the hissing woman.

"I'm too fast for your shitty guns, girl."

Yeah, sure. It was her time to grin at Sham.

Her eyes followed each of the maid's movements, moving her arm just in time to shoot her side. Sham was lucky enough to move out of the way, but the next bullet scarred her upper arm, another hiss leaving her lips.

"Fuck."

Aw, the kitty was angry.

The witch widened her eyes when she saw Sham pull a sword that seemed more suited for decor. She had to dodge the next attack, the blade almost touching her neck when she stopped it with her knife.

"Hey, Sham, do you need some help?"

The witch gulped at the new voice. It was the cook.

"I don't really think so."

The witch jumped back before her neck got cut, breathing heavily. She had to block other attacks while she attempted to find a weak spot, an opening to shoot and do it well.

The witch groaned when the blade left a deep and clean slice on her left upper arm. It stretched horizontally on the side. The shock almost paralyzed her and blood was quick to flow down her arm.

She tossed a knife through the air, the tip sinking straight into Sham's right arm.

A weight sound caught her attention and she turned her head towards the metal wall behind her that was slowly being lifted up by strong arms. Who the fuck could—

Oh, right. They had a bulky swordsman as part of the crew.

"Took you long enough," the witch muttered through gritted teeth.

Luffy bent down and smiled at her widely.

"Sorry for that."

"Keep apologies for later. Go after Kuro — he wants to kill Kaya."

Zoro followed the straw hat, straightening his back when he got inside. His eyes narrowed when he saw the crimson liquid covering the witch's arm, drawing his swords out. He could use the adrenaline pumping through his veins against the man who launched an attack at him.

"Go, Luffy. We'll keep these two occupied," he instructed.

The scent of blood filled the witch's nostrils. She aimed the gun at Butchy and the bullet flew right next to his ear, stopping him from hitting the swordsman. Sham was bold for taking the knife out of her arm and running towards the witch with the weapon in her hold. The witch stumbled and her back glued the floor, both her hands gripping harshly at Sham's arm, stopping the tip of the knife a few centimeters above her eyes.

"You little bitch," the pirate hissed at her.

The witch kicked the maid into the stomach with her knee, pushing her off of her. Luffy disappeared and the sound of blades clashing against each other filled the room.

Zoro used raw strength whenever he attacked Butchy, his swords almost cutting through the man with swift gestures of the wrist, elbows angled perfectly. He had more fighting experience than her and it showed, so she was more than just happy not to get sliced in half by the other two.

She cussed when she remembered she had only one revolver, the other one left in the room. She had three bullets left.

Her head got cloudy when she quickly got back to her feet, her breathing labored. She was tired and the only reason why she ignored her bleeding wound was the adrenaline.

This time, when Sham attacked with the mop, the witch only moved to the side and took advantage of the opportunity to cut with the knife through the flesh, the tip sinking deeper and deeper into the maid's stomach, until her body went limp.

The witch let Sham fall to the floor and stepped back. She felt her pulse pump through her head, slowing her down. She tried to focus on breathing evenly and eventually not passing out.

She heard a loud thump — the cook was down and Zoro sheathed his swords. He didn't break a sweat, or so it looked from her blurry perspective.

A sound rang through the air sharper than her daggers and it lit her on fire. The sound of her name being spoken with worry latched onto Zoro's voice.

He walked down two or three stairs at once, undoing the bandana from his head and wrapping it around her wound. She hissed when he knotted the material tightly in order to stop the bleeding.

"Thanks," she whispered, her body still tense.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

"Don't mention it," Luffy smiled widely at Kaya. "We couldn't have let him hurt you or deceive people anymore."

If it wasn't for his rubber body, maybe they wouldn't have gotten out alive, but luck sided with them again.

"I could never thank you enough, but this is all I can do for you now."

The witch stared at the goat figurehead of the ship Luffy was enamored with. Kaya talked, but the words weren't registering in the woman's ears since a small little creature curled around one of her legs. The black cat mewled sweetly and begged for attention, a luxury it received quickly. The witch crouched down and petted the animal with a smile on her lips, brushing her fingers over the soft fur. The cat purred loudly, rolling on its back and pawing at the woman, greedy for affection.

"How's your wound?"

When she lifted her head, her eyes met Zoro's. One of his hands rested on the hilt of his Wado Ichimoji and the other was stuffed into the pocket of his jeans — she learned that was one of his most relaxed stances.

His bandana was still wrapped around her upper arm and the bleeding stopped long ago. She didn't get the chance to properly clean her arm or tend to the cut, but she felt content.

"I'll care for it on the ship after we set sail," she said in a soft voice.

Yes, that was the voice that made his heart hammer in his chest, he remembered. Finally, after a day filled with anxiety and panic, he could watch her shoulders relax, even if he wasn't exactly pleased with her lack of attention.

"Let's go!" Luffy shouted at them.

The witch stood up, wincing at the smallest movement of her arm, and that didn't go unnoticed by the swordsman.

She still avoided his question, he concluded. She said she'll care for the wound, not how it felt.

He tapped the hilt of his sword repeatedly and took a decision he didn't know if he'll regret later, following close behind her.

Tag list: @emelia07 @dimplewonie @tfamidoingwithmylife @murnsondock @the-skys-musical-echo @conspiracy-crows @hallow33nz @ramae17 @gaslysainz @bunntsu @katt58 @katiemrty @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @freyademartel @boofy1998

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farfromstrange · 3 months

Text

Do No Harm

CHAPTER TEN: Damned If I Do, Damned If I Don’t

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Matt thinks back to your date that afternoon, and Foggy and Karen can't help but tease him about you. When a stranger comes to the office with the promise of money and a case, Matt gets suspicious. Later that night, when he can't stand it anymore, he calls you for comfort and answers.

Warnings for this chapter: Angst, Matt's self-deprecating thoughts, hurt/comfort, flirting, slight fluff, suggestive themes

Word Count: 4.7k

A/n: I'm so sorry that this took so long! The past few days have been so busy, and then I forgot I promised to post this on Friday. But you're getting it now!

Read Chapter 10: Damned If I Do, Damned If I Don’t here on AO3

Matt can’t stop smiling.

You smell of nature and yourself. He doesn’t pay much attention to the layers of artificial scents most products contain because to him, your natural scent is all that matters, and he knows how to tune out everything else that isn’t one-hundred percent yours. It is a fact you are so blissfully unaware of. How could you know? You have no idea just how heightened his senses are. To him, your scent is as distinctive as your heartbeat. It’s stuck to the tiny hairs in his nose; every time he takes a deep breath, he can smell you.

From the moment you stepped off the bus that afternoon, he could smell the salt on your skin, the antibacterial soap you use, and the particularly sensitive body lotion that makes your skin soft to the touch. You slathered your hands with an excessive amount of moisturizer, but it was in no way obnoxious. Matt enjoyed how the earthy tones suited you compared to the medicinal moisturizer you wear at the hospital. He enjoyed it so much, in fact, that he now can’t stop thinking about it. Even with cracked knuckles, your hands are the most delicate.

He should have kissed you. The way your heartbeat was speeding up when you bid your goodbyes told him that you would have wanted him to, but he was afraid of crossing that line. He isn’t playing a fair game, after all. You only know half of him. Anything beyond the stoic lawyer he presents on the outside could put you in danger, and he is afraid of losing you. God knows what would happen if he allowed you any closer.

Matt is drawn to you. He doesn’t want to be, but he can’t help the way he feels whenever he is around you. You offer a reprieve from the chaos that surrounds him. The world grows quiet for a moment when you’re around, and he finally has something beautiful to focus on.

The world isn’t beautiful. It’s ugly and vile, and most human beings make his experience excruciatingly painful. You take away the agony and instead replace it with a sense of giddiness that fills him with a gentle warmth. You consume him. As much as he wants to, and as much as he knows he should, he can’t stay away from you.

Foggy told him that he deserves to be happy; he has yet to realize that. Every time he tries to allow himself to feel joy, the fire in his heart moves into the shadow of a mountain of guilt, and it threatens to run out of oxygen.

You are a lot more reserved than he first expected, and when you told him the truth about your childhood, it broke him. It broke him to hear how much pain you are in. You were radiating waves of trauma, and they hit him all at once. He may relate to you, in a way, but still, he can’t fathom how bad it must have been, growing up with no one to take care of you while you had to take care of everyone else.

Something Matt is grappling with is the fact that your heartbeat was so erratic at times he feared it might break your ribs. He wasn’t misinterpreting the signs. He couldn’t have. And you weren’t lying, he is sure of that. Perhaps you were keeping something from him. If that’s the case, what does that mean for the two of you? He can’t expect you to trust him—he has no right to expect anything from anyone, especially not from someone he barely knows—but he has learned that when someone tries to hide the truth, it is worse than an unpopular opinion he might disagree on.

He wants to hold your hand again. He wants to be close to you. He wants to smell your skin, feel it under his calloused fingertips, and he wants to hear the sweet sound of your voice serenading him. If he could hold you, just for a minute, he’s sure his problems will fade away. The world will go quiet, and he can focus on you. The urge to keep you safe consumes him, but he doesn’t know what he wants to protect you from.

Matt only knows that he wants you, all of you, and it kills him that he can’t have you. To know all of you, he has to share all of him with you, and he would much rather crucify himself than drag you down with him.

As his thoughts turn dark, his smile fades. He was foolish to believe that the warmth of the sun wouldn’t be overshadowed by black clouds waiting to rain hell down on him. And Matt begins to wonder once again, if he deserves to be happy, why did God put the devil in him?

“Dude, you’re whipped!” Foggy says from the doorway to Matt’s office, leaning against it with his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Matt raises his eyebrows. He wasn’t paying attention. When he walked in with a big grin on his face an hour ago, Foggy cheekily asked him how lunch was, and Matt only replied with, “Satisfying.”

He wants to keep you to himself. You shouldn’t become subject to his friend’s desperate need to find Matt’s one true love. Foggy doesn’t know you. It was one date that might not even go anywhere, not if Matt keeps sabotaging himself. You deserve better. He knows that. You deserve someone who treats you like the goddess you are; someone who doesn’t lie to you and can give you what you need. He isn’t sure if he can be that person. The last thing he wants is to hurt you.

“Sorry?” Matt tilts his head away from the window. The city is particularly loud this afternoon.

“Your doctor friend,” Foggy clarifies. “Your lunch date.” The grin in his voice is audible. A teasing grin. “She’s got you whipped.”

“Oh, I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His fingers start sliding over the documents in front of him, a breathless chuckle passing from his lips.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Mhm. Is that why you’re blushing?”

“I don’t blush,” Matt counters. Though he can’t deny that the blood rushes to his cheeks whenever he thinks of you. The way you smell. The way your heartbeat sounds in his ears. It is addictive. You are addictive—a drug—and that makes the guilt grow larger than life because as bad as he is for you, he knows staying away from you is a losing game.

“Sure,” says Foggy. He doesn’t believe him, not one bit. “Do I need to dust off the old tux? You know, I’d make a dashing best man.”

Matt forces a chuckle. “It was just coffee.”

“It always starts with just coffee. Before you know it, you’re having dinner, and then you’re taking her to bed before asking her to marry you.”

He throws his head back, groaning in pure exasperation. The chair creaks. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he says. “We had coffee, she walked me back to the office, and that’s it. No time for a tux yet. If you really wanna wear it, attend a ball or something.”

“Okay, first of all, she walked you back to the office?!” Foggy opens his arms. “That’s not a small thing, Matt. Only someone who wants to spend time with you walks you back to the office on her day off.”

Matt rolls his eyes behind his glasses. He would much rather continue marinating in his self-misery than fantasize about things that may not ever happen. It hurts too much. What he wants and what he believes he can have are at war.

“And second of all, Foggy says, “we’re living in the twenty-first century; balls are not a regular occurrence anymore, and I don’t have friends in higher places that could get me into one.”

Sensing an opportunity, Matt’s lips curl into a smirk. “You could ask Marci. Landman & Zack sometimes attend banquets, you know that.”

Foggy seems taken aback for a second. His heartbeat stutters. “Why Marci?” the panic in his voice is hilarious, in a way.

“Oh, so you can tease me about my relationships,” Matt retorts, “but I can’t tease you about your ex?”

“That’s different, okay?”

“Oh, how’s that different?”

“Your potential future girlfriend and my ex who is working for the same million-dollar law firm we left behind to chase the dream of independence are two different things that do not correlate!”

He’s speechless. Matt repeats his friend’s words in his mind a few times before he admits, “Yeah, no, I can’t… I can’t argue with that.”

Foggy sighs. “Thank you.”

The door to the bathroom closes, and Karen returns to her desk. Her heels click against the linoleum floors in a steady rhythm. Her steps are always light and careful. Matt could recognize them anywhere.

“Hey–” he tips his chin at the sound of Foggy’s voice again. “If things work out between you and Miss McDreamy, you won’t need a dog anymore because she can help you take out the trash.”

Karen catches that, and she laughs. “Are you comparing Matt’s girlfriend to a dog now?” she quips.

Matt is quick to cut in. “She’s not my girlfriend!” he says.

She appears in the doorway next to Foggy, placing her hands on her hips as she stands there. “Really? I thought people skipped first base and went straight to getting shared tombstones after the first date these days.”

Foggy’s laugh resembles a howl. “Can you imagine Matt sharing a tombstone with someone who holds a doctorate? People would be talking about them like, here lies Hell’s Kitchen’s greatest trauma surgeon…and Matt Murdock.”

Her fist collides with his shoulder, but she can’t stop herself from laughing regardless. Matt sighs. “Very funny,” he deadpans. It’s not that he can’t take a joke; he’s simply not in the mood for it right now.

The letters blur under his fingers. His jaw clenches when a car backfires somewhere down the block, and someone else honks four times in a row before yelling at a passerby to get out of his way.

“Seriously,” Foggy asks, “What do you have against dogs?”

“I think dogs are great,” says Karen.

“I don’t need a dog,” Matt states. He tries to regulate his breathing, tearing his focus away from the noise that surrounds him. “And I don’t need anyone to help me take out the trash. Not a dog and certainly not a girlfriend.” He chuckles forcedly at the last part.

Imagining you helping him do the things that are supposed to be easy makes him recoil. Even with heightened senses, he is still blind. Taking out the trash is harder than it should be when he doesn’t focus, and even then he could easily miss a step. It has happened a few times before, but he would never admit it.

He can use his clumsiness as an excuse for the cuts, bumps, and bruises he suffers every night on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen at the hands of criminals, but if he were to take a tumble down or up the stairs again, he would have to find a different excuse. There is nothing bad about needing help—about just not being able to do certain things—but Matt has never been good at accepting help, let alone asking for it.

A knock on the door interrupts the conversation. Matt raises his eyebrows. Foggy and Karen exchange a look of surprise.

The heartbeat belongs to a healthy male, but he doesn’t recognize the presence standing in front of their office door. Could it be…a client? The thought never even crossed their minds.

“Is that—” Foggy leaves the question hanging in the air.

Matt rises from his chair, pursing his lips as he nods. “Karen?” he asks.

She realizes that he is asking her to open the door, and her heart skips a beat. “Right,” she stammers. “Okay.”

He follows the two of them out of his office, his hands guiding him along the familiar space. The door clicks as it opens, and Karen nervously greets the stranger on the other side.

“Hi,” the voice says, deep with a hint of mischief he hides under the disguise of kindness.

The hairs on Matt’s arm stand up, reaching toward the sky. His stomach drops. Something shifts in the air when he smells the expensive cologne and the laundry detergent on the man’s suit. He carries himself with a kind of confidence that puts everyone around him in his shadow, and that is terrifying.

Matt instantly knows that they should not trust him.

The man passes the threshold and steps into their office, his eyes trailing around. Karen takes a step back. Foggy straightens his shoulders. He must look as intimidating as he sounds and smells. A rich man who radiates power like a bonfire.

“Do you take walk-ins?” he asks then.

Matt can feel Foggy’s eyes on him. He shrugs, his reaction barely visible. If he said no, he wouldn’t know how to explain it to them.

In hindsight, they should have kept the door closed.

He doesn’t tell them his name, he only hands them a check and tells them that he works for an independent contractor. Judging by Foggy’s reaction, the numbers on the check are higher than any of them are used to. But all of this money for a surprise at the police station?

If he hadn’t found him suspicious before, the alarms are certainly blaring now. Foggy is blinded by the money, and Karen seems torn, but Matt knows that they shouldn’t trust this man. Especially not for blood money.

He follows him out, only enough space between them so he won’t be caught. The stranger gets into a car, and he starts to realize that this man might be caught up in more than he thought.

The lines between the lawyer and the devil start to blur. Matt reaches into his suit jacket. The pain in his rib cage burns slowly through his flesh as the skin parts. His shirt is drenched in a deep maroon where the Russians drilled a knife into him a few nights ago. The blood coats his fingertips, that’s how he knows.

He has no choice. He and Foggy need to take the case they were presented with. If he wants to understand what’s happening, he needs to dive into the cold water. He needs to make a decision he despises with his whole being. It pains him physically to even think about doing it, but clearly, he has no other choice. He’s backed into a corner.

When he returns from the precinct that night with a guilty client demanding a jury trial and a check with money from a stranger he still doesn’t know the name of and that he told Karen not to deposit, the silence brings along an unbearable weight on his shoulders.

Stress can lead any addict into a relapse. The phone line rings. Matt sent Foggy and Karen home, telling them that they should rather recoup in the morning when they’re all rested. It has been a long day. His friends only hesitantly left him behind after he had to promise to call it a night soon. An hour later, he’s still sitting at his desk. The city is calling for him, but he can’t bring himself to move. Instead of going home, instead of going out, he is now looking for a fix—after telling himself all afternoon that it would be for the best if he didn’t because you deserve better.

“This is Dr. Clarke, who am I speaking with?” you answer.

His veins open to a release of dopamine. He relaxes into his chair. He could listen to you talk forever and never grow tired of the sound of your voice.

“Hello?” you ask again.

Matt clears his throat. “Um, hi,” he says. “It’s–it’s me. Matthew.”

“Matt! Hi. Hold on a second.” You’re not alone. Voices overlap in the background, and your clothes rustle as you try to find a quiet spot to hide.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No! No, not at all. I’m at the ER. Working, I mean,” you clarify, and the way you stumble over your words is so endearing to him. “MVC downtown. They needed all hands on deck, so I came in. It was a fucking mess.”

Your voice is laced with exhaustion, but you don’t sound too stressed, so he figures that the worst must be over. It’s like part of him knew to get his fix now. Not earlier or later but now. Your heartbeat is faint through the speaker.

“I, uh, didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“You want me to hang up?” Matt asks.

“No.” He can hear you smirk. “Just wondering if you missed me.”

He leans forward on his elbows. “What if I did?”

Maybe if he thinks really hard, he can imagine you standing in front of him instead of miles away.

“I’d tell you I missed you too,” you murmur. “But only if you admit it first.”

“In that case, I’m saying it. I missed you,” he says.

“Good, ‘cause I missed you too.”

He fidgets with the brim of his glasses. They’re resting on his desk, his hazel eyes unfocused yet directed toward the empty space before him.

It’s a curse how enigmatic you are. You’re a magnet, similar yet the polar opposite of him, and it involuntarily draws him closer to you. Matt feels a strange flutter in his heart whenever he is near you. Even now, over the phone, the butterflies betray him. Rationally, this is a bad idea. Rationally, he should hang up. Right now though, rationality has no place in his mind.

He can’t lie; he did miss you. But that isn’t entirely the reason why he called you.

His tired eyes flutter shut. The sound of your breathing in his ear wraps around him like a gentle embrace. “How’re you holding up?” he dares to ask.

“My feet hurt, my head hurts, and I’m starving. Other than that, I’m okay,” you say. “How’s it going with you? It’s pretty late for you to be calling, isn’t it?”

“Depends on how you look at it.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

He laughs. “Sorry.”

You seem to relish in the sound for a moment. His laughter dies down, and with it, your smile fades. “What’s really going on?” you ask.

Matt can’t keep anything from you. You’re perceptive, even more so than him.

“We caught a case today,” he says. “A bad one.”

“Oh.”

He imagines that your features soften with the sound of your voice. If he could get his hands on your face, he could paint a picture of what you look like, but you’re too far away, and he shouldn’t touch something he is sure he will break if he does.

You break through the fog, trying to rescue him from his mind. “Wanna talk about it?” you offer, but it’s useless.

“I wish I could, but I’d be breaking attorney-client confidentiality.”

“Ah, Lawyer Version HIPAA. I see.”

He pats the file he and Foggy took back with them after meeting with Healy, a clear account of the events that conspired at the bowling alley.

After going blind, his mind has grown increasingly more animate. When he thinks about what might have happened—what their client might have done—he can smell the copper of the other man’s blood in the air, the stench of sweat stuck to the inside of bowling shoes, and the substance they use to oil the bowling balls. He can smell plastic and junk food, and the linoleum of the floorboards. The way he sees it, their client is guilty, and even he knows it, but to understand what is happening around them, Matt needed to take the bait when it was presented to them.

Matt runs a hand over the stubble on his chin. “You could answer a question for me though,” he swiftly changes the subject.

You answer without missing a beat, “Shoot.”

“How much force would it take to crush a human skull with a bowling ball?”

His question renders you speechless. For a brief moment, he only hears the steady thudding of your heartbeat against your ribcage, and a soft smile finds its way on his lips. You’re smart, and you’re witty, but when it comes to him, you tend to lose control of the steering wheel.

He threw a bowling ball right at the pins you meticulously sorted in your mind, dispersing them. Now, you’re grappling with the words on your tongue.

“A bowling ball,” you repeat. “I’m sorry, what?”

You seem to shiver again when he chuckles. “I need your expert medical opinion,” Matt states. “Off the record, of course.”

“On how to crush a human skull with a bowling ball?”

“Not really the how but the kinda force it requires.”.

“Well,” you try to gather yourself, “I didn’t exactly study the physics of smashing a human skull with a bowling ball. They don’t cover that in med school.”

“Not even physics?” he questions.

“To a certain extent. I don’t remember that much…”

He senses a conjunction. “But?”

“Based on bike-helmet studies, it takes between 520 to 1,100 pounds,” you tell him. “That’s roughly twice as much as human hands can muster. Add to that the weight of a bowling ball, which takes away human force but adds artificial weight in the form of a foreign object to the skull, the person doing the beating would have to hit quite a few times to actually crush it.”

“So a 5’10” man of average build–” Matt prompts.

You shrug, your scrubs brushing against the speaker of your phone. “If his testosterone and adrenaline were high enough, it could have taken him a few seconds, especially if there were no signs of hesitation, but that’s just a technical assumption. In practicality, a lot of factors play into how long it takes to break the bone.”

“Could it have been self-defense?”

“If you want my opinion, it requires a lot of strength to do that kind of damage, which means it is more likely for it to have been a premeditated crime or a very sick person in a bloodthirsty rage. But that’s not my area of expertise,” you add.

“I know,” Matt assures you. He exhales. The answer isn’t completely useless, but it hardly solves anything either. “Thank you, anyway,” he says.

“Anything to help make sure justice is served.” You’re smiling again.

A scoff rumbles through his chest. “I wish it were that easy.”

“You sound a bit…sad,” you point out.

“It’s—I don’t know, it’s complicated. I don’t want to be a bother.”

You cut him off, “You’re not a bother.”

“Liv,” he says, your name a mere breath rolling off his tongue.

If he told you that he’s not sad, he’s miserable, but not because of the case; he’s miserable because of how much he wants you—how much he needs you—and he is lying to you, so his thoughts are eating him alive like little demons, and it is them in a bloodthirsty rage, not the man who crushed another man’s skull with a bowling ball. He can’t tell you that he feels as though God is out to get him. Even a sliver of the truth could hurt you, and he refuses to put you in that position.

But then you put him on the spot again, without even realizing it, and he has no other choice but to cave.

“I may not be a psychiatrist, but I’ve been told that I have a very good shoulder to cry on,” you say. “Maybe we could grab dinner on Friday and you can, um, decide for yourself?”

That is mighty bold of you.

Matt processes your offer slower than an old, used car would drive on the highway. “Dinner?” he stammers.

“Dinner,” you agree.

He has two options: go for it or say no. He has to be honest with himself though; he can’t deny you anything.

His mouth opens and closes before he finally answers, “Dinner sounds good, yeah.”

“Alright,” you sound surprised yourself. “Dinner then!”

He smiles, but the decision leaves a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. “Dinner then.”

“Maybe you should put down the gravel now and go home.”

“If you promise to put down the stethoscope and the scalpel and do the same.”

“Yes, sir.” You start moving on the other end of the line. “I’m already on my way to the locker room.”

Matt doesn’t intend to say it, but it slips his lips anyway. “Good girl,” he says.

He doesn’t have to be near you to be painfully aware of your reaction. You freeze, and with you, the blood in your veins. Your brain backfires when it tries to form a coherent train of thought, and it is loud enough for Matt to hear.

A few seconds tick by without as much as a breath from you. “Okay,” you murmur, breaking the loaded silence. You’re trying to gather your bearings and make sense of the shift in the atmosphere.

He wishes he could melt into the ground. Taking it back won’t work. He already said it. But there is nothing wrong with calling you a good girl, right? It is the truth.

To him, you are good. Beautiful, even. And you are more than anything he could have ever asked for. You’re ethereal. You deserve to know that, but he is starting to think that you may have misinterpreted his intentions.

“I didn’t mean–” he begins to explain himself, but you interrupt him.

“I know,” you say.

You clear your throat, though Matt doesn’t miss the slight edge to your voice. It’s not nerves, per se. Your voice is thick with something else, and it sends a shiver down the sensitive skin of his spine.

Do you wish he meant it the way your mind made you believe he did?

His fingers dig into the edge of his worn-down wooden desk. “So, I’ll, uh, see you Friday?” he asks, his voice hovering just barely above a hopeful whisper.

Can you hear how hard he is trying not to sound too sultry? Are you aware of what you are doing to him, even though it is a bad idea for him to even be close to you? You make him want to claw up the walls of his office and eat them. It’s scary, the things he would do for you—to you—but at the same time it fills him with intense exhilaration.

You swallow. Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip. “Friday, yes. I’m, uh, looking forward to seeing you again,” you reply.

If he could only take your voice and imprint it on his mind for all eternity, he would do so without hesitation.

The wood starts to splinter under his fingernails. “Me too.” Matt withdraws his hand.

You bid him goodnight, and that is the last thing you say to him before you hang up.

Silence engulfs him. The prospect of seeing you again settles over him like a warm blanket, but it only lasts for a few minutes before the comfort disappears, and he is left freezing again. Without you. Alone.

Matt tries to tell himself that Friday will be the last time, but that night, he finds himself on the rooftop across Metro General, black fabric dangling from his hand as he listens to the distinctive sound of your footsteps exiting the emergency room. You say good night to the nurses, wishing them a peaceful rest of their shift, and then you’re heading out to catch your Uber.

You took a shower, he can smell it. And you changed your scrubs for the same outfit you wore when you met this afternoon. He follows you with a tilt of his head until you’re safely inside the car, and once he’s sure that the night won’t catch up with you, he pulls the mask over his head.

He told himself Friday would be the last time, but as long as the streets aren’t safe, he can’t stay away from you. It is an awful excuse to keep lying to you, he is well aware of that, but you have drawn him in like like no other, and he would be damned if he let you go.

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson @atemydadforbreakfast @stevenknightmarc @zheezs14 @shouldbestudying41 @kiwwia-wiwwia @writtenbyred @echo-ethe

#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x female reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock angst #matt murdock fluff #daredevil #daredevil x reader #reader insert #charlie cox #do no harm

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jayktoralldaylong · 6 months

Text

Thinking again about Lang Qianqiu's and Xie Lian's relationship because it is under-discussed (especially with the new Donghua episodes).

Watching the Donghua after reading the book is like re-reading the book and then you see all these fresh new things that you overlooked before. Things that were misinterpreted because of circumstance but now hit with a whole new meaning!

First of all, how proud Xie Lian is of Lang Qianqiu when he's first introduced.

TGCF BOOK SPOILERS.

It's clear that Jun Wu introduced them just for the stake of stirring the pot with their past, but Xie Lian held no animosity or hate towards Lang Qianqiu, prince of the enemy kingdom. If anything, he was so very fond of the boy that reminded him of his younger self. They have a student/teacher relationship but I see them sometimes as child and parent because of how proud Xie Lian is and how far he goes sometimes to protect Lang Qianqiu. In the book he said a line that summarised could basically mean that he'd take all the blame, punishment and pain, he would endure any suffering if it meant that Lang Qianqiu could keep living innocently and pure, believing in good people and kindness. More than anything, Xie Lian wanted to protect that boy's heart.

Poor Lang Qianqiu who he'd raised to believe in kindness and peaceful coexistence, who had come in late for his birthday party which was the only reason he hadn't ended up dead. He'd just been a little late. He was excited, looking forward to seeing his father and mother. A young lad of seventeen. I bet Xie Lian was also looking forward to Qianqiu's birthday, might have even prepared a gift for him. Yet what happened? He discovered a terrible plot much too late, everyone had already been killed. Foolish people who lived in the present and believed that Xianle would rather die than dine with their enemy. The poor people didn't want that, the people dependent on Yong An's kindness and generosity would surely perish. Yong'An's mercy was the closest Xie Lian had come of saving the people of Xianle since his fall. For the people he'd failed to protect, he just wanted them to have a safe house with the kindest prince of all ruling over them.

Those selfish rebels wanted to start what would have been a terrible civil was that would have ended tragically for all the people of Xianle, they would have been stamped out like ants until they were no more. To make things worse, just as Xianle had chased away the last of the rebels, he discovered that the King was still alive. The dying King of Yong'An had just one request. He wanted the people of Xianle to pay. In that moment, what decision could the prince of a failed nation possibly do? The King wanted revenge, one couldn't fault him of that, but innocent people would suffer. The rebels were a small group, they'd taken decisions on their own. The King wouldn't care about that, people would die, children would die. To crown it all, just after Xie Lian had made a decision. Just after he'd sunk his sword into the King to silence his vengeance....who would walk in but the student he was proud of the most, seventeen year old Lang Qianqiu who'd finally made it to his birthday party.

The whole thing....was a mess.

That poor child. Imagine seeing the person you admire the most yanking their weapon from the lifeless body of your parent, and surrounding him are all of your relatives and nobles of the kingdom covered in blood. Of course such a thing is traumatising. Of course he buried Xie Lian in a hole. When a person feels that much pain, their only desire is to make the one who hurt them understand how much it hurt.

Of course Xie Lian took the blame. A a nameless and faceless Guoshi, they wouldn't be able to connect him with the people of Xianle. The people would be free of blame, and he would suffer alone. Lang Qianqiu would just have to do with his pain and his pain alone.

The way Xie Lian looks upset when Lang Qianqiu gets hurt. The way he'd rather lie over and over again, than let Lang Qianqiu believe that he was wrong for being kind.

Xie Lian remembers what it was like to be like Lang Qianqiu. He also knows how trauma twisted him into a monster that he's regretted for all of his years. He couldn't bear to imagine Lang Qianqiu going through the same. For as long as he can help it, he will mindlessly shield the boy from the ugliness of politics.....because Xie Lian loves him so much. (⁠T⁠T⁠)(⁠T⁠T⁠)(⁠T⁠T⁠)(⁠T⁠T⁠)(⁠T⁠T⁠)

That's basically his son. He's so proud of him.

I love what Xie Lian said to Lang Qianqiu, I'll love it round the world and back. I can't quote it but basically "You're not the one who did wrong, the people of Xianle are not wrong too, the wrong people are the evil doers. It is not your fault that wicked people took advantage of your kindness. You're not to blame....for being kind."

Felt like he was talking to himself for real. (⁠T⁠T⁠)

#Xie Lian and Lang Qianqiu #xie lian #lang qianqiu #tgcf #tian guan ci fu #heaven official's blessing #Xie Lian's boy

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strangersatellites · 1 year

Text

ask and you shall receive !! part two of tarot-verse !! read part one here !!

⛓️🪄🔮

“Robs, do you really think this is going to work?”

“Well normally I would say yes. It's pretty straight-forward and I don’t think you’re leaving a lot of room for misinterpretation. But at the same time, Eddie has been demonstrating some particularly impressive levels of obliviousness when it comes to the way you go all goo-goo eyes at him.”

Steve opens his mouth to dispute her claim, he does not go all goo-goo eyes at him, but gets cut off.

“That and the fact that he’s all in his head over a scenario he literally made up. So I don't know, it might be hopeless.”

Steve just blinks for a second.

“Wow. Thank you, Robin, for that very motivating pep talk.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I am feeling much more confident now, that's really great.”

She huffs on the other end of the line. “Well, I just mean that-”

He holds up a hand even though she can’t see him. “No, no. I got it.” He perks up at the sound of a door slamming in the driveway. “Hey, he’s here Robbie. I gotta go.”

Robin's screech has him pulling the phone away from his ear. “Good luck, dingus!”

“Thanks Robs. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He hangs up and wipes his, now clammy, hands on the front of his jeans and psychs himself up.

“Come on Steve. Be cool.”

A musical knock that Steve would know anywhere sounds through the foyer and he has to tamp down the smile threatening to split his face. This is serious.

He swings open the door just as Eddie’s hand is poised to knock again and cuts him off before he can even start to speak.

“Okay. I know I asked you to come over so we could smoke and watch that movie you like but can I show you something first?”

Eddie’s eyebrows furrow but his smile doesn’t drop.

“Course, Stevie. Why so serious? What did you do, rob a bank?” He asks, shouldering his way past and making his way to the living room and hopping over the back of the couch.

Steve knows the moment Eddie sees them. His shoulders stiffen up and his breath catches. Steve hurries to placate.

“Hey, I know. I’m sorry just-” If he runs his hand through his hair again it's going to go flat but he can't break the habit. “Just let me show you?”

Eddie settles back into the couch and gives Steve a quick nod.

Steve takes a breath and grabs his stack of cards from the coffee table and settles on the other end of the couch.

Okay, Steve. Just like you rehearsed.

Another deep breath.

“Two summers ago Robin told me she wanted to learn how to read tarot. She bought a deck and tried to learn on her own, but she had a hard time memorizing what all of them meant.”

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh. “No shit. Shit’s hard.”

Steve laughs too. “Yeah, I know that now. But, she had a hard time with it so I told her I would learn and help her practice. And I did. And she got really good at it and she brought them everywhere and she did readings for people constantly. But then she eventually got bored and stopped.”

Eddie shifts and uncrosses his arms. Finally looks less like he’s ready to bolt.

“What, do you just have like a rolodex of stuff you’ve learned for Robin that she doesn’t care about anymore?”

“I think of it more like an old toybox.” This gets a laugh out of Eddie. “But this one– this one stuck with me. I forgot about it for a while but a while back, a few days pre-vecna oddly enough, I pulled a reading for myself and I wanted to show you.”

Eddie’s eyes dart between his own for a beat. He tilts his head a bit.

“I would love to see it, Stevie. But I’m not understanding what was so urgent about this. I thought it was gonna be about the whole,” he waves his hand around while he talks, “you watching me make myself look stupid the other day.”

Steve hates the dejected tone his voice has taken on behind his false bravado.

“It is! I mean, I’ve never thought you looked stupid. But, I mean I kind of goaded you into it, just– just let me talk you through this and I promise it’ll all make sense.”

Eddie sits back again. “Okay sweetheart. Wow me.”

Steve takes a deep breath because this part is a bit like baring his soul to Eddie.

“So when I pulled this reading. I was feeling really confused about what was in store for me. I decided to dust off my cards and see what happened.”

He pulls four cards right off the top of the deck and lays them out face down. Flips the first one.

Judgement.

“I got judgement first. Now, I know you know what it means, but I’m going to tell you my interpretation.”

When Steve looks back up at him, Eddie’s got his chin propped in his hand and the stars back in his eyes.

“Judgement told me to stop looking for things in the same places I’d always looked. That I should look somewhere different. Now granted I didn’t know what that meant yet, but it was just the start.”

Flips the second card.

The Moon.

“You would think that maybe I would’ve taken the hint with this one. It’s the one that tells you, ‘Hey! Stop lying to yourself! Listen to your intuition!’ But still I didn’t know what that was supposed to mean either.”

He skips ahead and flips the last card and Eddie looks confused and goes to flip the third card himself.

“Call me crazy, Stevie, but I think you skipped one.”

Steve bats his hand away.

“Shut up. I know that, but there’s an order to this story.”

Eddie puts his hands up in a gesture of innocence and Steve taps the fourth card.

The Lovers.

“This one made me finally start to piece this one together. Maybe I needed to start looking for a different type of girl, ya know? Clearly I was gonna fall in love and I needed to start looking in new places for whoever it was.”

He brings his eyes up to meet Eddie’s.

“Maybe a farmer’s market.”

Eddie throws his head back in a laugh.

“But this last card had me so confused because it didn’t fit into this lineup at all. In my experience, when a card doesn’t really fit, it might need to be read more literally. And I found out later that this one was meant to be taken very literally. Like, very.”

He flips the final card.

The Devil.

“Because a few days later, I met you.”

Eddie squints at him, but he's smiling.

“That feels like an insult, babe.”

Steve can literally feel his cheeks flush at Eddie’s effortless flirting.

“Okay, well I can only think of one person who was accused of devil-worship in this town, so.”

“That’s fair,” Eddie nods.

“And I had this stupid big crush on you before I even remembered the reading. When I did it got so much worse. And then, last weekend, I saw your cards and I thought it would be fun to see what kind of reading you would pull for me. Thought maybe that would be my chance to tell you how I felt. I was going to wait for you to tell me about whatever you pulled and then tell you I knew that already.”

Eddie shifts to sling an arm around Steve’s shoulder and lets him finish.

“But then I saw those cards and I knew you were making stuff up and I thought it was because you didn't want it to be you.”

Eddie’s face falls for a second before Steve bumps their noses together.

“But then you were being so weird at the farmer’s market so I talked to Robs about it and she told me we're both stupid.”

Steve feels more than he hears Eddie’s laugh.

“I would have to agree with Birdie on that one. Steve, has anybody ever told you you have an insane poker face?”

Steve hides his face and laughs.

“No, that's a new one.”

Eddie puts on his most dramatic voice again.

“Well allow me to be the first. Because that was a phenomenal performance. I had no idea that you knew I was talking out of my ass.”

“Well you do that a lot anyway, so.”

Eddie squawks and shoves Steve to fall backwards until he’s in his space, looking down with a blinding smile.

“So, cards tell you anything about a first date?”

Steve’s hands settle around Eddie’s waist and his eyes dart around his face.

“We could ask. But I can think of a better way to spend our time.”

Eddie bends down and nips at the side of Steve’s jaw, hums.

“Yeah? Hm. I think it might be worth an ask.”

Steve huffs and brings his his hands to either side of his face to tug him down.

“Shut up.”

Eddie’s laughing the first time their lips meet.

He bites and tugs at Steve’s bottom lip to get his attention.

“I can’t believe you called me the devil.”

Steve’s eyes are hazy and his smile lazy.

“Yeah but you’re my devil.”

Eddie laughs and leans down to peck at the corner of his mouth.

“And you’re my magician.”

⛓️🪄🔮

tag list: @henderdads, @mightbeasleep, @gothbat99, @hotluncheddie, @steddie-there, @thefreakandthehair, @steddieasitgoes, @gayngerthings, @grapefruitgalaxy, @orangeandthefairroadkill, @hardboiledleggs, @corrodedcoughin, @punkharringtxn, @mackdaddyofheimlichcountyy, @ottokajiyehett, @toobluebrunette, @e0509, @booksandsience, @lohthus, @chaoticlovingdreamer, @4nemo1egend, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @adelicioustragedy, @wearelosersyoudumbfuck, @lightwoodbanethings, @trikigirl271, @initforthereadz, @dontwasteyourchances (if you got skipped or added, my apologies🫶🏼)

#eddie knows tarot #steve knows tarot #tarot steddie #i want to live in the tarot steddie-verse #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #the devil & the magician #the devil is my favorite card in tarot #so I had to find a way to include her #gin writes #fin gin #shot of gin

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nostalgebraist · 8 days

Note

I think your post about AI Doom doesn't really acknowledge the fact that, generally speaking, people enjoy being alive for its own sake and prefer it to being dead. Unless I'm misinterpreting, the conclusion of the post is essentially saying that not wanting people to be killed is "out of step with human values" which is obviously not true. Most people do not want to be killed. Killing people is bad. It would not be OK for AI to kill everyone even if it made something else afterwards.

(Pt 2) this all seems extremely obvious to me but I could not come up with an interpretation of that post which isn’t just broadly in favour of people being killed, which seems sort of like. The most evil thing anyone could ever possibly believe. So I am hoping that I misinterpreted

You're not alone, this aspect of yesterday's post was confusing to a lot of people.

FWIW I'm mostly tapped out on discussing the subject matter of that post for the moment, but this does deserves some kind of further explanation, so here goes.

----

First, to address something you didn't mention, but which was broadly confusing:

I am not saying: "when the doomers say AI will kill us all, they don't mean the natural reading of that phrase, they don't mean it will literally kill all the individual humans, they mean some weird other thing instead."

No, they really do just mean it will kill everyone. Sorry that wasn't clear.

----

What I did mean, when I talked about doomers vs. average Joe here, is that the idea of human extinction hits different if you're an anti-deathist transhumanist, versus if you aren't one.

If you're an anti-deathist, what's bad about extinction is, in part, the same thing that's bad about ordinary death. The anti-deathist looks around them and sees, in some sense, a slow-motion and staggered extinction already happening.

Even without extinction, we are all gonna die. Our great-great-great-great-great-grandparents' generation did not die out in an extinction event, but all the same, they are in fact extinct. Dead. 100% fatality rate, for those guys.

Sure, it was spread out over time, and "natural," but -- the anti-deathist argues, quite reasonably -- why should any of that matter to them, the dead ones? Those distinctions don't change any of what it is that's intuitively bad about dying in the first place.

The horror you express at "people being killed"? For the anti-deathist, that horror gets generalized to include the case of people being killed "by death," as it were. By just, dying, of old age or whatever, rather than by the hand of some other creature.

----

Now sure, even for the anti-deathist, there are important ways that extinction is worse than business as usual. Most obviously, extinction not only stops all the lives of people around now, but prevents the lives of any future people from getting created later on. (Plus of course, all else being equal, death sooner is worse than death later.)

If you're not an anti-deathist, though -- and most people aren't -- these special factors that make extinction worse (for the anti-deathist) are in fact your only objections to extinction.

That is not to say that they aren't extremely strong objections. Of course normal people do not want human extinction!

But for the normal person, there is this hard line between "extinction" and "business as usual." For such a person, there is a horror in the former that just isn't there in the latter, even though (as the anti-deathist likes to point out) business as usual still means a 100% fatality rate, on a long enough timeline.

For the anti-deathist, there is not this hard line. Extinction is bad. Getting killed by a person or a machine is bad. Dying of natural causes is bad. And a lot of the badness -- though by no means all of it -- comes from what is shared across all these cases, not what is special to each case alone.

----

OK, now let's talk more directly about your question.

Unless I'm misinterpreting, the conclusion of the post is essentially saying that not wanting people to be killed is "out of step with human values" which is obviously not true.

I mean, yeah, that's obviously not true.

But there are things sort of superficially similar to it that might be true.

And when something is true, but on the surface sounds bizarre and backwards and staggeringly wrong, I often like to play around with the way it sounds -- to just have a bit of fun with the way I can say things that seem so outrageous, and yet might not actually be wrong. Or even really outrageous, when properly understood.

And maybe I get carried with this, sometimes, at the expense of clarity. Sorry about that. (But also, it's my blog, where I write the kind of stuff I like writing. And I do like writing in this way. Them's the breaks.)

Anyway.

If we want to understand ordinary human values, then we need to cope with the "average Joe's" simultaneous belief in the following two things:

I really do not want to die. As a particular case, I really really do not want to die right now, today. But also, come to think of it, dying tomorrow would be super bad too. And you know what, the day after tomorrow? Same deal. And I guess I could go on like this.

I do not, at all, actively want to "live forever." In fact I kind of don't want this. If you directly ask me, I'll say the idea is sort of creepy and weird and bad. Or, even if I don't think that, I don't find the idea motivating at all. It might be acceptable, if it were forced on me, but none of my actions are driven by a desire to make it more likely.

(I am hand-waving away the concept of the afterlife here, which is involved in the typical Joe's actual beliefs in a way that annoyingly complicates the analysis while being tangential to my point. Let's say we're talking about the average atheist/agnostic but non-transhumanist Joe. I think the point can be generalized further, but I'm trying and failing to be brief here, so you'll just have to trust me.)

Now, together, these two beliefs are nearly a paradox.

Maybe they are just a paradox. Maybe you can't, really, think both of these at the same time without, on some level, kidding yourself. This is what the anti-deathist alleges, about the average Joe.

Maybe you agree. If so: congratulations, you're an anti-deathist too. Which is a perfectly valid point of view. Despite all I said in my post, I have quite a lot of sympathy for it, myself.

But the average Joe is really not an anti-deathist. This is just a fact about the world. Average Joe really does think both of the 2 things, at once. Maybe he does so inconsistently, or wrongly. Still, he does.

I think you essentially have two choices here. You can take the road less traveled, fully bite the "death is bad" bullet, and be an anti-deathist. Or, you can do what most do, and be like average Joe.

But if you are doing what average Joe does, and you go on to say things like...

being in favour of people being killed [is the] most evil thing anyone could ever possibly believe

...then you have some explaining to do. You have to spell out what it is this means, if it doesn't just mean full anti-deathism. Which is kinda what it sounds like.

A lot of things "kinda sound like" full anti-deathism. That view is very amenable to being phrased in terms that make it sound utterly obvious.

But we can't let this lull us into thinking that -- because anti-deathism sounds obvious, and average Joe often believes things that sound obvious -- that average Joe believes in anti-deathism. Somehow, despite all that obviousness, he just doesn't.

Somehow, despite all that obviousness, anti-deathism is a fringe position. And if we're not on the fringe, then we have to spell out just what it is that we believe instead.

Now OK, let's be real. You didn't say "being in favour of death" was the evil thing. What you wrote was "people being killed," not "people dying."

And that's what makes the distinction to you, right? I imagine? That it's bad news when some entity actively kills a person, that goes beyond the badness of death per se?

----

That does sound pretty intuitive! But what exactly is it that makes killing worse, here?

I didn't answer that question, in my post. I answered a bunch of other questions, instead. There are still more questions, which no one has asked me, but which I kind of feel I ought to answer, when talking about this topic. Nonetheless, I have to stop myself at some point, or I'll never do anything else. Hence these kinds of glaring lacunae.

I won't answer it here, either, in full. I have some other things to do today, and this is no longer just explicating what I meant earlier, this is new stuff. I'll just make some gestures, now, towards the kind of answer that would make sense of how I treated the topic in my earlier post.

----

So, there are some pretty obvious answers to "why is killing especially bad?"

Say, that it reflects poorly on the killer: an AI that would kill us all is probably an AI that's just plain bad morally.

Or, that we have a norm against it. It's a part of our ethics, the stuff we agree on as part of the social contract.

But you know what we don't have a norm against? If we're average Joe, and not on the fringe?

Killing chickens.

Or torturing chickens, and then killing them. Or breeding lots of them, specifically to be tortured, and then killed.

Sorry for the sudden swerve into vegan talking points! But this is kind of a big deal.

I've heard this cited, multiple times, by doomer types as a motivating case for being worried about how superintelligent AIs might treat us.

Just look at how we treat creatures that can very evidently feel pain -- but just happen to be different from us, not constituted the way we are, and in particular much less smart than we are!

And I, personally, find this argument pretty motivating. This is one of those arguments where even I have to hand it to the doomers.

But once we've allowed this much, we are in danger of conceding some really wild shit, if we don't tread carefully. Maybe we even should concede the wild shit, in the last analysis. Still, we should tread carefully.

Say you take the chicken argument seriously.

You've conceded that human values contain some really fucked-up things about how to treat other, dumber, "more primitive" beings. Beings of the kind that prevailed before the new, "super"-intelligent, sparkly, world-dominating species stepped onto the scene and changed everything.

You've conceded that humans are basically misaligned AIs, of the evil killeveryone Torment Nexus sort.

Remember, that was the whole substance of the argument: to make such awful AIs seem more plausible, by pointing out that such a thing already exists. Namely, us.

But now, what standing do we have to object to the AIs, without it rebounding back on us? Must we oppose ourselves just as fervently as we oppose the evil AIs, for the same reason?

"An AI that kills all humans" sounds pretty bad. Sounds like an evil thing, that we would not want to exist. But by the same token, we're evil, and we shouldn't exist.

(We might have wiped out chickens, if they weren't so tasty. There are plenty of non-tasty things which we did, in fact, wipe out. I and the doomers focus on chickens and the like, here, because what we did them is arguably even worse.)

Would we really accept an AI that's only "aligned with human values," and treats us about as well as we treat other beings when we are placed in an analogous scenario? Or do we hold AI to a higher standard -- one we can't possibly apply to ourselves, for that way lies madness?

Well, I don't know. These are tough questions.

But I would like to leave open some room to imagine, at least, that the advent of humanity was not (or not only) a catastrophe. That it was not, in fact, "the most evil thing possible."

Despite all the evil that we do, I'd like to imagine that.

And I'd like to imagine that, if there is such a thing as "human values," it contains this affirmation of the value of the advent of humanity.

And the value of things like the advent of humanity.

And the golden rule, and the rule of law. Which means, among other things: not holding you to a higher standard than I hold myself.

Even though the apparent implications of this are pretty nasty.

Philosophy is like that. Often you are between a rock and a hard place. Saying "that's a rock, don't you know that rocks cannot be walked through??" in an alarmed tone does not really get at the heart of the dilemma, or point the way to a solution.

----

All else being equal, of course, I would prefer not to be killed.

So would the chickens, I imagine.

We must not pretend there are easy answers, when there aren't.

#ai tag

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