#My first association was a large predator

[thunderboltfire]

Poor battering ram of a woman, how come you've chosen so badly who to follow?

[bovineblogger]

Just wanted to pitch my two cents in response to the previous anon! Hi friend, I know for a lot of us who get our food shrink wrapped and packaged at the grocery store it’s mind boggling to even imagine there’s a healthy way of animal husbandry.

I grew up in The Big City™️ but was raised by my grandparents. They grew up farming (just crops, their families were too poor to own livestock or purchase meat/milk/eggs) and taught me to have an incredible respect for where food comes from. We grew our own crops in the tiny backyard, composted, and did aquaculture even before I knew what it was. We bought our smaller meat from the local butcher minimally processed. You had to debone and process the whole chicken, fish, rabbit, frogs, etc. Grandpa traded his veggies for different fruits with the other oldies. Grandma made her own wine and yogurt. And I’ve worked and volunteered at animal shelters and wildlife rescue/rehab centers growing up. I still compost nearly all of my food waste. Even then, I didn’t truly understand the extent to which a properly cared for animal farm could be healthy and ethical.

Until I met one of my previous partners that is. They grew up in an incredibly rural area on a family farm that had animals, including a herd of cows for meat. They hunted, but always to protect the livestock and made use of the animals they killed/sold them to others in town who would. It seemed so counterintuitive to my sensibilities and raised my hackles at first. How could you say you love animals and do that? But I began asking questions…for hours and hours because it was nothing I’d been exposed to.

The way they and their family cared for/revered their animals seemed almost religious to me when I first encountered it. From the time they were kids, it was always the animals’ chores first. You woke up but fed and milked the cows before you made yourself breakfast. They made blankets for the animals and read to them. You gave the herd everything they needed and then some. If something in the barn needed fixing, that would happen first before new windows for the house. The animals had their own things and toys and treats. It was love! There were never cattle prods or whips or any of the machinery you associate with industrial farming. The animals would greet them happily every morning. They loved and trusted their people back enough to be naughty a way a pampered cat is. It really sunk in when I stood next to a cow for the first time — there’s nothing that would stop that animal from harming you, especially if you were a kid, unless it respected you and loved you back.

(They once told me the story of how some large predator like a bear or wolf tried to sneak into the pasture at night. The family woke up there next morning to a furry pancake that had been utterly stomped into the ground by the herd.)

A whole lifetime later, they can still remember the names, personalities, and stories of all the animals they raised. I would get bored and try to list off random names as a game to see if they ever had an animal called that, actually. But the thing that initially shocked (and stuck with me the most) was that when they’d take an older cow to the butcher, they would get packages of meat back labeled with that animal’s name. But it wasn’t ever scary or traumatizing for the kids. They always knew where food was from. Sometimes they were even there helping when that animal was born in the barn. What that did was give them an incredible sense of care, respect, and duty for those animals. When they had dinner that night, they would say grace and mean it in a way you only could if you viewed that animal as an equal family member. I was raised religious, but had never heard grace said like that, with that amount of genuine intent until I ate dinner with them. It used to be just something I did, just going through the motions.

That being said, yes it would probably be the most bio energy efficient/less emissions heavy if the whole world shifted away from a meat-based diet. But ideal isn’t always realistic/something we can achieve overnight. Meat alternatives are often expensive or time consuming to prepare (like beans/legumes). The way I see it, this blog is part of a harm reduction approach in facilitating an appreciation/love/education for livestock and then encouraging people to seek out more mindful sources of meat, like some local farms. We’ve seen time and time again, shame/blame are far less effective in getting people to re-examine their worldviews than education and love.

thank you so much for this ask, this is so so so so so lovely!!! i feel like a lot of people that arent farmers or dont have farmers in their family dont really understand just how much love is there.

[demonslayerunhinged]

*cw: this theory deals with child sexual abuse and has mentions of suicidal ideation and eating disorders.

*If you or anyone you know is going through this, you can find resources here, here and here as well as a list of international hotlines.

Obanai is probably the second most hated character in the fandom, and just like Sanemi, he’s one of the most misunderstood. I think the hate he gets from the fandom is unwarranted; he’s accused of being a dick, a horrible person, a simp and a character who only exists to be Mitsuri’s love interest. All of which is unfair, sure he’s prickly and unapproachable, but he’s not as bad as the fandom makes him out to be.

So, in my quest to draft a defense for our favorite snek boy, I reread his backstory and in doing so, I realized something sad

Unhinged theory

Obanai is a sexual abuse survivor

Let me explain:

Obanai’s backstory and aspects of his character mirrors that of someone who’s been through sexual trauma. The evidence I'm going to present is a combination of my own knowledge about these matters and information I got from forums and websites for male survivors of sexual abuse. So let's examine them...um spoilers

The snake demon

I believe that the snake demon is a metaphor for a sexual predator. Her inclusion in the family could also be a metaphor for how these predators insert themselves into family units-or most of the time are family members themselves-and abuse the children for years and even generations. Obanai's relatives sacrificing their babies to her could signify the real life actions of families who are unaware or, turn a blind eye to, or sometimes actively participate in the abuse of their children.

The sacrifice in exchange for wealth speaks of how families in real life ignore the abuse of their children to maintain the wealth and status they obtain from being related to and associated with the abuser.

Even her decision to wait, ordering the cutting of his mouth so he would look like her, could be interpreted as her 'grooming' him in a sense.

Even her design has a certain sexual, predatory aspect to it that's different from the other demons.

His relatives

Obanai describes his family members as being 'disgustingly' affectionate and bringing him lots of 'greasy' food that made him sick. Food in media is often used to depict love, affection, connection and sex, and Demon Slayer is no different.

There are plenty of instances where food and the giving of food has been used to denote friendship (Tanjiro giving Zenitsu, Inosuke and Genya meals in an attempt to bond with them), connection (Giyuu wanting to give Sanemi ohagi), love (Tanjiro's love of cooking and the satisfaction he shows when his meals are enjoyed by others) and pleasure (Mitsuri's large appetite). I'll make a post about this later.

With this context, we can interpret their bringing of rich foods, their overbearing attention and affections as them objectifying and even being sexually inappropriate with him.

The sexual abuse

Non-physical.

The first instance of abuse is non-physical, but that doesn't make it any less important. Being constantly visited by the snake demon in his room at night, Obanai described his feelings of terror, being paralyzed and watched. His body would break out in a sweat, and he would be unable to fall asleep.

His descriptions of the experience and his body's reaction to it reminded me of some survivors' stories I read, where they talked about how in the initial stages of the abuse or when the abuser was first introduced into their lives, their abuser would give them unwanted attention, would stare at them in a way that felt creepy, gross and wrong.

Some had their abusers come in to their rooms, maybe under the guise of 'checking in on them'. They described feeling terrified, freezing up with the hopes that the attacker would leave. Some would take measures such as sleeping with the door locked or with a heavy object against it, sleeping with a sibling or parent, sleeping in a hiding spot that the attacker knows nothing about or not sleeping at all.

Physical.

The specific age that the snake demon plans to 'eat' Obanai is never stated, but from what we've seen so far and in the sexual context, we can assume that she's waiting until he hits puberty. Some studies state that the average age of victims of female sex offenders usually falls around 14 years, but there are cases where the female predator waited until their victim reached sexual maturity before they carried out their abuse, like in the case of Mary Kay Letourneau. Here's a video that breaks down an interview she did before her death.

Obanai was 12 when he was dragged out of his cell to be subjected to what I believe is the first physical abuse. He had his mouth slit from ear to ear, with the blood collected and fed to her. The snake demon decided to have him live a little longer, which again, fits into my theory of her wanting to wait until he reached puberty.

Bodily violation, violence and blood are common allegories for sexual assault used in media and in Obanai's backstory we see it being used when his relatives drag him from his cell, literally pin him down, cut his mouth and feed his blood to the snake demon. The act of feeding on his blood could also be a metaphor for the snake demon sexually abusing him.

His escape and the resulting fallout

Obanai managed to escape, and although he was tracked down by the snake demon, he was saved by Shinjuro Kengoku before she could kill him. His cousin's response was to blame him for all that happened, asked why he ran away, and said that he should have 'allowed' the demon to eat him.

This could represent how some victims are rejected, ostracized and criticized for speaking out against their attacker, exposing the abuse to the public and getting help. Their families would say 'you should have just let it happen', 'you destroyed the family', 'why did you run away, tell people?' and place the blame on the victim.

Obanai's reaction

There are three aspects of his characterization that are similar to the common reactions noticed in adult survivors of sexual assault, especially male survivors.

His appearance.

His behavior.

His beliefs.

His appearance

Obanai has a small frame that he hides with his baggy uniform and haori. I can tell it's baggy compared to that of the other slayers because of the width of his pants vs the width of his lower legs. Desexualization or hypo-sexualization is a common response among some survivors of sexual trauma, this usually involves wearing clothes and taking measures to make themselves look 'unattractive'.

'But this side feels more comfortable for me, like the baggy clothes I wear, which hide my body, and the long sleeves which reach past my wrists. I promised myself no man would ever touch me again, and whether it was a moment of triumph, or a moment of defeat, I still don't know.'

'I'm thin, shy. I seem easy to dominate. I've grown a beard. That's helped a little. I dress in baggy clothes, covering as much of my skin as possible. That makes me feel safe.'

This not only helps regain a sense of control and power over their body but also serves as a protective measure against sexual advances so they don't get abused again.

In Obanai, given his history of receiving unwanted, suffocating and 'disgusting' attention from his female relatives, it would make sense that he would want to dress in a way that makes him unapproachable and hides his body from the opposite sex. We can see his attempts to desexualize himself in the picture below:

His behavior

'Iguro has difficulty with girls. Due to his experiences growing up, he was unable to conquer his fear and animosity. Plus, the firls who joined the Demon Slayer Corps often put on brave faces because of their sad backgrounds, so he felt sorry for them, making him uncomfortable in a different way.' - Taisho Whispers, official English translation.

'Iguro-san isn't good with women. Due to his upbringing he has a fear and disgust towards women. (I couldn't overcome it easily. The women who joined the Demon Slayer Corps have painful stories of determination. I felt sorry for them and I didn't get along with them in a way that was different from the way I got along with my family)' - Taisho Whispers, direct-sort-of-shitty translation via Google Translate.

Male survivors who were victims of childhood abuse by female perpetrators often talk about how the abuse greatly affected their relationships with women or lack thereof. Some going so far as to say that they became afraid of women, being around them and how sometimes being touched by women would trigger panic attacks and remind them of the trauma.

Here are some quotes posted in a thread on the Male Survivor forum. Full thread here.

'Once that happened, my genophobia became more intense. I couldn't ware short trousers in summer, could never go swimming, got paranoid if I touched a woman's arm or even brushed against one, would always stand at a distance from female friends, and would literally leave the room if anything explicit was discussed.'

'I have started to have strange, deep discomforting feelings as I remember some of the assaults and I have gotten to a place where touch from a woman makes my hair stand up, makes me nauseous, and gives me chills and feelings of dread.'

Obanai has similar responses when he finds himself in proximity to women. We're only told about it in the main manga, but it's shown in the Gakuen. I know the Gakuen takes place in an alternate universe, but aside from the events, the behaviors of the characters are based on their actual personalities in the main manga, so we can safely say the reactions he displays in the Gakuen is canon to his character.

His beliefs

Adult survivors of sexual abuse often struggle with feelings of guilt, rage, and shame. In the manga, Obanai talks about being held back by the decaying hands of his family members, which could represent the long-lasting effects of sexual abuse and how some survivors carry these burdens all through adulthood or throughout their lives.

There's also the thoughts about himself that echo the heartbreaking thoughts shared by some male survivors.

Guilt:

"As the member of a filthy family, I too was corrupt. My sins were deep, so I could not live a normal life"

Rage:

"With no other outlet, I turned all my rage on demons in a grudge of intense hatred. By risking my life for others, I felt as if I could in some way become a slightly better person."

Shame:

"Unless I die and come back in a different body in which this filthy blood does not flow, I have no right to be with you."

Suicidal ideation(mild):

"By risking my life for others, I felt as if I could in some way become a slightly better person."

"I want to die defeating Muzan." (He's the only character that I know of that outright says this.)

He also kind-of expresses his feelings of being weak during the fight with Muzan:

"I've accomplished less in this battle than anyone! I wish I could deliver a more effective attack."

While this quote isn't exactly definite, a feeling of being weak, or being 'less of a man' is also a common experience shared by male sexual assault survivors.

The scar and It's symbolism

The scar is a physical manifestation of the lifelong effect that sexual abuse has on its victims and the stigma it carries. For Obanai, it's not just a painful reminder of the trauma he suffered at the hands of his family, but also a reminder to him that he's like his attacker, the snake demon. The bandages he wraps around his mouth symbolizes not just his attempts to hide his trauma, but also his inability to talk about it due to shame and fear, which is unfortunately an all too common experience of male survivors.

Another struggle survivors often experience is with intimacy, romantic relationships and sex. For Obanai, I believe that this struggle is represented by his eating disorder. The link between food and sex is a well established belief in many cultures, people with large appetites can be seen as having equally high sex drives while people with small appetites have little or no sex drive.

As he grows older, his little appetite is basically him curbing his growing sexual desire, which he sees as ugly, like the scar on his mouth. But the thing is Obanai wants love, he wants to love and be loved, to be intimate with another person, but he feels he doesn't deserve it, after all he's filthy, shameful and probably a predator just like the snake demon. So he starves himself, suffering in silence with the belief that he was disgusting, that no one would ever love him, that he was destined to and deserved to be alone.

Then he met Mitsuri.

In Conclusion, Obanai is way more complex than the KnY fandom gives him credit for. This is a man that went through immense suffering, and it's really sad to see people hate on him because he isn't 'nice'.

Well, that's just how life is. Trauma doesn't exactly make nice people. We can't all be like Giyuu or Tanjiro(bestest boy ❤), a lot of us are like Obanai, Sanemi, and even Shinobu, a lot of us are angry, and why shouldn't we be?

...

*Phew, ok so this one has been in the drafts for a while because I was scared to post such a dark subject matter and also I needed to be really sure I wasn't just talking out of my ass but after rereading his backstory and analyzing aspects of his character, I'm more confident about this.

[bethanythebogwitch]

Welcome to a topsy-turvy Wet Beast Wednesday where I'm discussing one of my favorite cnidarians, the upside-down jellyfish. These are 8 species of jellyfish in the genus Cassiopea, which is the only member of the family Cassiopeidae. What makes these jellies notable is the fact that they spend most of their time lying upside-down on the seafloor.

(image: an upside-down jellyfish swimming. It has a light brown and white striped bell and multiple tentacles that are tuck and white. The tentacles branch and are lined with feathery, light brown structures)

While the majority of jellyfish are predators who drift through the water at the mercy of the currents, upside-down jellyfish have essentially become farmers. Their eight branched oral arms that contain symbiotic algae called zooxanthellae. These algae are photosynthetic and live in a mutualistic relationship with the jellyfish. The jellyfish gets food from the zooxanthellae and they get protection from predators and a place to live. Upside-down jellyfish can survive entirely on the nutrients produced by the zooxanthellae, but they will still feed on zooplankton and other small prey. Upside-down jellies are not the only jellyfish to utilize zooxanthellae, many other species also survive primarily on their symbiotic algae, but they are the only ones to have adapted the benthic lifestyle. They can reach a bell diameter of up to 25 cm (10 inches), or as one source for this stated: about the size of a pie pan.

(image: multiple upside-down jellyfish lying on sand. They are ov various sizes and mostly light brown, but have thicker, green tentacles sticking op)

Upside-down jellyfish are found in warm coastal waters in Florida and the Caribbean and in Micronesia, Melanesia, and parts of Polynesia. They require shallow waters to allow enough light to reach their zooxanthellae and are usually found on shady or muddy bottoms. They are highly associated with mangroves and may play an important role in the mangrove habitats by mixing the water to recirculate oxygen and nutrients. They are rarely found alone, instead congregating in large groups that can cover portions of the seafloor. They attach by using their bells as suction cups and rhythmically pulse using the edges of the bell. This pulsing forces water over the gills and can force zooplankton into the stinging cells to become food. Stung prey will fall on the oral tentacles, where it is broken down into fragments that are then intaken through the numerous tiny oral openings on the tentacles. Interestingly, some species have cycles of reduced movement, which is believed to be the first known example of sleep in an animal without a central nervous system. While upside-down jellies can swim, they will usually only do so to escape predators or if their environment becomes unsuitable.

(image: an upside-down jellyfish swimming. The majority of its body is light brown, but it has many tentacles that are dark blue and outlined in white)

While a very neat thing to see underwater, many snorkelers avoid upside-down jellyfish due to a phenomenon called stinging water. This is when people will receive the symptoms of a sting by the jellyfish without actually touching it. While the cause of this was a mystery for a long time, it was solved when a 2020 paper was published in Communications Biology by Ames et al. The scientists discovered that upside-down jellies release clumps of mucus into the water. This mucus is filled with zooxanthellae and stinging cells and many of these clumps also have ciliated cells that allow for limited swimming. These clumps, named cassiosomes, are the source of the stinging water. The paper, titled "cassiosomes are stinging-cell structures in the mucus of the upside-down jellyfish Cassiopea xamachana" speculated that the cassiosomes are used for defense and feeding. The cassiosomes could be released to sting a potential predator from a distance, discouraging it from approaching the jellyfish. Presumably snorkelers trigger this defense when they swim over the jellies, resulting in stinging water. They could also be used to catch prey as zooplankton killed by the stinging cells would have a high likelihood of falling onto the jelly that released them. Because the cassiosomes have zooanthellae in them, they could survive for likely up to several days after release.

(image: a microscope image of three cassiosomes. They are irregularly-shaped blobs somewhat similar to popcorn. They are a dark color with grey outlines. Spots of green algae and white stinging cells dot their surface)

Upside-down jellyfish are threatened by habitat loss as many mangrove forests are torn down for development. They are also threatened by pollution. They are not considered dangerous to humans. The sting of an upside-down jellyfish can result in mild to severe rashes and itching, but is not lethal.

(gif: a lone, light brown upside-down jellyfish on black sediment. The edge of its flat, circular bell regularly pulse upward to move air over its gills and tentacles. This one's pulsing has slowed, which is speculated to be the result of it going through its sleep cycle)

[dol--blathanna]

Thinking a lot about Orym choosing a rabbit when asked what animal he would pick if cursed with lycanthropy.

Because, it makes sense. Orym is small, quick, agile, jumps well, and is highly perceptive. That definitely evokes rabbit imagery. But a lot of Orym’s identity is also tied up with being a protector – giving people AC bumps, the shield being as much a part of his fighting style as his sword, even his title: Saviour Blade of the Tempest. He wants to be a “Shield that protects Exandria”; his priorities about saving the gods are less about the gods themselves, and more about protecting the people of Exandria from the unintended consequences and bloodshed of releasing Predathos. And it would’ve been very easy to pick a large, strong predator to try and evoke the sense of a protector – a wolf, for example, an animal associated with loyalty and protecting its pack. Yet Orym chose a rabbit.

And I think that’s interesting, because rabbits are often seen as ‘cute’ animals – but they’re also a prey animal. In fact, they’re a common food source for many animals across several ecosystems: foxes, wolves, wild cats, dogs, birds of prey like eagles or owls, coyotes, stoats, and humans (and that’s just off the top of my head). Rabbits are skittish, easily frightened; to be rabbit-hearted is to be timid or cowardly. They are not generally associated with fierceness or prowess in fighting. Mice and rats are prey animals too, but typically seen as vermin (rabbits are sometimes seen as vermin too, but a farmer could eat a rabbit – they wouldn’t eat a rat). Deer are prey, but they have hooves and antlers that bring a danger to hunting them, for any animal – the difficulties of hunting rabbits are more related to their evasiveness, speed and good hearing than any life-threatening danger they might pose. Rabbits are, first and foremost, prey animals. They are killed and eaten, so that another animal might live.

Which made me think a lot about one of Orym’s other key traits: self-sacrifice. Bait and switch doesn’t just bump up his ally’s ACs, it specifically switches their place to put him directly in harm’s way. Goading attack is meant to encourage enemies to attack him instead of his friends. He literally made a deal with a hag, essentially exchanging his own life for power to protect his friends. How many times has he gone down in a fight? He’s not the only tank – but unlike Ashton (and Chetney, who also uses ‘self-sacrifice’ in his fighting style with his blood curses) he has no abilities to reduce the damage from the hits he takes (barbarian rage and the werewolf form).

(Side note: I think it’s pretty interesting that Chetney, the wolf, has attacked Orym, the rabbit, more than anyone else when losing control. That Orym’s facial scar was given to him by a friend, not a foe).

Of course, Orym isn’t the only character with self-sacrificial tendencies (FCG wins by a landslide), but I just can’t stop thinking about how weirdly perfect it is that he chose a rabbit for his animal. Rabbits are prey animals. They are eaten, so that other animals may live. Orym takes the hits, he goads and switches with his team mates to put himself in danger, he makes a deal with a hag at the cost of his own life. He’s a soldier, throwing his life away for a cause over and over again because Ludinus must be stopped, because Keyleth has put her trust in him, because it’s the only way to protect his friends, to protect everyone, because it’s the right thing to do. Orym is a rabbit. He’s always been a rabbit. That day in Zephrah, it could have easily been Orym who died instead of Will and Derrig – “unfortunate but necessary sacrifices”, as Ludinus viewed the attack. It’s unfortunate they had to die, but it was for the greater good, according to Ludinus. It’s unfortunate that a rabbit has to die, but it will feed a family of foxes, or stoats, or even a hungry human, so it’s acceptable, right?

Orym is a rabbit. He is giving himself to a greater cause that could very easily kill him – he already willingly signed his life away to Nana Morri. Because that’s what rabbits do. They die to feed others.

And the theme of being disposable is present across the entire group, not just in Orym – Bell’s Hells has been called a “party of NPCs” before. Aside from FCG’s death, I’d say Laudna perhaps fits this theme the best: she was literally murdered and hung from a tree simply because she looked similar to Vex, acting as a warning to adventurers she had never met before. But FCG’s death was – rightfully – viewed as a terrible tragedy by the group. Laudna’s decision to remove Delilah, finally freeing herself from her abuser and emphasising she is more, and deserves to be more, than just some disposable puppet – this was rightfully viewed as a very good thing! But Orym seems to be embracing this identity of self-sacrifice instead, rather than this mindset being properly challenged or acknowledged as a bad thing. After all, there’s no time. There’s too much at stake. Keyleth, Bell’s Hells, all the memories of those who have died in this fight, all the people who might die if Predathos is released and kickstarts a second Calamity – they’re all relying on him, right? A rabbit feeding so many animals with his sacrifice. And it’s not malicious compared to the way that, say, Delilah killing Laudna was an incredibly evil, fucked up and unnecessary thing to do. If Orym died to save everyone else, well, at least everyone else would be saved, right? Saving lives is good, isn't it? How could he complain?

Because rabbits are prey animals, and Orym is a rabbit too. Destined to die so that another animal may feed.

Except, that’s not true. Rabbits are more than just prey. They’re highly social, and thrive best living with others. They’re playful, they enjoy running around and kicking their legs just to show their enjoyment. They’re inquisitive and mischievous, even being associated with tricksters in some folklore and stories. They’re also associated with innocence, playfulness, spring, youth – all manner of things, depending on the story or culture. And they’re not helpless, either, even if they might be thought of as such. They can bite and scratch and draw blood quite easily if they want to! In fact, freezing up isn’t their only response when being attacked by a predator, they are known to fight back if cornered. They can sprint quickly, they have excellent hearing and senses of smell, they know how to evade predators.

Rabbits are prey, and they are also survivors. They have their own social dynamics, their own habits and dislikes and preferences. They are more than just a wolf’s meal. And Orym is more than a soldier, too. He’s more than a “necessary sacrifice”, he’s more than just a shield and sword. He deserves more than to die for a cause. He deserves a happy ending, just like everyone else. I hope he remembers that.

Orym is a rabbit. And the message isn’t that he shouldn’t be a rabbit. It’s that rabbits are worthy of surviving, too.

[placeinthemiddleofnowhere]

The Devil You Know (Part 1) - The First Sin

Pairing: Demon! Captain John Price x Reader

(No use of y/n)

Warnings: This series will contain scenes of a violent and sexual nature, I will be more specific as I write more parts.

Summary: Reader is a soldier hanging on to their last gasp of life, trying to summon a demon associated with soldiers and battlefields in order to aid them. Unluckily for you though, the demon isn't interested in a short term deal. He finds himself quite attached to you, and he doesn't want to let you go.

-🔥-

Disembodied hands shook wildly as they set about their terrible task. At least that’s how it seemed to you - appendages moving around a blurred screen, drawing dirtied red symbols with panicked uncertainty. You swiped another slick fingerful of your blood into the dusty concrete and clenched your aching teeth together, finishing off the last curve of the sigil with a snakish hiss.

 “I call to you…with the blood of my battle wounds. Jo- Jotan, I will be your willing servant.”

You looked around, eyes darting wildly for movement or any sign that your ridiculous little saving grace had worked. Though nothing happened. You blinked feverishly, feeling your lip wobble at first and then your entire body shake as you absorbed the facts in front of you. You were actually going to die. 

A cackle broke out into the room, competing with the baying gunshots outside to break the walls of the decaying shell of a building. It was you. You were finally losing your mind, absorbing the facts in front of you with detached horror.

Perhaps the ruins were an office before, but now it was the final resting place of a desperate lunatic who’d decided to decorate their sepulchre before laughing themselves into death’s arms. The cruelty of it burned in your throat and stang at your eyes, soon searing hot tears into the ruined flesh of your cheeks.

It was a foolish last ditch effort anyway, you mused, collapsing onto your back in the middle of the blood seal. A stupid myth you’d clung to in a final attempt to save your life, a ritual told to you by someone that was long dead themself. If they presumably hadn’t bothered to use it, then why would it do you any good? 

“Oh dear…I’m not too late am I?” cooed a soft rumbling voice. 

Your eyes opened wide, the owner of the call demanding to be seen. That murmur fizzled in your ears and vibrated in your blood, forcing your hands to scrabble at the ground and set you into a sitting position again. 

When you finally rose, you were held in place by the stranger. His onyx black eyes pinned you into place, watching you twitching and panting like a caught mouse. Apparently you amused him with this. His lips pulled into a grin, revealing a row of white teeth that curved into points at the canines and outer incisors, it was the smile of a predator. As if he needed to advertise any more warning signs. 

His body was big and broad, his chest a large plane of solid flesh dusted with soot and soft dark hair that matched his bristly beard and hickory hued hair. His large arms were decorated with similar etchings to the ones you’d messily painted, both of them circled in two iron bands at the bicep and forearms, they looked like they could crack teeth in a pinch. There were also a few bands on the thick dark tail that waved behind him too, a detail you only noticed as it seemed to lovingly caress the shadows around his legs.

It was what finally confirmed for you that this was him. The fabled demon of battlefields - Jotan. 

“You came,” you whispered.

“You called,” he returned, tilting his head at you. “Surprised you managed to complete the circle. You’ve lost a lot of blood, Sergeant.”

“I…I have,” you replied, feeling another wave of nausea roll through you. 

“And I suppose you want me to do something about that?” he said, mouth twisting into a wry half smile. 

It was almost worse than when you’d seen his fanged teeth. He looked positively ready to devour you, his gleaming eyes fixed on you like a tiger. You were just waiting for him to pounce, breath catching in your dry throat as you anticipated the killing bite. Suddenly you’d forgotten that it was you that called the terrible entity here, that he was supposed to be serving you rather than terrifying you. 

“C’mon now, Love. You clearly knew enough about the ritual to get me here…aren’t you going to follow through?” he prompted, leaning down to meet you at your level. “It’s rude to keep a demon waiting, you know.”

His arms folded over his dark trousers, crossing over each other at his lap as if he were asking you to do something so completely mundane. He tilted his head at you again, flicking his eyes up to the doorway on the other side of the room as it started to shudder and bang. Voices were worming their way through the debris, shouts blasting in through the cracks. 

Bang, bang, bang.

You didn’t have much time. Not that your body would be able to hold on much longer anyway. 

“I want you to- please…take me back to exfil. Get me the fuck out of here and safely back to base and I’ll do whatever you want,” you said, voice cracking as you made your plea. “Ask anything you want from me, Jotan. Just get me the fuck away from here.”

His eyes curved into shadowed moons, once again he beamed at you. It felt like the stifling room heated a few more degrees. To add insult to injury your lungs began to struggle, it felt like your body was in its last stages of failing.

You briefly wondered if all this just might be a delusion. Maybe your head was presenting you with him as a way to cope with being turned to pink mist by the men that still called from the door outside, as a way to forget about your torn up arms that’d been sliced open by the bombings, and the bullet hole that had been weeping silently in your leg.

Bang, bang, bang.

“I’ll tell you what…I’m feelin’ generous,” the demon murmured, reaching out and forcing your chin up with in his charred fingers. “I’ll take you back to base, just like you want. And now…I could ask for your soul in return, for you to be my eternal servant when you do meet your end, and I really could have you do anything for me. However I won’t do that. Instead, I want to lend you my power. Just for today. That is my only offer.”

You frowned, a million racing thoughts crashing through your mind all at the same time. You’d made peace with the fact he’d ask for something awful, known it even. This clearly had to be a trick. Nevertheless, your head throbbed perilously and the door and furniture you’d messily propped in front of it were going to give way.You didn't have much time. 

Bang, bang, bang.

“What will I do with your power?” you asked desperately, looking from him and to the end of the room. 

“Let me worry about that,” he chuckled. “I’ll guide you, Sergeant. All you have to do is agree…that or let them flood in and kill you.”

Bang, bang, bang.

He motioned to the thundering door and raised his brows at you. At that point his dark eyes were like vortexes, they dragged you into his orbit and had you falling under his spell. You knew logically that whatever was going to happen was going to change the course of your life forever - and not for the good. Even then, you couldn’t find the strength to deny him, couldn’t hold enough faith in a glorious next life to accept that you’d leave this one. 

“Fine! I accept,” you said, eyes wet and heavy. 

An animal growl rattled through your bones and shuddered throughout the skeleton remains of the office space. Your body flinched back, responding just as your instincts wanted, but the demon didn’t allow you to retreat. He was quick - arms lashing out and moving like a whip. He gripped your neck like a farmer does to his chickens come dinner time, and just when you were ready for the snap, your body jerked violently. 

You forced yourself to your feet, no, you surged upwards like you were under possession. Your legs didn’t feel like they’d buckle anymore, they felt renewed. Your heartbeat was steady like a punctual train, and your breathing returned to normal, better than normal even. Everything in you felt like it was new, like someone had taken out your broken parts and given you an upgrade. You smiled, lips curling over your teeth unnaturally.

Wait- were those…fangs poking into your bottom lip?

Bang!

There was no time to wonder at the strange way your mouth felt. Your head jerked up and suddenly you were greeted with the second worst sight of the day. The enemy soldiers had you surrounded, they flooded into the room like a locust swarm and pointed their guns at you, faithfully looking toward their Captain for the authority to execute. 

Normally you would’ve shuddered, or maybe even fallen to the floor, but you held fast. Your breathing remained calm, but your vision went dark. That’s not to say you passed out, but a thick hazy filter seemed to descend across your eyes. Then just when you were about to question it, your arms reached out as if you were being puppeteered and your entire body unwillingly  shot forward. 

There was no time to even think to connect your actions to the seemingly absent demon then. Instead you latched onto the soldier in front of you like a bear and sank your teeth into his neck. The man screamed, and yelped, and made all sorts of inhuman noises as he struggled to try and pull you off. Though there was no helping him. You continued to bite at his arteries and savage him until his screams were silent and overtaken by the men around him. 

Gunshots rang out, but none pierced you. Men beat at your back and pulled at your arms, but you didn’t break your hold. Copper filled your mouth, but you didn’t spit. You smiled with glee and licked at your own salty tears, disengaging from your target only when you were ready.

Little did you know, this was only the beginning of the butchery. 

-🔥-

“For fuck sake, get yersel’ to the sink ye riot!”

You jumped out of your thoughts and hazarded a quick look up to your worried manager, following that up by nodding silently and running off to the bathroom. Fuck. All that you could do was grimly stare down at the blood while it merged with the clean tap water and remind yourself that it was fine. You weren’t outside the wire anymore, you were just wait staff in a small restaurant, and you didn’t need to worry about bleeding out anymore because the biggest hazard you faced now was apparently picking up a dirty knife the wrong way. 

“Fucking hell,” you chuckled, quietly facing yourself in the mirror and taking a pause from the gory scene below. “It’s just a tiny cut.”

For a second, so quick you only just registered it, black eyes flashed behind you. You jumped back and hyperventilated, doing everything you could to stop yourself from screaming. Though it couldn’t be helped. You forced your hands over your mouth and yelled a muffled cry into your palms instead and rode out your panicked heartbeats until you could be sure you wouldn’t collapse. 

You did a double take, searching the mirror for those horrible eyes or any other signs of their proprietor. However, there was nothing else to see but a pathetic ex soldier, black tile and cheap imitation herringbone wood flooring. Suddenly you felt absolutely ridiculous. 

You slipped your hands from your mouth and covered your eyes instead, rubbing at hideously embarrassing tears with anger. That stupid therapist you were going to was so wrong, you thought bitterly, you were never going to make progress. You constantly swore that you could see those demonic eyes wherever you went, and sometimes you even thought you saw him. Well not the demon exactly, but a man that so closely resembled him - just without the tail and black eyes. 

It’d been a full year since you’d been honourably discharged from the military, and even in all that time, you still hadn’t healed. Sure, the cuts and bullet wounds had made miraculous progress and faded to tiny scars, but inside you may as well have been a shooting range dummy right at the end of target practice. While your superiors had seen fit to dedicate you with a medal for the miraculous fight you put up against the enemy, your head still hadn’t gotten to grips with just how you did it. 

Multiple therapists had put it down to repressed memory. They told you that whatever had really happened must’ve been replaced with that accursed demon summoning ritual that you dreamed up in an adrenaline filled haze. They said you might remember it all eventually once you’d healed more, or even that you might never get the answers you sought. There was no footage from your vest cam, and no other eyewitnesses left alive to say what had happened. Just you and your janky, wacky memories.

“Hey, Riot! You gonna come back on shift anytime soon or do I have to explain to Marco why the big bad ex-soldier is dying over a little cut?”

You turned to the door and smiled to yourself, feeling your chest grow lighter the second you heard that voice. Emily always knew how to pull you out of a funk. With that in mind, you shook your head, felt your goosebumps retreat away and stepped out into the scorching warmth of the restaurant. Once more back into the fray. 

“The big bad ex-soldier had a lot of blood coming out that little cut,” you shrugged, “can’t be creating a healthcode violation, you know that.”

Emily raised one of her thick dark eyebrows in question and put her hands on her hips. Oh no, this was the serious stance. In fairness, the tables were mobbed that night and she’d been run off her feet by two difficult tables that were ‘not getting acceptable service by any definition of the word’ as one of them had apparently said. 

“Put a blue plaster on it and get back out here before I give you a real war wound,” she growled. 

Your eyes widened, but you still smiled despite yourself. 

“You’re the boss!”

You rushed off to do as she said, ready to come back out and assist her, and if necessary neutralise any threat to her sanity. Emily was one of the few people you’d reconnected with after coming back home, and anyone that messed with her henceforth, was now messing with you. 

She’d seen you out and about at the park one day, taking one of your ‘haunted walks’ as she called them - only because you had trouble sleeping and would walk around in a black hoodie with the hood up. It was like something clicked, after being so reluctant to share anything with your family, or military buddies that tried to reach out, it was like you’d found your key. You’d babbled to her about how badly you were struggling to adjust to civilian life, leaking your frustrations like a bled radiator, and she accepted you. She listened without pity. 

Now while you wound a plaster round your silly little cut, you watched her zoom round the tables with true gratitude. She was the only reason you’d gotten the job, and been able to integrate back into real life. As much as you had your moments of frustrations, and had brief run ins with your PTSD, you at least had something to distract yourself with. Something that grabbed your attention and set your breathing straight again, when before you would curl in the corner of your room and scream for many minutes at a time. 

Once the plaster was affixed, you fiddled with the cracked old first aid box and wrangled it shut, stowing it back into place with a thud before rushing back out to the floor. The smell of garlic and pasta filled your senses, and the voices of the patrons roared rapturously in your ears again. The normal hustle and bustle of the place set you back into your rhythm and the ramped up tempo sent you hurtling toward the kitchen. 

“Where’ve you fucking been?” one of the chefs groused, “we’ve got a million plates for table ten here that need serving! I can hear them bitching from here, get moving!”

“Had a little accident getting the plates to Frankie,” you said, motioning to the plaster and your fraught KP behind the pass. “Good to go now!”

Rather than stay to hear the chef's curses, you rushed off with the plates and delivered them to the table, plastering on a smile as the customers moaned up a storm to your face. After offering them your apologies and promises of free sides, they hushed up and all was good again. You tended to your other tables and resumed duty as normal, rotating around Emily and the other waiter, Michael, like little clockwork toys. You all ticked along perfectly, leaving full stomachs and mostly happy faces in your wake. 

“Can you take this to table thirteen, please? I gotta piss like crazy!”Micheal ordered. 

He handed you a steak that was positively dripping in blood, almost setting you off again were it not for the fact that you were so confused by his request. There’s potatoes and salad and sauce on that plate, you thought to yourself, its not a body, just a hunk of meat.

“There isn’t a table thir-” you started, soon trailing off. 

Michael had long since dashed off before you could correct him and you sighed to yourself. Great, now who on earth could this be for? You knew every table in the restaurant of course, your knowledge on the place was near perfect with Emily acting like a drill sergeant during your probation stages. However, you didn’t know where thirteen could be, because it didn’t exist. Most people knew that restaurants skipped that number because it was unlucky. Apparently not Michael though. 

“I believe that’s for me,” called a rumbling voice. 

You frowned and looked down to the man before you, startling as you realised that a table had been placed where it shouldn’t have, and in turn you were standing right over a poor customer. No wonder Michael had made the mistake, you had no idea where the table had even come from. Though you were too embarrassed to worry very much about that in the moment, you needed to recover in front of the man before you made an idiot out of yourself. 

“Apologies, sir,” you said with a nervous laugh. “It’s been a busy night. Can I get you anything else?”

You placed down the food in front of him and were glad for it after you’d made eye contact. There was something strange about the man that made you jump. His stunning blue eyes captured your gaze and made you feel like you were in the middle of a laser sight. You gulped and looked away for a second afterward, trying your best to compose yourself.

“Thank you,” the man said softly, still fixing his eyes on you. “This is perfect.”

His sly grin struck you as familiar, but when you studied the man more, you couldn’t place him. He had a dark peacoat draped over his chair and wore a black shirt and fitted jeans. His beard was trim and cut close to his jawline, and his hair was near perfect, combed back neatly over his head. Everything about him was perfectly ordinary, perhaps would’ve been completely innocuous if not for his eyes. 

You could’ve sworn there was a little black band circling the pupil, but just as you thought you’d lost yourself in them he chuckled at you. Causing your face to flame up in burning shame. 

“I’m so sorry for staring,” you apologised, holding your hands up in appeasement. “I don’t know what that was about, sorry. You just seemed familiar for a sec.”

“Oh really?” he laughed, “Don’t happen to know a Jonathan Price do you?”

“Jonathan Price?” you repeated questioningly.

“My name, sweetheart,” he grinned, showing off his pointy canines. “Though you can just call me John if you like.”

“Oh my god, my brain’s going tonight,” you laughed, trying to get yourself away from him and the bloody steak that seemed to ooze with every passing second. “I’ll stop bothering you now, Jonathan! Enjoy your steak.”

His name sat heavy on your tongue, as if a fizzy sweetie had stung at the nerves and left it swollen and red. Jonathan. There was something about it that didn’t fit right. An unnatural force wanted you to turn round and call him a liar, demand that he reveal himself for who he really was. 

Though you didn’t put much credence in unnatural forces anymore. Not when unnatural forces tended to be symptoms of your mental illness. Instead you shook your head and kept working, making a note to yourself that you needed to get more sleep that night. Sleep and meds usually helped, and you were praying that they’d set you right again the next day. 

[amoscontorta]

Alike and Cornered Beast: Sylus's POV

Summary:

I was desperate for Sylus's point of view during the first time that MC meets him in the Alike and Cornered Beast chapters of Long-Awaited Revelry. So I uh wrote it myself. I wanted to know why he touches MC so reverently but also quite brutally, so I spent a lot of time thinking about possibilities.

A/N:

Sylus x gender neutral reader/MC, second person POV (but we don't use Y/N in this house). Brief, derisive mentions of Xavier and Zayne (this is Sylus's POV after all, don't come for me). I love all the LIs, but Sylus has his hand wrapped around my throat and I see him as arrogantly having something to say about the other people who are also interested in his shiny treasure. He has mean thoughts about the other LIs, but he can be mean and we love that for him. Slightly canon divergent if you believe Sylus can't tell that MC is scared and repulsed by him until the shopkeeper informs him. I however believe this man is a little more perceptive than that. CW: violence, cursing, rude language, death, grief, murder, ok this is Sylus hello, non-consensual (non-sexual) touching of MC, metaphors involving hunger and blood, overuse of the word "lovely," but Sylus is a simp and it's mostly his POV so we must endure it. SFW, although clearly there is a thread of desire running beneath the interactions depicted ao3 link here

He doesn’t need the aether core in his eye to know how you're feeling. He can see it in the way your lovely jaw is locked tight, teeth clenched behind soft lips twisted into a tight line. The shudder you’re trying and failing spectacularly to repress, desperate to conceal your weakness: the fact that almost as much as you fear him, you hate him.

Almost from the very beginning, things have been going sideways for Sylus. First, that imbecile having the hubris to believe he could just pilfer what had clearly been claimed as belonging to Onychinus.

Second, the palpable fear that had juddered through you as he had graciously relieved the larcenist of the burden of his pathetic life, only for that fear to flare into bright, barely controlled hate once you figured out that using yourself as bait had succeeded in reeling in the largest predator in the N109 zone.

Third, even when he sauntered close to you, allowing you to drink your fill of his face, no other spark of recognition fired besides that of the leader of the most powerful criminal organization in the region. You didn’t recognize him personally at all, even as he hungrily mapped your face with his eyes and felt the bottomless well of want deepen even further in his heartless chest.

You didn’t remember a fucking thing. And for some reason, you hated him more than his worst enemies. And he had quite a large body count in the worst enemy column of the ledger of his existence.

The fear, he can understand. Onychinus is on the Hunter Association’s Naughty List, and you’re one of the Association’s true believers, a jewel in the hilt of their blade composed of naïve warriors. And like the noble, naïve creature he knows you to be, you firmly believe that any intel they fed you about him and his organization was the pure, unfiltered truth.

But the hate? He muses as he looks down into your upturned face, a face that has been carved into his dreams for weeks now, ever since Mephisto had reported back after scouting the Flux Nexus in the no-hunt zone. Ever since the night he finally found you, stumbling around and battling at the side of your sleepy, cunning rabbit of a partner in the dark wood, oblivious to the real danger perched amongst the leaves, watching through mechanical eyes. His lips twitch in an ironic smile, as he knows he should be grateful to the rabbit for the fact that you’re in front of him now, so agonizingly close. He can see the rise and fall of your chest. The breath you exhale, for him to inhale. All he has to do is let his hand do what it wants—reach out, fingertips drifting softly along the curve of your cheek, your throat, the pulse point that betrays your racing heart. You’re close enough that he could swallow you whole. A good man might be grateful, but he isn’t a good man, and he doesn’t have it in him to be grateful; he only catalogues the threat, and tucks away the thought of the light evolver to be a problem to contemplate, and solve, another day. Right now, he needs to solve the problem of why you hate him on a level that professional distaste can’t explain. The hate he sees in your bright, sharp eyes is personal.

Consequently, he might not need the aether core in his eye to know that you hate him, but he sure as hell needs it to figure out why.

He knows he should wait to use his power on you. He knows that strategically, the best play here is to move slowly, to rebuild your trust, to tease out what he wants from you, to prove to you that despite every instinct that the Association has indoctrinated in you, he is not a threat to you and never will be. He knows all too well that one can’t force trust and forge an equal relationship from coercion, but he doesn’t have the time. Not with the entire Nest on the hunt for his Prey tonight, not with his own house in chaos with Sherman running amok and running up the bill on collateral damage. He needs to know why you hate him so that he can deal with it now, all of it. To borrow the vocabulary of another one of your hapless suitors: now is the time for triage, and after he has assessed the carnage, then he will begin suturing the aftermath. Sylus may be a businessman, but he can appreciate a surgeon’s precision in approaching a crisis. Even if Sylus can’t appreciate the iceman himself, if only for the lingering looks the doctor indulges in when his patient is looking the other way. Sylus files this problem away, like the other, to be solved in quiet solitude another day.

So he indulges in a lingering look of his own, fingers twitching with the need to touch where they’re deceptively, casually resting on his hips. And then: Sylus lets himself look. He can feel the familiar warmth increase within his eye socket, the ember beginning to glow hotter and hotter, until it’s almost unbearable, and then truly unbearable, as it is every time, the price he must pay so that he may see.

A little silver apple on a chain.

A pair of smiling eyes.

An old woman’s hand placing a dumpling on a plate.

The relief of realizing that the danger has dissipated, and dinner is still waiting.

A strong, broad back, shoulders shaking with laughter as a door swings shut.

Almost from the very beginning, things have gone sideways for Sylus. He shuts his eyes, feels the heat and the pressure fade like grief with time, as the power in his aether core goes dormant once again. But you haven’t had time, have you? It’s still fresh, the wound still hemorrhaging. You think that he caused this. You’ve been bleeding for months, thinking it was his hand that wielded the knife lodged in your heart. Or rather, detonated the bomb that incinerated the only family you’ve ever known, leaving a smoking crater where your heart used to be.

Sylus’s mind races, compiling this new information, archiving the whys and hows, constructing and reconstructing his carefully assembled plans and all of the contingencies in between, laughing derisively at himself for not seeing this possibility coming. Sideways is an understatement. Things are well and truly fucked, Sylus thinks, looking into your lovely, livid face.

For a moment, an unfamiliar sensation drifts through his chest. He tests it gingerly, letting it cascade through him before he can identify it: despair. After all this time. Every year, month, week, day, second, breath, he has been carving a path towards you, littered with the broken dreams and broken bodies of others, and now he has finally found you, and what should have been his greatest victory (the spoils? His fingertips drifting up your silken skin, his fingers entwined with yours, home), may have been his greatest loss—a loss that is for once, despite all of his crimes and all of the corpses at his feet, every terrible thing he has ever done, not his fault at all.

He savors this strange feeling for a few heartbeats, indulging in it, pressing into it like a bruise, if bruises would actually remain under his skin. And then he discards it: the unexpected rarely obstructs his carefully laid plans, but nothing about you has ever been expected, has it? If he were the kind of man to resign himself to unexpected loss, like the other men clumsily flitting around you, he’d have been a dead trophy tossed at the feet of an enemy long ago. So the rules of the game have changed. So what? Sylus will adapt, because no matter his fucking luck, he is playing to win.

Because while gazing into the depths of your beloved eyes, Sylus not only saw the why of your hate, but the only thing that could soothe it. Something that you refuse to admit, even to your fundamentally honest self. Something you can’t admit, as you spend insomniac nights training until collapse, as you slice, maim, and end wanderer after wanderer, as you bare your teeth a little too savagely as blood spills beneath your fist and blade. You need vengeance. You need someone to hurt as much as you’re hurting. And not just anyone—the wanderers and criminals that you’ve trained your fists and pistols and blade on do not satisfy the blood-thirst burning through your veins. You need to punish the person responsible for the inferno in your chest. Maybe then you’ll be able to sleep again. Maybe then you’ll be able to not smile again, but at least retract the fangs that have been frightening the people around you for months now. The fangs you feared were always there, underneath the careful façade of the well-adjusted, law-abiding, healthy paragon of a hunter you’ve built to keep the nightmares at bay for years, to show your colleagues, your partner, your doctor and your superiors: Look, I’m harmless and righteous, the perfect tool, love me, love me, love me, please do not leave like everyone else I've ever loved.

And Sylus? Sylus has always, and will always, endeavor to give you everything your damaged heart could possibly desire. He knows that you will not believe that he was not the one who ripped your ‘family’ apart. And he knows that it will take time, time that he does not currently have, to rebuild what has been lost between the two of you. He recalibrates, sweeps aside the despair, and reinforces his resolve. If you want to exact vengeance on the person you think is responsible for all of your indescribable pain, Sylus will give his heart to you on a bloody platter, regardless of the pain it will cost him.

You need someone to hate right now to stay strong? So be it. He will be that for you, until he can locate the actual culprit. As he reaches out, ever so gently trailing the backs of his fingers along your hauntingly lovely face, he tells himself for a moment that he can't bring himself to use something so impersonal as the energy of his evol on you. But who is he kidding--Sylus is many things, but a liar is not one of them. He admits to himself that this is just him finally giving into his deepest desire, as he lets his hand drift from your face to the side of your neck, closing around your throat and lifting. He does not want to handle your precious form with such brute, concise strength, but he needs to hurry, he needs answers and he needs to fix this, now now now and you need him to be the enemy. This is what is best for you at this moment, in this place, and he only ever wants what is best for you, so he plays the part you need him to play:

"From your past to your future...to even all the crimes you'll inevitably commit. After all, you and I...we're the same. True kindred spirits."

As your body goes limp from his chokehold on you, he catches you, cradling your head in his hand, grateful for the strength of his body, the shelter he can provide you as he lifts you in his arms, holds you tightly, your chests finally close again, yours too full of a maimed heart and his missing one entirely, complementing each other, completing each other, even though you’re out cold and it will take so much—too much, too much, it’s already been too much time, you’re finally here, you’re finally in his arms, where you should have been all along—time to be able to have you in his arms like this but with your eyes wide open and fixed on his.

Later, when you wake up, in a dark room with this familiar stranger disdainfully staring you down through crimson eyes, as his evol winds itself around you, as it jerks you onto his big lap, you clench your teeth, you fight the tears of frustration and fury—why do you always cry when you’re angry? Is it not humiliating enough to lose control of the leash on your emotions, without tears spilling down your face to betray you to the object of your rage?­—and you fight desperately against the immovable force pinning you in place.

"I want to kill you myself," you grit out, through the tears and the snot running down your face.

And then this man places your gun in your hand, eyes bright as blood never leaving yours, in answer to the quietest, deepest buried desire of your limping heart that he has driven you to saying out loud. Your hate flares, because how dare he expose you to yourself in this manner? Who does this motherfucker think he is, casually extracting from your own mouth and offering you that which you couldn’t before name in hushed whispers, as if it means nothing to him, as if it costs him nothing, his sharp jaw relaxed, a ghost of a smirk curling the edges of his wide mouth? You fight it, the surge of hunger that chokes your panting breath—you fight it so hard, you’ve been fighting it for so long, ever since the piercing ringing in your ears began to sound that replaced your grandmother’s and Caleb’s laughter, the ringing silence that followed as debris rained down on your useless, injured body. You are not a mindless animal. You will not give in to this voracious want. You and this man holding your gun to his own heart are not the same, and never will be.

“Do you need some help? Yes? No? Maybe so?” His voice is the purr of a jungle cat, his hand, large and just as calloused as yours, envelops your own, with that same bizarre gentleness that you can’t even begin to interpret the why of, his finger drifting along your own, until it slowly tightens over yours. Your mouth says “No,” and you see how his eyes dart from yours to your lips and back again, but the hunger inside you howls as this man presses your finger against the trigger and the sound of the bullet leaving your gun drowns out all of the other noise in the cacophony of your thundering heart.

His big body jerks back, head hitting with a painful sounding thump against his melodramatic throne (ok, so it's just an antique chair, but honestly, where do villains buy ridiculous props like this?), and for an endless moment in time, the hunger is satiated, and a sense of triumphant relief courses through you instead. And then your vision sharpens, as blood the color of this man’s eyes begins to pour through the hole he—and you, we, together—just shot into his fucking heart.

He jerks the gun from your grasp and tosses it with a loud clatter to the concrete floor.

“You—Are you fucking crazy?” You’re moving before you realize it, palms pressed over his heart (a spiteful part of you hopes that it hurts him, even as you are suddenly overwhelmed with the terror that he is actually going to die, before you get any answers, before you get any help, before you’ve accomplished anything at all).

“You wanted to take my life,” he pants. It never hurts any less, no matter how many times it happens. He can feel his flesh knitting back together already, each stitch as painful as the one before. “And so you’ve taken it.”

Despite the pain, Sylus watches you leisurely, drinking in the blood splatters across your lovely neck and chin. My blood, he thinks with satisfaction. He wants to soak you in it. He wants to watch you bathe in it. He shakes his head, tucking that urge away for later contemplation. He is finally in the position to do what he has been craving for so, so long. He has given you what you want. Of course he will always give you what you want. However, that doesn’t mean that he can’t simultaneously get what he wants—Sylus strongly prefers deals when they’re win-win. He has given you what you wanted, and the slate is now clean. Now, it is time to begin negotiation of the highest stakes deal of his life: the acquisition of your body, heart and soul. Back at his side, where you belong.

“Now what? Have you already figured out how you’ll pay me back?”

[arminreindl]

Large caimans, seacow predation and a new pepesuchine

What a week we just had when it comes to fossil crocodile news. Not one, not two, but three whole publications dropped this last week, each noteworthy in its own way.

The first of these was "New taxa of giant caimans from the southernmost hyperdiverse wetlands of the South American late Miocene", which coined two new genera of caiman from the Argentinian Ituzaingó Formation.

Tho the names are new, both are far from unknown. The first of these is Paranacaiman bravardi, which was described based on a fossil traditionally associated with Caiman lutescens (now deemd a nomen dubium). The second is Paranasuchus gasparinae, which was already described in 2013 under the name Caiman gasparinae.

I will say that I find the names to be a little poorly chosen. On its own either one works, but together they are very similar and feel like they might cause some confusion down the line, at least in science communication.

But that's just my own opinion. Regardless of nomenclature, they are interesting. I am currently working on reconstructing Paranasuchus, but I did wrap up Paranacaiman with a simple reconstruction of the skull and a quick scaling, revealing it to have potentially been just shy of five meters in length.

Barely a day later we got hit with more Miocene croc news, specifically a short note on crocodilian feeding traces being identified on the fossils of the dugong Culebratherium from Venezuela. The animal has bitemarks all over its body, but highlighted are those centered around the skull. In addition to simple punctures, some bitemarks appear to showcase dragging and slashing, possibly associated with the well known deathroll performed my crocs. Alltogether, this could hint at the fact that one of the large crocodilians of the Agua Clara Formation might have grasped the seacow by its snout to drown it before tearing into it. Given that the fossil locality is fairly new and the fact that they are nothing but bite marks, we do not know what crocodilian was responsible, tho the paper suggests a small to medium sized caiman. Feeding traces also show that tiger sharks got involved at some point, which mirrors fossil evidence from the Austrian Paratethys.

Artwork of the possible predation event by Jaime Bran

And the final croc paper of last week takes us back quite a bit further, all the way back to the Cretaceous. Epoidesuchus tavaresae is a new species and genus of pepesuchine peirosaurid from the Adamantina Formation of Brazil, famous for its diversity of notosuchians (and apparent lack of modern crocs sans one exception).

Now for those unfamiliar, Pepesuchinae is a subfamily of Peirosaurids, best recognized by having slender, very crocodilian-like jaws that may indicate more semi-aquatic habits, as opposed to the more terrestrial and almost pig-like peirosaurines such as Uberabasuchus.

I should mention that theres some debate around the nomenclature. The paper follows the idea that Pepesuchinae is a subfamily of Peirosauridae, but a more recent paper (which at least two of the authors including the lead worked on) has Peirosaurinae and Pepesuchinae both as fully-fledged families, with the latter going by the name Itasuchidae (which is the older name). I should further mention that the nomenclature paper coined the clade Peirosauria to contain both these families and Mahajangasuchidae.

Anyways, tho fragmentary, we know that Epoidesuchus had the same narrow jaws as many other pepesuchines/itasuchids and was likely semi-aquatic. Given that neosuchians are rarer in South America, it seems very possible that their nische was largely filled by these specialised notosuchians, which strayed from the usual terrestrial habits of their group. In fact, tho many different notosuchians are known from the Bauru Group, the only neosuchian recovered so far is the recently named Titanochampsa.

Below the gorgeous press art by Guilherme Gehr

All three papers in order

New taxa of giant caimans from the southernmost hyperdiverse wetlands of the South American late Miocene: Journal of Systematic Palaeontology: Vol 22 , No 1 - Get Access (tandfonline.com)

Full article: Trophic interactions of sharks and crocodylians with a sea cow (Sirenia) from the Miocene of Venezuela (tandfonline.com)

A new Peirosauridae (Crocodyliformes, Notosuchia) from the Adamantina Formation (Bauru Group, Late Cretaceous), with a revised phylogenetic analysis of Sebecia - Ruiz - The Anatomical Record - Wiley Online Library

[togglesbloggle]

Just Between Us

If we're being honest, I'm really fascinated by secret societies.

This is in part an artifact of my Southern-ish upbringing, maybe? Like, the cultural tradition of (mostly male) secret societies isn't discussed much except as a joke or in the past tense, but they held on much longer in some places than one might naively think, the American South included. I was kinda-sorta invited to join the Masons once (there’s no such thing as an actual invitation; you have to ask.  But if somebody tells you this fact in confidence, they’re kinda asking you), and there are some groups associated with the Boy Scouts that they ran us through as a sort of 'trainer' secret organization. If you hang out in the right places, you'll eventually notice recruitment efforts for less benign versions- typically, right-wing militia groups work this way. And there's the Klan, of course, at the most evil end of the spectrum.

People tend to mark the heyday of the American social conspiracy as being in the first half of the 20th century, but as far as I know the pattern of highly gendered secret societies goes back basically all the way as far as we can track such things.  Much older than any of the societies themselves, anyway. The pattern is surprisingly robust across different cultures, and it’s also a clear precursor to ‘modern’ stuff like the Delta Force in the US military.  Even the famous white hoods adopted by the KKK (the second KKK that is, the resurgence from after Birth of a Nation was filmed) predate that organization by several centuries, and were a common motif in European secret orders going back at least to the late medieval period.

This is probably an under-examined part of why the Red Tribe’s got the weird narrative vulnerabilities that it does; why the odd beliefs so often take the form of conspiracies and ‘inner circles’ where the true evils are unmasked and the true righteous fight takes place.  A lot of them- particularly the older set, who came of age before the web- have direct experience with the world working this way!

I’ve been ruminating on this, lately.  Less because of the societies themselves, and more because of their second-order effects, the kind of unacknowledged changes that the presence and absence of really prominent secret organizations can make in the social fabric.  Think about it- if you know, if you really actually know with confidence, that there are networks of people (in practice, men) out there scouting for potential members, and that these groups have real and undeniable power over your world, then that immediately changes your landscape.  

For one, it passively encourages you to demonstrate the virtues of prominent societies in the hopes of being invited to join them, and you’ll be very self-policing in order to achieve this, because you never know who’s watching.  If those secret societies have a reputation for honesty, fortitude, and generosity, you’ll try to be honest, and enduring, and generous.  If they’re terrorists waging a campaign of racialized violence across America, you’ll be not just emboldened but incentivized to act in more racist ways at all times, for the promise of power and belonging as much as for any deeply felt racism you may feel.

And for another, it has a way of surrounding you with an intensely magical world.  You see your fellow-members in public, and wink, and know; you see others winking, and sharing an understanding, and wonder.  By their very nature, it’s ambiguous what, exactly, a secret society is capable of, how large it is, and so on.  The episode of The Simpsons making fun of the Masons plays on this to great effect, bouncing back and forth between (on the one hand) this huge ancient and wealthy organization controlling the fate of the world, and (on the other hand) the more grounded reality that a secret society in practice is an excuse to have fun hanging out with your friends and drinking a few beers.  But when the ‘secret society density’ hits a certain threshold, the banal realities of any given organization give way to the possibility that you just haven’t found the right secret society yet, the one where all the decisions are really made and all the power is really held.  You start asking a lot more who?-type questions, instead of how?-type questions.

Third, and I think this is probably a lot more important than people give it credit for, secret societies were one of the unacknowledged pillars of male homosocial intimacy, and their gradual disappearance from the landscape over the last seventy or so years has created a much more emotionally barren and hostile world for gender-conforming men.  It’s not unusual for someone to note that men seem really starved for intimacy; articles about men relying entirely on girlfriends and wives for their emotional support and comfort are a dime a dozen.  But consider that participating in a standing conspiracy of fellow-travelers is also an opportunity to practice emotional intimacy with other men, and that these are the perfect conditions in which to share feelings and offer mutual emotional support without contravening masculine norms.  And when participating in one or more such groups is the norm, they can become a load-bearing part of the culture of gender itself; traditional masculinity in the absence of secret societies may simply be less viable, but because nobody can talk about secret societies, it’s equally challenging to diagnose the problem.

I’ve been dancing lightly around one of the more important manifestations of the secret society in the modern era, which is of course being a sex pervert; it’s not the first conspiracy you think of, but it’s one of the forms that survived the internet boom, so it’s a good example.  The Friends of Dorothy were a secret society in every way that mattered, back in the day, and many of their modern successors still are.  As with the Masons, one pretty much has to invite oneself, but they’re usually quite welcoming to new members that show an interest.  Consider the ways that these groups reward and cultivate certain virtues, even outside their perimeter; consider how they re-enchant the world; consider how they open the door to close friendships and emotional intimacy with others.

It’s the social power that fascinates me as much as anything, I think.  As with everything this powerful, it’s often quite evil; actually it’s far from obvious that secret societies in toto have been a force for good in the world.  But is there some way to cultivate that social potency in a way that’s ordered to the good?  Some lurking alternative to the brute power of statecraft and economics and social norms?  So very enticing…

[styusha-10]

Sherlock Holmes was an otherworldly creature indeed. I am no man of superstition, although I vaguely remember my grandmother’s tales of daione sìth. Holmes did not distinctly resemble any of the fair folk, these light, ethereally beautiful golden-haired men and women, and yet somehow he gave the same impression. His smooth, almost catlike movements reminded me of cait-sìth and, in all honesty, during investigations he often was the very picture of a predator pursuing the prey or cat playing with mice. I could easily imagine him in the highlands of my homeland, windy and boundless, as to my mind he had the soul of Scottish winds, but I also understood perfectly well that there was no place for him anywhere except in London, hustling and bustling and pulsating with life, crimes and mysteries.

He was not completely detached from the human world, basically having an excellent understanding of human affections, related to the motives of crimes, such as love or envy, though his knowledge clearly came from prolonged observation rather than from personal experience. He was wise enough to seek my aid when something eluded his understanding, which I prefer to consider as a sign of trust on his part.

He was too theatrical or too aloof at times — traits that I mostly attribute to the eccentricity inherent in genius. He also aged much more slowly than me, but this could easily be associated with our slightly spreading ages and his lack of habit of taking anything too personally, which I am often guilty of. Although in the decade we knew each other, I turned almost half gray, and he remained largely the same, except for a couple of new wrinkles and heavier bags under his eyes.

His voice was the voice of a siren or ben-varrey and he had a natural gift of instantly capturing the attention of everyone in the room with the help of said voice and some kind of internal magnetism, which made people instinctively trust him and obey him.

And yet my favourite of his many noble traits I dedicated myself to immortalise was perhaps his benevolence. With such a mind, such power, it would be too easy to use it for evil, something we had unfortunately seen too many times. His gaze on me which I felt quite often was never heavy or insolent and had not ever bothered me. Clients — those at least who seemed nice and did not irritate him immediately — he treated with kind patience, amiable interest and generous if sometimes mannered hospitality, being rude not out of intention to offend, but simply out of his energetic, eccentric nature.

“I am afraid I have accidentally enchanted you, my dear friend", he suddenly said, somewhat sadly and apologetically, one quiet evening on Baker Street. “That kind of devotion that you show to me cannot be expected from any man under normal circumstances.”

“That kind of devotion,” I thought to myself ruefully later that night, “has nothing in common with sidhe’s enchantments.”

This is my first attempt to capture Jeremy Brett's magnificence, and I feel like I haven't done him justice, so there will probably be other takes. Also first attempt in publishing something on Tumblr and nearly first — in writing in English, so feel free to point out any mistakes.

Following a long and good fandom tradition, I consider Watson to be Scottish, hence the writing of almost all the creatures mentioned in Scots.

The cat-sith, whose existence I learned about unacceptably late and did not change anything much, is hunting in the Scottish wastelands. It has an unhealthy addiction to corpses, so it is recommended to distract him with games and riddles, as well as warmth. Doesn't remind you of anyone? However, while writing, I mostly thought about the classic sidhe, adjusted for, uh, almost everything.

I don't know myself whether he is a magical creature, think what you want. To be honest, being portrayed as a magical creature seems unfair to Holmes as a character — part of his charm for me is precisely the fact that he is human, an outstanding human being.

[hydrangeapartridge]

Title: Mind Body and Soul

Pairing: Mage!Shinsou x reader

I wrote for Shinsou again! Link to AO3 here

Summary: Once upon a time there was you: a nobody, a refugee from a country devastated by Dabi’s undead army, serving as a maid in king Todoroki’s castle. There, fate decided you would cross path with the mysterious and dreaded court mage Hitoshi Shinsou. Little did you know that particular encounter would change your life forever.

Rating: M

Tagged people <3: @maple-syrup-with-strawbewwies @moonlitmoonpie

Chapter 3: The Mage (under the cut!) - (link to chapter 1 and 2)

“The King will grant us an audience tomorrow” Was the first announcement Shinsou made when you joined him in his tower the next day.

He then eyed you up and down, assessing your accoutrement. Knowing you were supposed to make an outing in the city, you had forgone your housemaid attire for a plain beige dress, simple but comfortable.

“My apprentice should be dressed appropriately for this occasion. You need a special outfit to attend.” Shinsou commented, one slender finger resting on his chin as he thought about it. “It would also be a good opportunity to renew your wardrobe. Mages have a higher status to live up to. You cannot run around the castle looking like a poor stray thing” He added, gesturing to your clothes.

If first you felt offended by his critique of your attire, you didn’t let it get to you too much. You never got the opportunity to own nice clothes, and the prospect was tempting you very much. Compared to your rags, Shinsou’s robes were simply stunning; made of a rich dark velvet; sober but elegant. You were envious of him on that point, so you let his comment about your appearance slide for now.

Shinsou neatly wrote something on a piece of parchment, signing it with a flourish and a wax seal before handing it to you.

“You will find the tailor named Monoma. He will make sure that you are at least presentable for tomorrow’s hearing” You nodded your head and he continued with his instructions. “Once you are done, meet me back here. I will accompany you to town for supplies”

Upon leaving, you noticed that the tray of food the kitchen staff brought earlier for your teacher had gone cold and was still untouched, just like the one brought the previous night.

Finding Monoma was pretty easy. You knew most of the lower staff members, including the seamstresses, so you asked them about him. They made a weird face before pointing you to his workshop.

You later understood their grimace when you found yourself faced with an eccentric blond man wearing a fancy lacy suit with a frilly jabot collar.

“Are you lost little one?” The man asked you when he appeared from behind his desk, immediately taking your hand in his as if to soothe you.

You quickly took your hand back and shoved the parchment Shinsou gave you into the man’s chest before stepping away from him. “I’m not lost Sir. Mage Shinsou sent me” You still politely replied.

Monoma raised a thin blond eyebrow before he proceeded to scan the letter. Its content seemed to amuse him, his eyes holding a mischievous glint when he looked back to you.

“My my... When did Shinsou get himself such a cute apprentice?” He asked, and you felt yourself flush when he started inspecting you from head to toe, prowling around you like a predator.

You squeaked when he touched the fabric of your dress, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“Do not fret little mage. I know exactly what you need! You entered here a dull duckling, you will get out transformed into a pretty swan” He announced with an exaggerated flourish before he clapped his hands twice. “Measurements please!” He called out to the seemingly empty room. However, the next second, two women in pretty blue and pink maid costumes appeared from nowhere and captured you to take your measurements.

Once you had been measured from absolutely all angles, Monoma’s associates urged you to try on a long robe made of warm deep green cotton. The sleeves were large and the fabric was soft. Delicate silver embroidery details made the whole look simple but much more refined than your previous attire. The girls helping you change made you step in front of a large mirror back in Monoma’s workshop, and you almost didn’t recognize your reflection. You looked noble, more respectable than a random housemaid. Delight filled you as you admired yourself. Since you were forced to flee your country, you had resolved yourself to a life of poverty and hard labour. You were grateful to simply have survived the destruction of your country, and you never expected an opportunity to up your social status would have arisen. You almost felt glad you barely escaped being eaten by a demon.

“That’s much better” Monoma commented proudly, inspecting you from head to toe again. “One small detail is missing though”

The blond stepped even closer to you and ran his fingers near your ear. The next second, a large lacy ribbon had appeared in his hand, as if by magic. Impressed, you watched him place a leather belt around your waist, and tie it securely with said ribbon.

“There, much better” He nodded, satisfied with his work.

“Are you a mage too Sir?” You asked, excitedly, and he chuckled while his employees shook their heads in despair.

“I have many tricks up my sleeve little mage, but I am sadly not like you” He replied. “If I was, I wouldn’t be here making clothes. I would live a grandiose life atop the best ranking sorcerers of Yuei’s Academy!”

Monoma seemed to be a very chatty person, and he simply did not stop talking to you, even though he was finished fixing your outfit.

“I have to say I am surprised the Academy is not where you are headed dear. Every single soul that turns out to be gifted with magic is sent there. Shinsou detected many of them, but never kept one as an apprentice before. I’m admittedly curious to know what makes you special?” He made a dramatic pause, catching his breath before asking you “So, tell me little mage; what do you have that the others didn’t?”

Monoma was standing too close to you to your liking, and if you found his antics and tricks funny at first, you didn’t like his questions. You didn’t like them because you simply had no answer to give him. In truth, you didn’t have a clue as to why Shinsou decided to make you his apprentice. It could be because of that strange ritual; but it felt like a secret you should keep, not to divulge to the tailor.

From what you gathered, Shinsou was only mildly satisfied with your learning, and he said himself that you were too old. Maybe they wouldn’t have accepted such an old student at the academy?

“I…” You started, annoyed and suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know” You finally answered truthfully.

Your eyes fell onto the fabric of your beautiful dress. All of this seemed too nice, like a dream. What if the king decided you didn’t deserve it? What if Shinsou realized you weren’t up to his expectations. Could he get bored of you? Could all those nice things get taken from you?

Your gloomy silence had Monoma cease his chatting and go back to business. “The dress for the ceremony will be ready tomorrow morning just before the event. Come back an hour early for adjustments” He only told you, the ghost of his touch on your shoulder driving you away from your worried train of thoughts.

“See you later little mage” The tailor waved at you and his two maids bowed down respectfully.

Only when you were stepping into the cold stone corridors of the castle did you realize you didn’t properly thank them.

When you returned to Shinsou’s tower, despite your knocking on his office’s door before entering, he didn’t immediately turn to look at you.

“Took you long enough” He absent-mindedly commented while rummaging through the mess on one of his tables. “Are you ready to go?” He was looking for something, that turned out to a small satchel that he quickly attached to his belt before turning your away.

“I think I am yes” You answered and then his eyes fell on you, inspecting you again from head to toe.

He was flustered from all his rummaging around and it was a little out of breath that he said. “Well, that’s a much better fitting outfit for a mage apprentice” He nodded his head in approval but quickly looked away, passing you to exit the room. “Now that we’re all set, let’s head out”

You almost felt disappointed that he didn’t have more to say about your new clothes, but you supposed men weren’t too interested in those matters. You quickly followed after Shinsou before he outpaced you. Your young teacher seemed to be in a hurry.

“Are we running there or are you trying to escape someone maybe?” You asked between a few laboured breaths. There was a corseted upper part inside your dress that made it harder to breath than in your usual clothes.

“I do not wish to come across the servants. Or the nobles for that matter. Given it is lunchtime, we will avoid most of the crowd. I’m taking advantage of this” Shinsou answered, his pace not slowly a bit.

You smiled at his asocial nature. “I’m surprised to see you’re more afraid of the servants than they are of you” You teased. “They believe you do horrible experiments on people inside your gloomy tower you know?”

You had long since gone down the stairs and the guards now opened the doors for the both of you to exit into the courtyard.

“I know that” Shinsou sighed. “Every time I detect a gifted person in the castle and have them sent to the academy they come up with new stories of how I did something horrible to them”

So that was where the people who disappeared went? To the academy? You were surprised by this piece of information and you purposefully avoided telling him that you once were tempted to believe the rumours uttered amongst the servants.

“And why didn’t you send me to the Academy?” You asked once you were both alone inside a carriage headed to the town’s market. You were curious about the answer, ever since your conversation with Monoma.

“Do you wish to go study there?” Shinsou asked, his head propped onto his opened palm as he lazily looked away from the landscape to look at you.

“I didn’t say that” You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “And you didn’t answer my question”

Shinsou took a moment to ponder his answer, his amethyst gaze boring into yours until you felt the urge to look away. No one ever looked at you so intensely. It felt like he was truly seeing you; even seeing through you, and it was nerve wracking. Part of you still wondered if he somehow could read thoughts. You’d have to ask him one day if magic could do that.

“The others didn’t need to be saved from the creature from the Otherworld that they unleashed” Shinsou then told you, and you straightened up in your seat, shocked.

“That would never have happened if you didn’t leave dangerous artefacts unsupervised in the mess you call a working desk!” You replied, outraged.

Your anger was all but fuelled by Shinsou’s lack of response. He kept watching you, unfazed, ignoring your comment. A bump in the road made him look outside and you let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding.

“We’re almost there” Shinsou observed.

When you finally cooled down, you wondered if he kept you by his side because he feared you might get into more trouble if left alone? Or again, because of that ritual you knew nothing about? He never fully answered your question, and the events of that first night with the Djinn were a blurry mess in your memories from how scared you were.

You soon were distracted from Shinsou’s nonchalant attitude when the buzzy streets of the market appeared before your eager eyes.

Since your exodus from your home country, you only ever lived in the royal castle. Never did you get to explore the neighbouring town, or any other place in this new country. So it was with excitement and bright eyes that you followed a very blasé Shinsou through the colourful displays of food, jewellery and other bric-à-brac.

“Focus apprentice” Shinsou told you, his tone barely hiding a hint of amusement when he dragged you by your sleeve to help you avoid running into an old woman. “You should watch where you are going before there is an accident”

Shinsou walked close to you, keeping an eye on you so you wouldn’t get lost.

“Over there” He urged you inside a small shop you never would have noticed without him. His fingers on your back gently brushed the fabric of your dress, just under your belt, his careful touch guiding you through the shelves and various displays of magical items. Everything in there was breath-taking. You didn’t even know where to look, your attention getting lost between enchanted music instruments playing beautiful tunes by themselves, flying parchments, tea-pots serving tea by themselves, and colourful displays of various objects of which you couldn’t imagine the purpose.

Shinsou called your name at some point, and you focused back on him, although with difficulty. The corners of his lips were upturned when you met his eyes. If you kept looking around avidly, he seemed to stay focused on you.

“Here, choose the one you prefer” He told you, pointing to a large display of writing quills made from various materials and coming in different sizes and shapes.

You observed the quills, wondering why they could be special enough to be sold in a magic shop. Shinsou sensed your curiosity and gave you the answer without you asking.

“Those are enchanted writing quills. When correctly used they can write your thoughts directly in organized notes and at incredible speed” He offered and your eyes widened. To think such a small object held such power was unbelievable. “I think it’s the type of item that could greatly help you in your studies” Shinsou commented while you browsed the quills, trying their weight, testing how they felt between your fingers. “Sadly no magical item I know of can help you read faster. That would have to come with practice.”

You ended up choosing a quill adorned with the pretty feather of an exotic bird. Shinsou grabbed a few other supplies for you, and then he lost himself in browsing the large collection of books on display while you were more interested in the many enchanted objects the shop had to offer.

Your teacher finally decided it was time to leave when he had picked up no less than five new books to bring home. He looked excited to read them, and it was almost cute.

Upon paying, Shinsou took out a large purse filled with gold from his satchel. Only then did you realize how pricey magical items were, and just how rich the king’s mage must be.

The owner of the shop, a woman with deep wrinkles and almost completely white hair was unfazed by the amount of coin presented to her. However, when she took a closer look at Shinsou’s face, she smiled, obviously recognizing him.

“Ah young man, long-time no see! I think I have another book that could be of interest to you” She drawled.

She then fetched something from the backroom, an item neatly wrapped in an old blanket. Before unwrapping it, she checked left and right that there were no other prying customers. When she deemed the area safe, she took the book out of its makeshift package. Symbols and runes that were unknown to you filled the beautiful dark leather cover. You only were able to spot a few skulls and bones drawn in a very detailed anatomical manner. That book looked absolutely forbidden.

“So what do you say?” The old woman asked, wriggling her eyebrows.

Shinsou’s long fingers gently, almost reverently traced the cover of the book, right before he quickly pulled the blanket back onto it. “Not interested” He stated coldly.

“What?” The woman squawked, visibly surprised. “But last time yo-”

“You’re mistaken. You must have me confused with somebody else” Shinsou interrupted her, his tone definitive and authoritative. Yet, the old lady didn’t get offended. The focus in her eyes shifted, her clear pupils blurring for a second as she realized her mistake.

“Yes. I was mistaken. I must have taken you for someone else” She said mechanically.

You almost felt embarrassed witnessing this exchange; like there was something wrong with it. Something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. It was frustrating.

“Apologies sir. Have a good day” The old woman nodded her head, handing Shinsou some change before she disappeared in the backroom with her book.

You wondered if she was a lunatic, or maybe a little senile. Old age wasn’t kind.

As you exited the shop, you thought back to that book. You couldn’t be certain of it, but you suspected from the symbols on it that it could hold forbidden knowledge. Then why didn’t Shinsou confiscate it? You would have to ask him about it later, when there were no risks of people eavesdropping.

Shinsou dragged you into a few more shops, where every time he bought more books than he did supplies. He was very generous and you didn’t complain that he paid for every piece of parchment and every drop of ink you would be the one using. You could have felt entitled to it, given you were somewhat forced to become his apprentice, but you felt more grateful that he cared about giving you good studying conditions. You still teased him about the books though.

“A mage never stops learning. Books hold much knowledge, and one lifetime isn’t enough to fully understand magic” He replied, flicking his wrist to relieve you of the supplies you were carrying in an effortless spell. Your arms suddenly became empty as your quills, parchments and other artefacts started floating in the air, magically following you and your teacher. Shinsou’s books soon joined your supplies, and people in the streets gave you two funny looks as you passed them; some amused, and some more worried, whispering amongst them.

“Thank you. That was heavy” You breathed and Shinsou only nodded his head in response.

The sun was high in the sky, and with all the excitement of your shopping gone, you suddenly felt very tired. Your pretty dress was warmer than your usual clothes, making you sweat profusely under the afternoon sun, and your throat was dry from thirst. You felt a little dizzy, bordering nauseous and incidentally realized that you hadn’t eaten anything since your breakfast, which consisted of a slice of bread at the crack of dawn.

You hoped that once you would be back in the castle your teacher would set you free for the day. You urgently needed to eat and to clean up, and certainly had no strength left in you for studying today.

Until then, you did your best to follow Shinsou through the crowded market, despite your legs feeling weaker with each passing second. The loud noises around you progressively became more and more muffled, and dark spots blurred your vision. You felt light-headed, and only when your legs gave out under you did it occur to you that you shouldn’t have pushed yourself and should have asked for a break.

A pair of arms caught you before your knees hit the floor and a fresh flowery scent filled your nostrils, as if you were back in Shinsou’s office. If your vision was darkened, your ears still caught a soft worried voice asking if you were alright. You obviously weren’t, but no words came out of your mouth. It was a nice sentiment though, you thought just before you blacked out for a moment.

In a haze you still felt yourself getting carried somewhere, head tilted back, cheek against a soft warm fabric, and an unexpectedly strong touch under your knees.

Your bottom then hit something soft, a hand was placed on your shoulder and then a cold liquid touched your lips. Reflexively, you greedily drank the fresh water offered to you, and as if by magic, your sight progressively returned.

The first thing you saw was Shinsou’s worried gaze. He was kneeling in front of you, his face very close to yours. There was an empty glass in his hand. Were you back at the castle? You couldn’t tell how long you had passed out.

Shinsou’s low voice called your name. “Can you hear me? How are you feeling?”

You blinked, taking notes of your surroundings. An unknown place. Tables, chairs, customers. Loud noises of chatter. Mouth-watering smells of food.

“Where are we?” You asked, voice weak.

The smell of flowers and citrus filled your nostrils again when Shinsou turned his head, his violet curls a little damp from the heat outside.

“The Glen. An inn” He told you. “You had me worried when you fainted. I am very bad at healing magic so I had to resort to basic first aid.”

You nodded your head, processing the information. Then you stomach growled. Loudly.

Shinsou ran a nervous hand through his dishevelled hair, sitting back on his heels. “Foolish girl. You should have said something before collapsing” He reprimanded, more disheartened than angry.

Then it all came crashing down on you. The realisation that you had inconvenienced him. That you had fainted and he had to carry you here. He probably thought you were a burden of an apprentice. You felt impossibly embarrassed. Especially when he was leaning so close to you, inspecting you for any injury.

“Sorry” You muttered, your hands coming in front of your face to hide it as you felt the heat of a full face blush rise under your skin.

“It’s fine” Shinsou said, and you heard the rustle of his robes as he got up. “I’m glad you’re feeling better”

Your peeked through your fingers to watch him walk around a small round table before which you were sat. He took a sit across from you, linking his fingers together on the table. He almost looked like he was nervous. “Since we’re here, let’s take a break. I’ll order something to eat”

Your stomach grumbled once more upon that declaration, and you let out a defeated sigh, letting your arms drop to your sides. “Thank you” You muttered, mortified.

You were still a little light-headed and you zoned out while Shinsou ordered a meal for the both of you. In your state you weren’t be able to read a menu, your brain too mushy and slow to process the options to choose from.

Your glass was refilled with water at some point and you greedily drank from it until a plate of food was placed in front of you by a bubbly young woman.

Without thinking, you dug in. You were famished.

“This place is rather popular I hear. A bit noisy for someone recovering from a malaise perhaps, but I couldn’t find better on such short notice” Shinsou told you while he took a small bite from his plate.

“It’s perfect. And this is delicious” You said between two large mouthfuls of food. Your table manners were far from delicate, and Shinsou put down his fork, his appetite probably put down by the sight of your sloppy eating.

“This stew is supposedly a local speciality and a best seller” Shinsou commented. He was unusually talkative. Maybe he felt uneasy watching in silence while you finished your plate.

“I didn’t know what you liked. I am relieved to see you appreciate this dish” He eventually added, and you almost choked on the food you were chewing.

You hastily grabbed your glass of water to help it all down your throat. Your cheeks felt like they were on fire when you met Shinsou’s eyes. He did his best to order something to your liking and you were touched by the gesture.

The worry in the amethyst gaze gauging you turned into something softer.

“Your face is regaining some colour. That is good”

For the very first time, Shinsou was smiling at you. Not one of those sardonic or mischievous smirks that sometimes graced his lips; no, a heartfelt gentle smile.

You couldn’t look at it, not with how it sent the heat from your cheeks spreading to your whole face.

You went back to your food, finishing your plate; leaving it spotless clean. That’s how good it was, and how hungry you had been.

Meanwhile, Shinsou resumed eating, albeit slowly. Taking small breaks between each bite.

“You don’t eat much” You observed once you were done, needing to break the silence that settled between the two of you now that you weren’t occupied anymore.

Shinsou put his fork down before he spoke. His manners, contrary to yours, were impeccable, and you had to wonder if he was of noble upbringing, or if etiquette was part of a mage apprentice’s training. “I tend to forget” He sheepishly told you, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand. “When I’m too engrossed in studies, time flows by and I happen to skip meals. I also find myself often skipping sleep. I tend to study all night long without noticing”

You were convinced it happened quite often indeed given the permanent dark circles under his eyes. You left Shinsou to his eating, least you wanted to spent the rest of the day in the inn with how he stopped every time you talked to him.

With your recently acquired magic teacher facing you, you had little choice but to look at him. While he ate you observed his well-defined jaw, how white his teeth were, the shape of his lips… He was rather handsome. Not strikingly so, like the prince was for example, but still very above average. Were unrequited affections one of the reason he avoided the other inhabitants of the castle? You never heard any servant praise his looks, but you started to wonder if they ever met him in person.

You looked away from Shinsou’s pale face, feeling you had been staring too long for it to be proper. His cheeks wore more colour too now you noticed. You probably weren’t the only one who had been hungry and tired.

Once he was done with his meal Shinsou paid for everything again. He only nodded his head when you profusely thanked him on the way back to the castle.

Thankfully he didn’t ask you to get back to studying once you finished putting away the supplies you bought, and you hastily excused yourself to go clean up and get ready for a well-deserved rest.

When you went to bed for a nap, tired and spent, just before falling asleep, you strangely felt like you forgot something.

[stellacartography]

Toe the Line (Rated E)

Words: 18,505 Chapters: 8/8

As Crowley and Aziraphale dine at the Ritz they are treated to a particularly reminiscent parade of chef's specials that spark memories of the past 2000 years. Crowley quietly panics his way through each course, drowning his anxiety in rather large amounts of alcohol. Aziraphale is helplessly drawn back into his own memories of their time together in the world they both love and every time they walked right up to the limits of their association.

Fandoms: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett

Relationship: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)

Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)

Additional Tags: Snake behaviours, Crowley is deep down still a snake, Food and drink, Drunken ineffable spouses, Rome 41 AD, Council at Nicaea, Wessex 537 AD, The Invention of Fireworks, How did Crowley make Hamlet popular?, Teaching an angel to tempt, Dancing Lessons, Portland Place Gentleman's Club, Ambush predation, diversion, camouflage, Thanatosis, Constriction, Mimicry, Sexy Snake Pile, Ritual foot-washing as temptation, Snake musk is not lube, Don't try this at home kids, Season one fix-it of a sort

Written for the @go-minisode-minibang with art by @willow-tea

Acknowledgements and tags below the cut

A thousand thank yous to my friends who attended the @ficwritersretreat2023 and listened to my reading of chapter 5. Your laughter made this happen. Thanks to @fearlessdiva930 for your help with the menu. I had lost all my original research outside of the story itself and your assistance was invaluable. Thank you @kinkykinker for the first beta and @cumberbatchedandgatissmitten for the second round and coaching. Thank you @basketcasebetty for coordinating the bang.

Tagging @copperplatebeech @keirgreeneyes, @seriouslymarythough, @cirquedereve, @laurashapiro-noreally, @totallysilvergirl, @hubblegleeflower, @sevdrag

Reblogs are love and are much appreciated. <3

(Psst! Hey, @mevima! I finally finished it. Only took 4.5 years.)

[saritapaleo]

Finally, my next series: the oft maligned Oviraptorosaurs!

This is one of my favorite groups of dinosaur and I feel like I haven’t drawn them (well) as often as I should. With their parrot-like beaks, flashy crests, and surprisingly graceful, birdlike appearance, you’d think these dinosaurs would be more popular in the public eye. But unfortunately, an initial misunderstanding of the behavior of the type species, Oviraptor philoceratops, led to this entire group of dinosaurs being portrayed in most dinosaur media as ugly, lowly, egg thieves.

Oviraptor philoceratops is known from a single, partial skeleton, a nest of fifteen eggs, and the fragments of a juvenile. Discovered in the 1920s in Mongolia, it was assumed that this Oviraptor met a grisley end while trying to raid the nest of a Protoceratops. It was named Oviraptor (“egg thief”) philoceratops (“fondness for ceratopsian eggs”) just to drive the point home. However, in the 1990s, numerous other oviraptorid species were discovered in brooding positions: crouched over their nests with wings outstretched, showing that this was common behavior for oviraptorids. Their eggs matched the eggs found in association with Oviraptor, and their hatchlings matched the small fragments of juvenile dinosaur found at the nest site. It would appear Oviraptor had died sheltering its own nest, probably from an incoming sandstorm, yet had been immortalized forever as an egg thief.

Oviraptor philoceratops is estimated to have been about 1.6 meters (5.2 feet) in length and about as tall as a medium-sized dog, though the only known specimen is missing most of its bottom half. It had toothless jaws with a robust beak. Its preferred diet is unknown, though the remains of a lizard were found in the body cavity of the fossil, suggesting that they were at least partially carnivorous. It is generally hypothesized that they had a similar diet to modern parrots: using their strong beaks to crush nuts and seeds, and would largely eat plant matter. They would have probably also opportunistically fed on small animals and, yes, maybe even eggs for protein. (Though perhaps it’s best not to base its whole identity on that possibility.) Oviraptor’s skull was damaged in the fossilization process, and its crest is missing, though there is evidence of one having been there. I based its crest off of related species. This, like in all things paleontology, may be subject to change someday if more fossils are found.

Living in the Late Cretaceous Djadochta Formation of Mongolia, Oviraptor would have been adapted for an arid environment dotted with arroyos and oases. The most common dinosaurs here were Protoceratops andrewsi. Other ornithischians lived here as well, such as the ankylosaur Pinacosaurus grangeri and the pachycephalosaur Prenocephale. Small pseudosuchians like Gobiosuchus and Shamosuchus would have frequented the watering holes. There was a wide variety of lizard and small mammal species, which may have been snacks for Oviraptor. But Oviraptor would have had to share any prey with more carnivorous predators such as the famous dromaeosaur Velociraptor mongoliensis, and the troodontids Archaeornithoides and Saurornithoides. A yet unidentified Tyrannosaurid also stalked this locality, which would have certainly preyed on the small Oviraptor.

This art may be used for educational purposes, with credit, but please contact me first for permission before using my art. I would like to know where and how it is being used. If you don’t have something to add that was not already addressed in this caption, please do not repost this art. Thank you!

[galarian-ecologist]

Hello! I’m Jackdaw Natividad originally from Alola but is now a resident of Galar working towards her PhD in Pokemon Ecology! (If any of you are curious it’s Blueberry Academy).

As for my credentials:

- Four years spent at Hau’oli’s Community Pokemon Academy for my Bachelors in Alolan Ecology

- Two years spent in Paldea at Naranja Academy for my first half of my Masters in General Pokémon Biology

- Currently part of an exchange student project in Galar, representing Blueberry Academy in Unova! (3 years away from my Doctorate!)

What my team consists of?

My Pokémon team is very much geared towards practical work and research than for battling. All of my Pokémon have been certified as research assistant pokemon and thus highly discouraged to battle.

- Male Corviknight named Kwek-kwek: Specializes in transportation and is the main way I get around Galar. (Please don’t ride any corviknight, they have to be licensed by the Sky Taxi Association)

- Male Dedenne named Plop: He’s a great companion when it comes to traveling through small spaces. Often equipped with a camera on his back to get close up shots of the world of smaller Pokémon.

- Female Obstagoon named Scrapper: She’s there for both helping carry equipment as well as being able to disengage aggressive pokemon with obstruct. She’s equipped with her own tool belt and has a bright orange collar.

- Female Braviary named Araw: She’s specialized for aerial views, allowing me to take surveys from a Birds Eye view. She’s equipped with a camera vest that has Blueberry’s Academy logo on it. (Specially loaned equipment)

- Female Blissey named Lola: She’s the onboard medic and veterinarian of our team. Specially trained to handle either large or aggressive Pokémon. Certified by Galar and Unova’s Medical Association.

- Pheromosa named Vida: They’re a rescue ultra beast who was deemed unsuitable to be returned to ultra space. I am currently training them to be able to keep up with much faster pokemon as well as quickly fetch tools.

Boundaries

Pelipper Mail - On

Pelipper Unmail - On

Pelipper Malice - Off

Magic Anons - Off

Mushuna Mail - On

Mushuna Malice - On

// OOC under cut

This blog is a pokemon irl blog! I’ll tag with unreality so others can block if needed!

I treat pokemon as animals unless their Pokédex states otherwise. So this will cover topics such as predation, animal remains, bodily functions and death. Avoid if you’re squeamish.

I do not have an actual degree in ecology but it’s my special interest.

I do not own the Pokémon sword and shield games and my information comes from Bulbapedia, Pokedex and Serebii as well as various YouTube video clips and more.

I also will have sideblog moments where I reblog something that was meant for my main on here

[random-thought-depository]

"The imperative of protecting the vulnerable young in a predator-rich environment no doubt played a major role in shaping human sex differences and sexuality. La difference - the sexual dimorphism characteristic of humans and many other animals - is now believed to reflect, in large part, the greater role of males in actual combat with predators. Hunting, too, if it were a male-only activity, would have favored bigger, stronger males. But long before the male hunting band, males were probably deployed as baboon males are: to guard the periphery of the group." - Barbara Ehrenreich, Blood Rites.

Some years back I read a post about how war is basically an exercise in sending barely adult young men to kill each other, but this is made more palatable by honoring the young men used so. Blood Rites seems like basically an attempt to offer a theoretical model of the origins of that behavior; not so much the origins of the war part as the origins of the honoring part.

I've only read the parts I could find for free on the internet cause my local library doesn't seem to have the book and my financial situation is not great so I'm reluctant to buy it, I'm wondering if she talks more about how her theory relates to gender, especially masculinity, cause, like...

... Yeah, let's talk about those hypothetical proto-humans making their camp in the Pleistocene savanna, deploying in that gendered defensive formation, the fighting age adult males deployed in a ring at the periphery of the camp, clutching their sharpened sticks and stone hand axes (the mightiest human weapons of this era), deployed out there to watch for and defend against and absorb the violence of the savanna's predators, while the more vulnerable immature young and more demographically valuable females and the few elders who've managed to live long enough to become enfeebled get the relative safety of the camp's center.

If the masculine gender role originally emerged from that situation, I think that would explain a lot about what it looks like! In the context of that defensive formation might emerge association of maleness with combat and an idea that able-bodied adult males should participate in group violence, masculine protectiveness toward women and children and division of humanity into fighting men and protected ones (women, children, the old and disabled), valuing and honoring of courage in combat especially in males, shaming and ostracism and punishment of young males who very understandably show noticeable reluctance to leave the relative safety of the group's core and take a place in the peripheral defensive ring when they reach maturity, females using gifts, affection, and sex as ways to reward males who show willingness to put themselves at risk for the sake of the group, honoring of heroes (the male who drove a sharpened stick into the lioness's side), honoring of the memory of martyrs (the male who threw little stones at the dinofelis and drew its hunger and rage down upon him so it would kill him instead of a woman or a child).

There's a paragraph, like, right after that quote that speculates that human playful/social non-reproductive sexuality may have evolved in that context, which, yeah, if we're going to talk about the gendered aspect of this we should talk about some of the stuff I talked about here. When I first conceptualized the first sentence of my response to that quote the phrasing that bubbled into my mind was "barely legal adult," which, lol, "barely legal" is a porn category, usually meaning an 18 year old young actress IIRC, but actually I think there might be something in noticing that parallel, pulling on that thread! Also, I see a possible intersection with the Sex At Dawn kind of monogamy as a relatively recent innovation hypothesis in this. In this gendered anti-predator defense formation males would work together to defend the females and immature young of the group as a collectivity. If you're going to use male-female sexual bonding to strengthen that relationship, it would probably work better if it was polyamorous so most or all of the group's fighting males would feel that attraction-affection-gratitude-protectiveness tangle of emotions toward many of the group's females.

Re: hunting hypothesis vs. defense hypothesis for the origins of human organized violence, which is something Ms. Ehrenreich talks about (she's strongly on the side of the defense hypothesis) - as I pointed out here, I think the human tendency to honor courage is suggestive; courage is the virtue of a prey species that engages in collective defense; a smart predator attacks the weak, avoids fights with the strong, and quickly retreats if it loses the advantage. Then again, bravery is also useful in intra-species competition, so that's not conclusive (notably, I think the "a smart predator isn't brave" thing isn't so obvious to a lot of humans because present and recent historical human hunting is often partly an intra-species social activity oriented toward gaining prestige by killing big, strong, dangerous animals and taking impressive trophies). I also think that stuff like that visceral dislike of deserters David Graeber talked about fits better with this model. Like, yeah, I guess big game hunting might have been vital to survival sometimes, but it's hard to see "all men must be hunters!" as a strong imperative unless it's really about something else (like enforcing gender conformity). But an able-bodied adult male who runs away instead of defending the women and children when the hungry lions come? Yeah, I could see emotions that incline toward very strongly disincentivizing that behavior getting strongly selected for. Then again, the threat that encouraged strong negative attitudes toward deserters might have been organized violence by other human groups, we've had at least multiple millennia when the animal most likely to kill a human was another human, so again, not conclusive.

IDK though I'm probably biased toward this model cause it's extremely congruent with my kinks and damage lol. Like, one of my "maybe I'm an outlier and shouldn't be counted, but..." issues with 2010s flavor feminism was "if you're going to talk about masculinity, I'm a cis-in-the-expansive-sense male and I don't really see myself at all in this figure of the entitled misogynistic 'bro' you seem to think is the default state of men in our society, but I once ignored a severe and painful toe infection cause I just kind of didn't want to be a bother about it and didn't want to inflict a doctor's bill on my family, and something in my brain shivers in dark rapture at the 'I will stay and be thy husband / though it be the death of me' line in The Maiden and the Selkie."

Another thing I'm wondering about is if the book touches on the situation I talked about here and here, where early humans got smart enough to imagine pre-emptive self-defense with a long planning horizon and revenge and started to turn the tables and actively hunt human-eaters. Because if we're suggesting that the "put them in white robes and give them gold bands" aspect of war is originally derived from our responses to predation, that seems like it might have been a very important stage in the emergence of that!

There's a bit in the book speculating that the primordial situation religious sacrifice reconstructs is a group of proto-humans being attacked by a predator and one of them being killed and carried away, possibly with one of the proto-humans either voluntarily offering themselves to the predator so it doesn't hurt the others or being chosen as a designated victim (note: this was Barbara Ehrenreich relating somebody else's idea). And, yeah, I guess that might be a harrowing formative collective trauma of our species, but it doesn't leave much time for ceremony and it's an inherently unpredictable fast messy process. It really wouldn't be a promising nucleus for rituals to grow around. It might get associated grief rituals that happen afterward, but the kind of ceremonialization of war Barbara Ehrenreich is talking about is more about the preparation for organized violence, the build-up. Also, I think a big part of the emotional appeal of that ceremonialization of war is that it generates a feeling of power, whereas watching one of your friends get dragged away by a lion would have exactly the opposite effect, it would make you feel weak and afraid.

You know what would offer time for ceremony and a prolonged period of fearful-angry-mournful-but-also-hopeful emotional build-up? When some clever proto-humans get a bright idea. They already hunt small weak animals like monkeys (chimps do), they are already used to fighting their predators with simple weapons, they have already learned to track predators to some extent to better avoid them, now combine these skill sets! Instead of waiting for the predator to come to them again and have the fight on its terms and hope to just drive it off so everyone gets to live one more day, they can seek its trail, find its lair, fight it in circumstances of their choosing, kill it and the end the threat of it forever, invert the ancient relationship between its species and theirs, hunt the dinofelis or megantereon or whatever that predator is! Now give it maybe a few generations or centuries or millennia for that practice to become an institution...

Here is the opportunity for vows of revenge choked out through tears as what's left of the predator's latest victim is buried in honor. Here is the opportunity for the selection of champions. Here is the opportunity for rituals to prepare the chosen for their terrible and glorious task (dream image: an old woman opening a shallow cut on her left arm with an obsidian butchery flake and using a thumb to smear a little of her blood on the foreheads of five 16-26 year old boys). Here is the opportunity for the chosen to dance around the fire and sing confident war songs ("you big dumb cat, you don't know what's coming! You think we'll wait for you to come again and eat another of us like the dumb antelope! You'll be so surprised when we hunt you instead, when we trap you in your hole and kill you! I'll cut your stomach open to get my niece's bones back! I'll cut off your head and cut out the teeth you tore up my niece with and give them to my mother and my aunt to wear in their hair!"). Here is the opportunity for the community to luxuriate in the promise of power and deliverance their cleverness offers them (the big dumb cat indeed is oblivious to the danger it's in, no other prey species has the cognitive capacity for the kind of strategic thought these early humans are doing, this kind of prey behavior is an outside context problem its instincts do not prepare it for) and dream of a better future when the enemy is defeated. Here is the opportunity for the chosen to be indulgently pampered with food, affection, and sex as a reward for their selflessness, with the promise that they will be given more of the same treatment if they come back from their great task victorious and their memory will be honored if they die during their mission.

Imagine the high that might be for a prey species, especially if they still remember the long age of fear and grief and impotent anger before they realized they could turn the tables, hunt the hunter. Something something that Frantz Fanon-ish therapeutic value of inflicting violence on your tormentor idea.

“One of the most dangerous things in the universe is an ignorant people with real grievances. That is nowhere near as dangerous, however, as an informed and intelligent society with grievances. The damage that vengeful intelligence can wreak, you cannot even imagine.” - Frank Herbert, Heretics of Dune.

Aside: I know some nonhuman animals do sometimes attack their predators pro-actively, e.g. I've heard about cape buffalo doing that, but I don't think they do anything like try to systematically exterminate every individual predator that attacks a member of their group including tracking them and hunting them down with days-to-weeks planning horizons; you'd need some pretty serious cognitive capacity for that kind of strategic thought which I don't think cape buffalo and the like have.

In a different corner of Tumblr somebody made a post arguing that it's absurd to think that men experience gender oppression qua being men because there's no uniquely male experience of oppression. It's not an argument I particularly want to get into, but I think what I've just written is kind of a counter-argument against that idea, though admittedly a very weak one; highly speculative, and Anglophone internet feminists are usually talking centrally about relatively peaceful societies where being a man isn't particularly dangerous, and societies where being a man is dangerous are often really dangerous for women too.

[chthonic-cassandra]

for your lovely domesticity question! the three objects that first occur to me: i have a clothbound copy of pride & prejudice from a small letterpress that my partner got me; the numbered edition corresponds with our anniversary and the book is beautiful. i have a green suede bomber jacket that i got from my dad who got it from his german landlady in 1985, which has excellent pockets & always makes me feel cool wearing it. and my rigid heddle loom, companion of my idle hours; i have been using it to make table linens, so it feels particularly domestic. i spend the most time with my phone, but i don't feel the same way about it as an object

I realized I never posted this, and it is such a lovely answer! Reading it I feel like I get a very precious window into your life; thank you so much for sharing it.

Other responses that question (three objects you own which are dear to you for their beauty, utility, or emotional association), preserved for posterity:

@fourpatch said: i have been thinking of this for days! beech spinning wheel stained dark that wiggles its axle out of its housing if you aren’t physically relaxed while using it; cracked 18th c delft blue vase filled with willow trimmings my late friend harvested from her favourite willow ditch; my grandmother’s singer featherweight buttonhole attachment

@forthegothicheroine said: My engagement ring (a beautiful red stone- maybe but not definitely a ruby- from his side of the family), a teddy bear I had as a baby, my great-grandmother’s pears she supposedly bought one at a time

@rulesforthedance said: My cello banjo is my most prized instrument. It has the most resonant tone. And if you talk, sing, or make noise within ten feet of it, it sings softly with you

@orpheanrush said: It would take me a while to come up with the top three but one that came to mind instantly is my great-aunt’s “kitchen wizard” which is sort of a large knife I inherited that also has a bottle opener, a grater, a planer, a serrated side and a fork built into the blade. It’s older than me (predates the company switch to plastic and multi-part models) and i mostly use it to open bottles. But it’s a lovely piece of gadgetry and family history :-)

@sewer-swan said: There’s the old jeans a girlfriend once gave me; perfectly fit, boot-cut, and an indigo that’s only just more dark than light. My american national park posters I’ll count as one, all very stylized and vivid images of places I’ve never been to: Saguaro, White Sands, Mammoth Cave, Lassen Volcanic. For a third, probably my gray thermal blanket. Scowled through a lot of terrible unheated winters under it.

Thank you all very much for these generous and beautiful responses!