#Origin Country Theory

[casasupernovas]

so...snape fans have speculated where cokeworth is located in the england map or what it's equivalence would be. i've seen people speculate it's probably up north perhaps. maybe snape's a northerner.

however.

it's been stated multiple times that cokeworth is in the midlands. so we're thinking northampton, shropshire, stoke, birmingham.

but i prefer to think it's in the black country. mainly for these reasons:

1. cokeworth is an industrial town, even if spinner's end seems mainly abandoned, and the black country was the birth of the industrial revolution.

2. the black country was known for steelworks, glassworks and cokeworks which is maybe where the town got its title from.

3. the black country suffered from high unemployment due to the closing down of a lot of industrial sites in the 60s and 70s which ties into the idea of spinner's end being practically desolate now, and also the strain on the snape's household's economic position.

4. petunia met vernon dursley and marries him. his job was being the director of a firm that made drills. which are made of steel. steelworks anyone?

5. which leads to my last and favourite theory; petunia marrying vernon who perhaps also came from the black country then decided to name their child after something close to home. a nearby town perhaps - dudley.

[bijoumikhawal]

does anyone have any papers that discuss the idea that the Greek oracle tradition came from Egypt, specifically the trance-possession oracles like Pythia or analyzing Herotodus's claims in Euterpe 55

[giantkillerjack]

Today my partner and I discussed getting matching shirts that say "the hot bitch I pulled by being autistic" and each shirt has an arrow that points to the other person.

[beastren]

JULIEN IS SUPPOSED 2 BE GERMAN THIS MUST BE SAID mercedes is the french one. she is from hearthstone aka the fantasy france of dragon's dogma. julien is from voldoa which is fantasy germany. at least this is what i have believed and known to be true for over 5 years.

[caraecethrae]

why does no one seem to consider the deluge as a possibility for a native cosmogony for Ireland?

why couldn't it be possible that the monks included Cessair's story into the biblical flood because there was already a flood myth recognized? an island would make a lot of sense to have an origin myth of a flood drying up and revealing new land. all of the rest of the Takings take place by communities coming over by boat.

[secretmellowblog]

People who try to analyze what happened on Tumblr on November 5th, 2020, often really overstate how much it was actually “about” Supernatural. As someone who has never been in the supernatural fandom ever but dID join in on the hysterical destielposting—it was really more about the stress of the pandemic and the 2020 presidential election.

The two biggest Youtubers I’ve seen try to dissect “what happened that November 5th” in video essays both weren’t American—- and I think that explains why they both tried to explain the hysteria primarily via analyzing the Supernatural fandom/the original show, rather than through the lens of the election. And while those videos are cool, valid, informational, and make lots of really well-considered interesting points— I can tell you that me and almost all my mutuals had literally no knowledge or interest in the fact that “oh supernatural had made nods at the ship in the past but the creators were adamant that I wouldn’t be canon” or etc etc etc etc. the first time I learned about any of that context was way later, watching videos where people claimed that fandom history context (that I did not know anything about) was the actual reason for the hysteria.

But the reality is that people latched on to the Destiel stuff because it was a piece of big useless inane zero-stakes fandom news in a time when we were desperately waiting for serious high stakes election news. We were latching onto a “positive “ piece of inane stupid fandom news in a time of great stress, with all the desperation of a drowning man who latches onto whatever piece of wood will keep him afloat.

The core of the hysteria was that Americans (who make up a huge chunk of tumblr’s userbase) were currently glued to their laptops watching the live presidential election vote counts come in. These vote counts were taking an extended amount of time due to the pandemic causing high numbers of mail-in ballots, resulting in a constant state of Election Day Stress for multiple days straight.

This was also during the height of the Pandemic. People had predicted Trump’s presidency would be bad; no one had predicted it would be this apocalyptically bad. No one had predicted pandemics and lockdowns and hospitals overflowing with bodybags. remember Trump spreading Covid lies and conspiracies?? There were so many Qanon conspiracies about democrats being Satanic child traffickers who had to be put to death, and coup threats were mounting from the right wing side. It seemed like this election was a choice between ‘centrist democrat’ and “apocalyptic right wing conspiracy theory authoritarianism,” in the midst of pandemic conditions that people feared would never ever improve— and it seemed like a close election.

Another major point was that Trump voters were more likely to be antimaskers/Covid deniers, while Biden voters were more likely to take the pandemic seriously— so Biden voters were more likely to send in mail-in ballots instead of risking the in-person voting crowds, which meant their ballots would take much longer to count. And so, in many state electoral vote counts, it would initially seem like Trump was very far in the lead— only for Biden to slooooowly build up an agonizingly small lead as the mail in ballots came in, and then defeat Trump at the very end.

So you’re just watching these news sites giving live election updates, refreshing the page every 2 minutes to see if you’re going to live under a spineless centrist democrat or a literal Qanon Dictatorship. And then you go on tumblr to distract yourself, and there’s more election posting, and more agonizing over the votes, and more stress and despair—-

And then it’s been days and we’re right at the crucial tipping point where it’s anyone’s game and the next few hours will determine whether Trump will win, so you need to keep your eye on the vote count, because the next hours will determine the future of the pandemic and your country and your plans for your entire life—

And then stupid Destiel becomes canon! And it becomes canon in the silliest way possible!

If Destiel had become canon at any other time, it would have been a big goofy tumblr celebration? But we wouldn’t have gotten the insane explosion of hysterical interaction.

The entire core of it was the contrast between the inane meaningless stupidity of fandom news vs the actual stressful election news you wanted to hear! It really is best conveyed in that meme where Castiel says “I love you” and Dean indifferently responds with a piece of important election news.

It’s about the contrast between the low-stakes inanity of fandom and the massive life-destroying stakes of a terrifying election. There really was no reason it had be Supernatural specifically, except that Supernatural was a thing everyone knew basic things about from dashboard osmosis— it could’ve been any other equally huge silly fandom ship news about a ship everyone *knew of* but might not necessarily be invested in (ex. Stucky becoming canon, Johnlock becoming canon, Kirk/Spock becoming more canon somehow, etc etc etc.)

I think it’s true that people who weren’t paying agonizingly close attention to the American election news got swept up in it, and that non American Supernatural fans also were extremely excited for purely fandom reasons — but the entire reason it blew up to an unprecedented degree was because of that core of stressed out terrified Americans glued to their computers watching election results and suddenly receiving stupid fandom news instead, and deciding to just hysterically parodically hyper-celebrate this absurd useless zero-stakes news.

I think it was also all elevated by the fact that, as I said before, this happened at the crucial “tipping point” of the election where the next few hours would determine the winner. The fact that Biden began to slowly develop a lead in the hours after made it feel, hysterically, as if the hours after Destiel became canon was somehow the turning point where he began to win; so celebrating Destiel felt like celebrating that slow turn towards victory.

The tl,dr is that it’s so important to Remember the Fifth of November …..in preparation the inevitable hysteria that will happen in the presidential election on November 5th of next year. XD. Personally I’m rooting for Johnlock or Frodo/Sam to somehow become canon in the eleventh hour right before the democrats win

[seafoam-taide]

suints. squints. something. something weird is going on with siffrin,. other than the. well maybe related to the time loop. but like. what is Up with this dude... what. hrhgnhm. hgnh.

[lapeaudelamemoire]

Thoughts on just having seen a post about how the other post that linked Spotify Wrapped dropping on the same day as International Palestine Solidarity Day is antisemitic and conspiracy theory -

I don't use Spotify and so have no idea when Spotify Wrapped drops, this year or any year, so I should probably note that first. This is also a disclaimer to say that this is purely my opinion and some thoughts.

I see that the original post does imply that Spotify Wrapped dropped to obfuscate International Palestine Solidarity Day, a day that people have specifically asked others to keep talking about Palestine, in the way that it's worded.

But I also don't see how noting that Spotify Wrapped overshadowing posts about Palestine is necessarily wrong. Since Spotify Wrapped has happened I am seeing more posts about Spotify Wrapped than about Palestine.

I also saw in the comments people saying things like 'Oh Christmas is also coming up now, they must have done that on purpose /s" and it's like.

It is a fair and valid critique to note that 'Western' whatever tends to eclipse genocide and suffering in non-white countries and communities. Whether it's a media platform wrap-up/summary like Spotify Wrapped or a religious holiday of a religion that has historically been a part of colonialism and imperialism that is largely celebrated by white 'Western' folks who brought it to non-white countries through colonialism.

I also saw a lot of people saying that Spotify Wrapped just always drops on a Wednesday and that's why etc. But - and this is just my personal thought - Spotify could entirely also have just said 'Hey, we normally release Wrapped on Wednesdays at the end of November/start of December, but this year it coincides with International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian People, so we decided to release it next week/the day after on Thursday/[any day they chose]. Please pay attention to Palestine this year while they have been being killed by the thousands.'

People are also saying that it's antisemitic because it drives beliefs that 'Jews control the media'. I see how this is harmful, but also - that seems like a direct equivalence of Jewish people with Zionists. Which was not said anywhere in the original post. And there are very much anti-Zionist Jewish people.

Perhaps I am failing to see something here. But why has someone indicating that they feel it was intentional that a media platform drops its biggest social media event thing of the year on the same day Palestinian people have asked people to keep speaking out about them lead to the idea that Jewish people control the press - which, again, nowhere was that said in the original post, this appears to have been come to by the supposed critics themselves - and therefore is antisemitic? It's also well-known that Zionists such as the Israeli government itself does in fact try to influence press. I.e., by killing journalists.

[whateversawesome]

Some Theories about Anya's Name

Who would have thought a short chapter would bring so much information and discussion? But then again, we're talking about Anya, agent of chaos (according to her papa).

After that chapter, there's plenty of theories flying around, so I decided to make this post to compile, explain and expand these theories 😉

Ready?

Anya is an acronym: This one is pretty clear has been a popular general theory. It means that the letters of her name stand for something else. What exactly? We don't know yet, but it probably has to do with Project Apple and the infamous lab Anya was created.

Anya...Ania...OstANIA: If you live near small children, you probably know that when they are learning how to talk, they do it by picking up words adults say and many times they say those words wrong. While discussing with some friends, I imagined those scientists constantly saying the word Ostania in front of that little girl. Maybe baby Anya thought that was her name because she heard the word OstANIA all the time, but she couldn't say it right.

Anya, the foreign princess: This one is very simple. It means that her name was spelled differently in her country of origin. This theory is vague, but I do believe a third country could be involved in all this mess. Also, it would make sense for Anya to be hiding in Ostania, if she was born and kept captive in a different country.

Anya...A N/A: This one is one of the most interesting theories! A N/A would mean something like "Non-applicable". You probably think this doesn't say much, but it really does. In the first few chapters of the story we learned that Anya was adopted and returned 4 times. Instead of a child, she was returned as if she was a piece of clothing. Even though it's been barely mentioned, we've also learned that people that participated in Project Apple didn't treat the subjects nicely (see how they treated Bond). Those people called Anya "subject 007". They didn't even give her a name. If we think about it, Anya is very "non-applicable". She was created in a lab, she has a strange power, so she's not like the other kids, she's been adopted and returned 4 times...

The A N/A and Anya being treated like an object instead of a human being fits the Spy x Family premise of the story, which is: Humans like Twilight, Yor, and Anya are used as weapons instead of being treated like humans. The story is about them regaining their humanity through love and family.

So even if A N/A says nothing about Anya, it says a lot about the story.

Look at this little girl. This illustration was heartbreaking. Do you know when it takes place? It's right before he meets Twilight. We see that it's the same filthy orphanage Twilight visited on chapter 1 and this is not Anya's first orphanage, so that means this illustration happened after she was returned again. The way she's facing the door, her body language, the way she holds Mr. Chimera by the hand is so sad. Here she is, once again, in a place she doesn't want to be, where nobody will take care of her...alone 😭

Enough of that or we'll end up crying...🤧

Some other things to take into consideration about her name:

Mr. Chimera: Since this is a visual story, that panel of Mr. Chimera tells us that this plushie is involved in Anya's name. If you've read certain fic, you know where I stand on that. In this case, I think that yes, the person who helped Anya escape gave Mr. Chimera to her. However, I don't think it was exactly that character (you know who). It probably was someone else, maybe even a new character we don't know yet. It could also be a scientist who took pity on Anya or disagreed with the use of children as lab rats, and helped her escape. We don't know yet.

Twilight: One of the most beautiful panels on that short chapter was seeing Anya's eyes lit up when her papa told her the correct spelling of her name. Did you see it? Those were the eyes of someone who had just learned something new about herself and by doing this, Twilight made her even more human.

One more thing...I've seen speculations about the next arc of the manga being about Anya's past because of this short mission. In my opinion...I don't think it'll happen yet. Why? If it was the case, this would have been a longer chapter and the actual beginning of the arc.

I believe Anya's past will be one of the last things we learn, because there's plenty of things to resolve and a lot of information we don't have. Stories are like puzzles; this chapter was an important piece, but we're not working on that part yet.

[neowinestainedress]

𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐀 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄, 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄?

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: any nct member!ghostface x detective!fem!reader 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: “horror”, thriller, yandere-ish, smut, halloween special, scream!au 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: in these past months your only goal is to find the killer that is terrorizing the town of Woodsboro, but when you get close to him and feel like you finally have the upper hand, Ghostface turns the game around again.  Or, Ghostface wants to play with you but not like he does with his victims, and you let him. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: dark content, talks of [m*rders, sl!tting throats, v!olent stuff in general], dr*g/anaesthetic use [to make mc fall asleep but unrelated to any sexu*l act (she’s awake and willing)], mentions of [dubcon] phone s*x + masturbation, implied stalking, use of restrainers, cl!t rubbing, rough t!t/n!pple play, protected s*x turns unprotected, kn!fe play, ‘fear’ play, clothes cutting, fake sympathy, pet names used in a mocking way, degradation, rough s*x, hair pulling, spit (1), p*ssy slapping, dacryphilia, possessiveness, 1 brief talk of carving, polaroids pictures, all consensual but i’ll still put a dubcon warning just to be safe (tbh it’s more like hate sex bc the mc would rip his head off but also fuck him), reader is kinda fucked up herself. | inclusivity notes: reader has hair long enough that can be pulled (no mention of texture, type and color), no mention of body type but reader is manhandled a few times and has b**bs and *ss big enough that can be cupped, no mention of skin color, no use of y/n 𝐖𝐂: 10.662k 𝐀/𝐍: this year i had vague ideas for halloween but not even a defined good one, i had some suggestions i liked but were far too complicated, and i had no energy to write them in time. but a ghostface/scream au was an idea i had in mind for some time, the original was a ghostface cosplay, but then i went with this one, and I’m happy with how it turned out. i had 2 members in mind (johnny/haechan) for the og plot, then someone suggested jeno and jisung (as a duo) but if i unmasked him the plot wouldn’t have made sense anymore, so he’s whoever you want him to be! the other ghostface is mentioned but doesn’t appear physically in the story, you can pick who you want for him too. i never wrote blankly for the male mc so let me know if it was good. please, if you like it, leave feedback through reblogs or asks! and also let me know who you imagined behind the mask 👀 enjoy and happy halloween

𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐄.

Your mother always told you to mind your business or else your curiosity was going to be the death of you one day.

It’s clear you never treasured her words, and your curiosity led you to be a private detective with only a few thrills in your life since now, nothing too exciting ever happened in your small town, until one day you received a phone call from the district of Woodsboro. A string of murders was terrorizing the town after years and all the evidence led to another psycho who thought it was funnier to kill people while putting on a Ghostface mask. 

Months have passed since that call and you have nothing concrete. It’s like he’s only messing up with you and, in the meantime, innocent people keep dying. But you have your theories, the ones you only keep to yourself, stored away in the privacy of your diary, hidden under the pillow of your bed. Your colleagues seem decent people, but with time, you’ve learned to trust nobody. 

And your secret theories led you right where you are now. In the open country, away from the small town, where a small barn grabbed your attention the first time you moved to Woodsboro. 

The barn seems empty but eerie vibes surround it. The strong smell of the grass stings your nose as your black boots walk on the muddy ground, the rain of this morning still lingering in the air and in the countryside. 

When you reach the perimeter, you squeeze your eyes to see inside, but the few tiny windows don’t allow you a big view. The more you walk around it to make sure it’s empty, the more the hold on your concealed carry with the gun inside tightens.  

It’s late October and the cold penetrates your brown leather jacket, but the temperature is not the thing that makes you shiver. 

You should’ve never followed your instinct and come here alone. You should’ve spoken to somebody else in the department, told them your theory and have some backup in this crazy plan of yours. But when your impulses take over, your smartness slips away, and you find yourself in the worst situations ever. 

Like right now. You stand in front of the wooden door and find the courage to push it open. You should feel thrilled, you found him. You found the psycho that has been haunting the town for months now, messing up with you with clues and mocks that pushed you farther away from the right path. Yet, you beat him, for once it looks like you have the upper hand now that you’re walking around the empty barn away from the town. But something doesn’t feel right, your guts are telling you something but you don’t listen, you can’t walk away now that you’re so close.

There’s not much to inspect, a few pieces of furniture, a disheveled mattress in the middle of the room, and a few chairs in a corner. It almost looks like an abandoned farm if only it wasn’t for the unnerving vibes that carries with it and for two walls that call your attention. On the right, there’s a map of Woodsboro, pins linked by a red thread, connecting all the places where Ghostface hit in these past months. Your hand quickly reaches the back of your pocket to pull out your phone and snap a picture, hoping there will also be places he didn’t go, and this time you can be faster at stopping him. 

What’s on the other side is worse. 

“What the fuck…” you mumble under your breath as you step closer to the wall. Polaroid pictures hanging from it, Ghostface and the victims, you guess, moments before they were brutally killed. You’re not surprised, one of the gifts he would leave on the scene of the crime being Polaroids, but they didn’t make much sense. “He’s a fucking psycho,” you scoff as you take another picture. 

“Surpriiise!!” 

Your phone falls on the floor with a loud thud and your heart jumps in your throat when his voice breaks the deafening silence in the room, but your reflections are swift enough to make you reach for your gun and turn around, shooting. 

“Boo, fail,” Ghostface laughs, hitting your wrist hard enough to make the gun fall on the floor next to your phone. “You’re really not as smart as I thought you were, don’t you know intruding on someone else’s property is illegal?” he points out, pushing your body against the wall, the sharp blade of his knife grazing the skin of your neck. 

You try to keep calm, deep slow breaths as you try to don’t look scared for your life. You might die today, but you won’t give him that satisfaction. 

“Don’t look so frightened, my dear. I’m quite happy to have you all to myself,” he chuckles, his hand lifts to caress your face and you struggle to avoid it, but the click of his tongue makes you stop. “I wouldn’t act too careless, it’s sharp.” 

You stop moving. You are smart, and you can get yourself out of this situation. “Do you want to play a game, Ghostface?” You ask, ignoring his taunts, the irony in your voice is clear, just like it’s blatant in the slow bat of your eyelashes, but your words only make him laugh. 

“Oh, that’s not how it works, detective. That’s my line. You didn’t study the script?” 

You scoff, trying to take time to free yourself. “We’re switching roles. Do you want to play a game? It’s called you turn yourself in and I put you in jail.” 

He snickers, and his head tilts to have a better look at your face. He’s had many people in this position before and never saw so little fear in their eyes. “Now you want to act like you don’t love the chase?” 

“Fuck you, I don’t love it,” you spit out, narrowing your eyes, desperately trying to get a glimpse of anything under the mask. Another failed attempt. 

He laughs darkly, so deep it hits you to the core and makes you shiver — in fear or excitement, you’ll let this decide to your better judgment. “I know you do,” he coos as his thumb covered with the black glove caresses your lips. “Enjoy the little clues I leave you around? You were interested in the pictures, I knew you loved them, that’s why you get the prettiest ones. I tell you so much, but you don’t understand me,” his voice is calm, scarily calm, and full of sarcasm filled with a sweetness that feels like a slap across your face. “I was a bit mad it took you so long to find me.”

Rage shoots up inside of you, but you instantly push it down, you can’t lose your composure. “So, what are you going to do, kill me?” Your voice drops of a tone, and your eyes turn into a teasing gaze, making him chuckle. 

“Talking about death so nonchalantly with me, mmh… are you brave or dumb? Because if you ask so nicely, I just might let the knife sink in.” 

You laugh lightheartedly, putting up the best performance of your life before your eyes flutter seducingly at him. “No, please don’t kill me Mr. Ghostface, I wanna be in the sequel,” you coo, lips in a pout and innocence in your eyes, until you hit him with a swift, strong kick between his legs, the distraction of your performance giving you time to slip to the side, causing just a bit of your skin to cut and bleed. 

“Bitch,” he mutters under his breath as he kneels to the ground. You reach for your gun, but barely have time to grab it before he pushes you on the floor again. “We were having so much fun, you just have to ruin everything.” 

You’re waiting for the worst when he traps you on the floor with his body on yours, but his arms don’t lift to stab you in your chest or stomach, the last thing you see before passing out is his hand lifting in the air and the sting of a needle pushing past your skin. 

The white light of the room feels like staring directly at the sun when your eyes blink repeatedly as you try to come back to earth and push away the hammering of your headache. You groan hoarsely, trying to adjust to the light, but the biggest discomfort comes from your shoulders, pushed behind your back and around the chair you’re now sitting on. 

“Sorry, I had to tie you up, but you’re a bit feisty today. Didn’t want you to get hurt,” Ghostface replies to your silent questions — not so silent, considering how loud you’re groaning and struggling on the chair, trying to break free. He’s standing in front of you, but a chair is right behind him so you guess he was sitting there before you woke up. 

“You can’t even take one down without a fight? Need to kill me without breaking a sweat?” You taunt, eyes dark and a deep frown on your forehead. 

But your teasing seems to leave him unfazed as he walks toward you with a glass in hand. “Drink.” 

You scoff, staring at him. You hate that you can’t see him, not even because you want to find out who’s hiding under there, but also because you feel like you can’t confront him well enough. “You think I’m so stupid to accept a drink from a psycho?”

His head rolls back followed by an annoyed sigh as he stops right in front of you. His black boots bumping against yours. “You know that’s not how I move, no fun in killing with these shortcuts. Drink. I would never want you to pass out here,” he coos while his free hand pushes your hair out of your face. You can’t see behind the mask, but you know he has a shit-eating grin on his face. He moves the glass to your lips, but you turn to the side, he doesn’t give you a choice when he strongly grips your chin, pushing your lips open, and forces the water down your throat. “Oops, it spilled all over, you’re so messy, detective,” he snickers when water drips on your chin and shirt. As if he didn’t do it on purpose. 

“Asshole,” you mutter, eyes closing into fissures while you look at him. His head tilts, “Oh, brave. I could slit your throat right now, add you to the collection.” 

You chuckle darkly, shaking your head. “You won’t,” you say firmly. “You’ve never had someone quite as fun as me.” 

A low laughter escapes from the mask. “So, you are at least a bit smart?” His hand places on your thigh and you try to move away, but the chair screeches on the floor, and his hold only tightens. 

“Don’t play games now. Don’t fake it,” he groans, hand moving up on your blue jeans. “You enjoyed our last conversation,” he whispers, the mask close to your face, so close you can almost see his eyes behind the blackness of the two holes. “Had shivers run down your back when the phone rang in the middle of the night, haven’t you? You sat up straight in your big bed, all alone, and felt fear take over. Never answer unknown numbers. That’s what they say, that’s what you say, running around town, warning everyone about me,” he laughs deeply. “And then look at you, picking up that phone call, eager to hear my voice on the other side.” 

“You’re a psycho,” you spit out, struggling against the restrainers. But once again it is an act; he is a psycho, but you are starting to fear you aren’t much different. 

He chuckles darkly. “Oh, I am, never denied that. But don’t act better than me. You stood right in front of that window, stripping for me, touching yourself for me, moaning for me. How fucked up that is?” He snickers. “You have fucked up fantasies, my pretty detective, but I’m not one to judge. I’d gladly help.” 

You laugh quietly, trying to look confident but it comes out shaky from your throat, “If you want to help, take the mask off and show me who you are.” 

“Wow, wow, darling. Not so soon, I’m not one to burn stages in a relationship. What next? Want to meet my mom?” 

You inhale sharply, and spit on him, “God, you’re insane.” Your eyes snap open when he pulls out of his back the sharp knife, your breath is stuck in your throat and fear runs all over your body. And once again you regret how impulsive you are. You did well all these past years of training and then on the first real-life experiences at pushing this side of you in the cage, but it looks like it’s coming out like a beast that’s been trapped too long.  

“Don’t be so scared,” he huffs, the fake sympathy in his voice should make you mad but it triggers something else inside of you, and you hate to admit that he might be right, you’re enjoying this more than you should, you’re enjoying this entire chase more than you should. It’s like a game, but it’s not when real people are dying. “I would never hurt you,” his voice is raspy, slightly muffled by the ghost mask he’s wearing, and the knife sits on your sternum. “I hope you didn’t like this shirt too much, detective.” 

You don’t have time to react, the steel cuts your shirt neatly, the sound bouncing in the small room and the sharp tip brushing your skin. You shiver, gulping hard and closing your eyes, already feeling the sensation of it cutting through you, but it doesn’t happen. 

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head disappointingly. “You truly don’t trust me. I’m offended, and I don’t like when people offend me. Just like I don’t like when they hang up the phone while we’re playing. If people were respectful, I wouldn’t have to kill them, you know?” You stare at him with a furrow on your face, you’d like to take the mask off and see his eyes, not really to find out who’s hiding underneath that mask, but to see if his gaze is as insane as you imagine it to be. 

“Let me go,” you say, the skin of your wrist bruised from the pressure you’re applying against the ropes.

“Don’t struggle too much, it turns me on,” he warns, kneeling at your level. He smiles softly and thinks it’s a pity you can’t see it, you’re just so pretty, with your beautiful face filled with different emotions and your eyes looking at him with a gaze that wants to be threatening but it’s all the opposite, almost making you look like a lost puppy.  

“Why?” 

“Why? It’s funny to see the victim beg for their life, it makes you feel powerful, you could show mercy, but you don’t,” the smug smile on his hidden face can be heard in his voice and you shiver at how cold he sounds, the shrug of his shoulder is just the cherry on top to his unhinged behaviour. 

“So, you’re just going to keep me here?” 

“No, I want to play with you. Do you want to play a game, detective?” 

Your gaze falls on your thighs where his hand is placed again, the black gloves preventing it from leaving traces behind, as it slowly moves closer to your heat. 

You snicker, pretending to play it cool, but your breath twitches at the contact. “’Cause if I said no you would stop?” 

“Hey, I’m a killer, not a rapist,” he defends, shrugging. Yet, you still don’t reply, and he doesn’t like that. “So? I’m not so patient when I ask people if they want to play with me, so don’t test me.” 

You swallow hard, swiftly looking around to see if you can pull a move on him. Damnit, it’s your chance to get him and throw him in jail but instead, you’re seriously thinking about his proposal. You fool yourself that you’re only doing this because maybe he could slip, maybe he could say something in the heat of the moment that could give you a clue, or he could leave his traces on you somehow, maybe his mask could fall, but you know you’re feeling something else. Attraction. 

“I said,” he mutters, his face comes closer to yours, making you pull back, and the knife pushes flat in the hollow of your chest, “do you want to play a game, detective?” 

“Yes, yes, I do,” you mutter, starting to breathe again when he pulls the knife away. 

“Good, I love playing with you.” His fingers move to unbutton your jeans and then pull the zip down, you look at him attentively. “Lift your hips for me, love?”

You glare at him at the pet name but he only chuckles deeply. “What? If I’m rough with you, you get mad, if I’m sweet with you, you get mad. I can never win, can I?” 

You huff, deciding it’s better to not reply and just do as he says. Your pants are quickly at your ankles and suddenly you feel even more trapped than before now that you can’t even move your legs, but his touch on your naked skin takes you away from that thought. 

“Pretty panties just for me?” He coos, tilting his head to the side as he stares at your burgundy panties with the lace trim. “Were you hoping to find me here so we could finish what we started on the phone?” 

“Shut up, this is not for you,” you retort, your forehead creasing with a furrow. 

“And who is it for?” He asks, cupping your pussy, watching your body shiver. “Oh, no, please don’t tell me there’s a boyfriend I’m not aware of. I’d hate to kill him.” 

You bite your lips and keep the contact with the mask, but words struggle to come out when his index finger starts rubbing on your clit, moving from the slit —where you can feel you’re starting to get wet— to your sensitive nub. “It’s not for you,” you repeat, trying to don’t show how much his touch is affecting you. 

“Well, you want me to work so hard too, I’ll have to find out on my own if someone is playing with what’s mine,” he replays nonchalantly. “I know where to find you, maybe I’ll come visit again.” 

“You talk so much for someone who wants to play so badly,” you retort, a teasing grin curling your lips. 

“Sorry, I didn’t know my princess was so eager,” he replies, saccharine voice filled with mockery, before a harsh slap lands on your pussy making you jolt and whimper. “Want my fingers?”

The glare you give him would be enough to kill him; isn’t this pathetic enough? How much more does he want you to humiliate yourself? 

He rolls his head back and then the knife is against your neck again. “Do we have to do this every time I ask you a question? Do you want my fingers, detective?” 

“Yes,” you whisper. Your body relaxes momentarily before tensing up with excitement again, but it quickly shifts to disappointment. “What are you doing?” You ask when his covered fingers press against you again. 

“Oh, you’ll get the gloves too, I’m not dumb, you know? Don’t leave fingerprints on dead bodies, won’t even leave them on yours,” his voice is smug, all the confidence of someone who didn’t make a wrong move and somehow was always ahead of you and the police department. 

You hate him. You hate he’s so much better than you at this. And you hate him even more now that he has you fighting whimpers and moans. 

“Are you seriously going to pretend you don’t like this while your hips are bucking up?” He taunts, clicking his tongue in a mock. “Think moaning is more pathetic than humping my fingers like a bitch in heat?” 

Your mouth opens to retort but you can’t deny the evidence; your hips are rolling against his hand, chasing for more, your panties are darkening as your wetness leaks through the fabric and your chest is heaving in erratic motions.  

“Look at me,” he sings, hand moving up to graze your neck, thumb pressing on your carotid, making your head snap up. “You listen so swiftly when you fear for your life. It’s funny, you know, because I truly would never hurt you.” 

You chuckle, shaking your head, trying to pull away from his hold when his hand moves up to caress your jaw. The gentleness of his touch is even scarier than when he has his knife pointed against you. “Is this what turns you on? The fear in their eyes?” 

His head tilts to the side, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “Partially. But not in your case, what turns me on with you it’s the chase, and the fact I always win.” 

You scoff bitterly, struggling in his hold but his hand quickly grips your chin and pulls you closer. “Didn’t you see the movies? The villain always dies.” 

“If the heroine is not busy getting fucked by him,” he mocks, squeezing your face harder and moving his fingers faster on your clit. Your head rolls back and so do your eyes while a chocked moan leaves your lips. “See, I doubt you will shoot me in the head if you keep moaning like this.” 

You groan angrily, you’re madder at you than you are at him. You want him and it’s so wrong that you do, but there’s not even a siren ringing in your head, telling you to make this stop. 

“No, shh, shh, angel, it’s fine, this will be our little secret,” he whispers to your ear, the mask rubbing against your face, and when your eyes turn to look at him, you can see small dots of blood on the white varnish. “We could play another game: one secret for you, and one secret for me. If you behave, maybe I’ll reveal myself to you, if you promise to keep it to yourself.” 

Your teeth sink into your lips harder when he delivers another harsh slap on your clit before resuming his quick movements. “Just — just tell me if I know you,” you mumble. You know he will never reveal himself, but maybe you can get something more, anything to complete the missing pieces of the puzzle. 

He chuckles darkly, staring at a spot behind you as he pretends to think. “Mhh, we’ve met.”

You frown and your heart jumps in your throat for a moment at the thought you’ve seen him. “Only met?” 

“We talked,” he adds, finally letting go of your face, making you breathe normally again. 

Your eyes widen while your brain hurts as you try to quickly connect the dots, and find out who’s hiding underneath the mask, you just have to put a face on a voice — even if distorted, but you can’t. And suddenly realization slumps on you.

“Will it — will it break my heart?” 

He snickers under his breath as he looks into your sad eyes, you’re looking at him like a dog when it’s being scolded, but in this case, you’re also silently praying he’s not someone close to you. He has no idea why that would make you feel better, if you care more about Ghostface or whoever is hiding under the mask, but it doesn’t matter, and he mocks you again, mimicking you in a high-pitched voice. “Will it hurt if I was someone close to you? A colleague? A friend? A lover?” 

Your breath gets faster. Will it? Would you turn him in or defend him? And you can’t stand you’re even questioning it, of course you’ll turn him in, that’s your job, but most importantly, your duty. But will you? You could be doing it now, and you’re not. 

“See? It’s not as funny if you know me,” he laughs at your face, your thoughts so loud he could get a headache. “It’s not as exciting, you love the thrill of this too, more than you like to admit.” 

“Fuck,” you curse when his other hand cups your covered breast, it’s a harsh tug and the leather feels weird on your skin, yet, it makes you clasp your thighs and forget what was tormenting your morals, again. 

“They’re so perfect, I can’t believe you always keep them hidden under those ugly clothes,” he pouts, giving it another hard squeeze. “Sorry.”

“For what — what the fuck?” You scream when he cuts your bra with the knife, first the middle and then the straps, the matching burgundy bra falling in pieces on the bottom of the chair. 

“It was getting in the way, and I don’t like things that get in my way. I cut them off,” in his voice lingers a hysterical laugh that makes you shiver, and in times like this, you’re glad you can’t see his face.  

You gulp and automatically close your legs. 

“Not you,” he reassures you, forcing your thighs open again with a smack, “you entertain me. And you suck at your job, so it’s clear you also don’t get in the way.” 

“I’m good at my job and I will get you and put you behind bars —” 

“Uh, uh,” he clicks his tongue, knife under your jaw before you can even finish the sentence, silencing you in an instant. “We were having so much fun, don’t ruin it, babe.”

You swallow and look down following the path he’s tracing with the knife, goosebumps bloom on your skin and you hold your breath when it gets closer to your neck, only releasing it when the blade sits in the hollow of your chest. 

“It’s so funny how you shake like a leaf, I’m a professional,” he says, sounding almost offended. And you furrow, is he talking about the knife or his fingers? “Both, love.” 

Another groan leaves your lips before he moves the crotch to the side and the cold air of the room hits your burning core. You’ve never been so ashamed your entire life, you shouldn’t be an open book to him, you shouldn’t be so malleable in his hands, it’s pathetic and humiliating. 

“You’re so fucking wet. I’m quite pissed I can’t run to the police department and let them know how much I turn you on. I can already see the disappointment on their faces,” he taunts, the slick sound of his gloves against your dripping pussy burns your body in shame and excitement.  

“Don’t you dare,” you spit out, but you don’t sound so menacing since your voice breaks, and a pathetically high-pitched moan rolls from your tongue right after.  

“I said I’m not going to, I keep my promises,” he kneels to the ground, one hand keeping you spread more and the other is still busy taking care of you. “Maybe if you promise you won’t shoot or put me in handcuffs right away when you’ll find out who I am, I can eat you out. I bet you let out the prettiest moans when you have someone between your legs.” 

Your head rolls back, and you hiss. “You wish,” you retort through gritted teeth, but a part of you dies to know what that would be like. “I will never give you the satisfaction.” 

He laughs mockingly. “Maybe I should blindfold you and do it now, will you recognize me by that?” At those words your body tenses up, head standing straight again as you look down at him with terror in your eyes. “What?” He asks in a giggle, surprised by your reaction. “You’re fucking with me right now, I still have blood on me. Would that be the most problematic thing? Having fucked with me before? Without this mask?” 

“You’re just messing with me,” you mutter but your brain is trying to think, the list of the people you’ve been with is not that long, he can’t be so stupid to out himself like that, right? 

“Maybe… I love it when I can see you think,” he whispers. “Usually, you have your hands in your hair, pulling at it even if you just washed it or spent hours styling it, and then you nervously bite your right thumb, somehow there’s always a hangnail to pull until it bleeds, oh, and you also nervously walk back and forth, two steps forward, two steps back. It’s cute, really. You have no fucking clue how to stop this, but you look so into it, chasing after me… well, so you think because, let’s be honest, you’re only chasing after your tail.” 

You can’t believe he knows all of this, how close to you is he? And a few names start popping into your mind, but for each face that you see, your only answer is it can’t be. 

“Why are you surprised? I told you, I love watching you,” he says, voice scarily soft even through the distortion of the mask. “You’re very pretty, detective. When you work hard to catch me, and even more when you screw it all up to moan for me.” 

“Ugh,” you groan through gritted teeth, wrist rubbing against the rope keeping you in place and hips bucking up, anger and pleasure mixing like a drug in your brain. You hate to admit it, but you’re close and you doubt you can push back your climax any longer.  

“It’s alright, love, I told you, I won’t judge you,” he hums. He studies your face for a moment, admiring how your teeth trap your lips in the vain attempt to don’t truly show how much you’re enjoying this, but your eyes are filled with lust, lightly glassy, and your cum is painting his gloves white. “Now, will you come for me?” 

He doesn’t have to tell you twice, your body shutters as the orgasm washes over you, the quick movements of his fingers on your sensitive clit making your nails dig into the palm of your hands while your moans slip out of you freely. Your morality disappears, getting dragged away with the orgasm that consumes you before leaving. 

You forget where you are for a moment, or to be more precise, with who you are with, as you let your head roll back, close your eyes and take deep breaths, waiting for the high to pass. 

The thing doesn’t bother Ghostface, though, he sees enough fear in people’s eyes, he likes it better when you stop pretending and relax around him. That’s the thrilling thing about you, you are the most entertaining game he has ever played. With all the others he knows how it will end, their lifeless bodies laying in a pool of their own blood and the sirens of the police going off in the background as he blends in with the crowd, but with you? It’s unknown. Like a Russian roulette. 

He’d love to shred all your clothes off, but he knows you’d have to spill your guts (not literally) if you walk out of there completely naked, and he’s sure the version you would tell the police would add another crime to his name. So, he takes your shoes off and then pulls your pants down. 

Your laugh makes him raise his face and stare at you. “What’s so funny, dollface?” 

You shrug, wetting your lips. “You scare me more when you act all sweet, you know?” 

He scoffs, standing up again, and caressing your face. “You want me to hurt you so badly. I could carve a heart right here,” he presses the tip of the blade next to your heart, tracing the shape of a heart, causing goosebumps to appear on your skin. “It would look so pretty on you, and you will always carry me with you. Isn’t it nice? Couple goals.” 

You raise a brow at him, he doesn’t even realize it, but he’s giving away so much of his personality, even if you don’t find it out now, you’re pretty positive all of this is leading you somewhere. You shake your head quickly, trying not to show how hard you’re thinking about your plan. “I only want one thing from you, and you know what it is.” 

He chuckles, leaning next to your ear. “My dick.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” you curse, accidentally kicking him now that your legs are free to move. You suck your breath in, fearing your move, even if involuntary, might piss him off.  

He hisses but doesn’t do anything else. “Don’t get all bratty here, doll. You said you wanted to play a game, and we’re going to play it until the end.” 

When he cuts your panties and balls them in his fist, saying “keeping them as a souvenir,” with a grin that can be heard in his voice, you only reply with an “asshole.” 

Once again, he doesn’t pay your insults any mind, and you wonder why he’s so nice to you. Should you fear it? Will you be his last victim, getting the worst death of them all because he needs to put on a show? “Now I will untie you, if you play any trick on me… you know how it ends.” 

You nod quickly, watching him disappear from your view as he stands behind you. You inhale when the knife places against your neck again and roll your eyes back. “You don’t have to do this every time, you know?” 

“It turns you on,” he retorts firmly. “And I need to make sure you don’t do any funny business.” 

Your eyes roll back again but you try to relax anyway and keep still when your wrists are finally free. Your shoulders are in a more comfortable position again as you subtly roll them to ease up. “Get up,” he orders, and you follow, moving carefully because the blade is still close to your body and you don’t want to end up dead on the floor. “Good, now lay on the mattress.” 

Your face twists in disgust when you’re reminded of the mattress on the floor, but he pushes you forward. 

“We didn’t kill anybody there.” 

You stop, turning around swiftly, and his reflections are rapid enough that he doesn’t push the knife into your chest. “We?” 

“Oh… it didn’t click yet…” He laughs darkly at your expression, the whole world falling on your shoulders as you wonder how could you be so stupid to not realize it. “Sorry, love. But hey, aren’t you happy I helped you out?” 

You glare at him but then bring your hand to your hair and your thumb to your lips. Of course, there are two of them, that’s the only way they could always be so headed of you. 

“Not the right moment to think about that,” he warns, voice dropping lower, making you stop your nervous ticks. “Get on the bed.” 

You turn around again, suddenly aware that he’s completely covered and you’re bare. That thought makes you seek the cover of the mattress more, and swiftly you’re laying where he wants you. But it also turns you on, being so exposed to him while he’s giving you not even a peak of who’s under the mask and the clothes send chills down your body and more cum drips out you.

“Promise you’ll be good? We can play cat and mouse later if you want to,” he asks, the blade running flat on your boobs, making him chuckle darkly when your nipples harden at the contact and your hips buck up. “You promise, detective?” He repeats with urge when you don’t reply, too busy watching the knife move on your body as he pins you down. 

“Promise,” you reply, looking into the blackness of the eyes of the mask. 

He chuckles under the mask, and you watch him unbuckle his pants. You could easily grab the weapon that’s on your stomach and stab him, you could even un-mask him, but you lay still, almost mesmerized. And the conscience inside of you likes to remind you how fucked up you and your morals are, but you brush it off, shaking your head quickly. 

“Turn around,” he orders, but you hesitate. That’s too much vulnerability. It’s clear he doesn’t like your hesitation when he groans, grabbing the knife and pushing it aside. “God, I have to do everything with you,” he sighs as he forcefully flips you on your stomach before his legs trap you again. This time you can’t do anything even if you want to, but once again, you don’t want to. 

“Fuck,” he moans, hands cupping your full ass and squeezing hard, the firm hold eliciting a moan from you. “Look at you, so fucking pretty. Keep your head down, don’t try to even get a peak,” he warns, and your immediate reaction is to turn around to understand what’s going on, but you know better, so you press your face into the pillow and only when you hear the loud sound of a spit and a glob of saliva drip between your folds you understand what happened. “Not that it was needed, you’re dripping. But you know, I like to get messy at times.” 

You turn your face around, resting your head on the pillow, and bite your lips. The smugness and insanity of his voice causing more cum to ooze out of your pussy.  

“I want to feel you so bad,” he hums, spreading your cunt, making you feel so exposed, “but will you run to the police? Will you tell them ‘oh no, I had to fuck Mr. Ghostface to have a bit of his DNA and save the town from this psycho’?” he mocks with a high-pitched voice, it doesn’t sound like you at all, more like a hopeless, brain-dead, blonde girl that dies within the first minutes of any horror movie. 

You snicker. “You underestimate me, I could say I got those traces from somewhere else.” 

“But will you? Also, I’m pretty sure they will find traces of you too. How humiliating would that be? Come on, honey, I won’t blackmail you, but you will screw yourself over? That’s not very smart of you.” 

He’s right, you hate that he’s right. You will have to out yourself in the process of trying to turn him in. “I — I won’t.” 

Deep down he knows you won’t, there’s no way they won’t trace it back at you too, and he also knows you won’t try to play the victim when you’re not, but he needs to be conscious, one wrong step and you could turn the game around. As much as he likes to mock you, he knows you’re smart and have been close to discovering them a few times, it was a matter of luck, and they were extremely lucky. 

“Better safe than in jail,” he chuckles darkly, you don’t even try to peer around, and only listen to the plastic of the condom rip. 

You whimper when you feel the tip against your slit, and you hide your face in the pillow as if that could change the reality of what you’re willingly doing. You’re too excited to be so ashamed of your actions, but, even if some may argue your morality is nowhere to be found, it still feels like a big balloon hovering over you. 

You shiver when you feel the mask rest on your shoulder, “Nah, ah, angel, no being ashamed now. I told you I don’t like rude people, so don’t be rude and ask me nicely to fuck you.” 

The urge to slap him is stronger than anything else, but once again your greed makes him win. “Please… please fuck me.”

“Not what I want to hear, you know what I want. We practiced the other night, haven’t we?” He reminds you, a hand creeping around your neck, holding tight enough to make buzzes of fear run through your bones. 

You close your eyes, inhaling as deeply as you can while trying to find the courage to humiliate yourself one last time, but then the words slip out, “Please, fuck me, Ghostface,” and the air gets knocked out of your lungs when he pushes into you. It’s a strong, deep thrust that fills you to the brim and knocks you over. Your head falls against the pillow again while his loud groan fills your ears, “Fuck, it sounds so good from your lips.” 

“Oh, fuck,” you curse through gritted teeth when he starts moving right away, barely giving you time to adjust to the feeling, thick dick grazing your insides and strong hands wrapping around your waist tightly. 

“Is it too much for you, detective? My sweet little angel can’t take it?” 

A groan slips past your lips, you try to stand up on your elbows, but he pushes you down. His body presses against your back and you feel trapped again. “Don’t move. I will fuck you so deep into this mattress that I will feel your scent for days after this. I want your face smashed against the pillow, I want it to be wet with your ruined makeup and tears, got it? ” 

You nod quickly, shoulders dropping as you slump against the mattress. His breathing next to your ear makes you shiver, and you wonder if that’s the last thing the non-so-lucky people have met him heard before dying. But you push it away, for the sake of your sanity, you have to fool yourself that you’re not so attracted to a bloody murderer, that your morals are still intact, and that you are a good person. 

It’s pathetic how all the anger you feel disappears with each calculated thrust, pleasure getting to your brain so quickly you stop holding back. Soft whimpers and moans roll out of your tongue and unconsciously your ass grinds back into him.  

“Fuck, that’s what I want to hear,” he hums, standing up while his hands wrap around your waist. He never wanted to burn those gloves so badly, feeling the urge to feel your burning skin and mark you with his bare hands, but he can’t risk it. That doesn’t mean he can’t leave marks in other ways. One hand leaves your hips and cups your boob, eliciting a broken moan from you. “Have I told you they’re so pretty?” 

“Mhh,” you mumble, eyes closing as he pinches down on your nipple. You wish you could say it hurt you but instead, it makes you clench hard around him, cum leaking out more with each pinch on your delicate, sensitive buds. 

“Shit, you really are into pain,” he comments, there’s mockery in his voice —like always— but there’s also a genuine surprise. “Who would’ve thought, my innocent detective is way more fucked in the head than I thought.” 

“I — I’m not,” you retort, groaning and forcing your eyes open, but the deep chuckle that rumbles in his chest makes you quiver, and your attitude drops in a moment. 

“Honey,” he slurs, voice dipped in honey, “you’re letting Ghostface fuck you dumb, you are fucked in the head.” 

You shake your head quickly, but he’s had enough of your lies. The rough tug at your hair makes you let out a choked gasp as your head is lifted from the pillow. “I know you better than anyone else, angel,” he groans, mask pressed against your hot face. “I know your dirty, little secrets. I know what runs into that dirty, little mind of yours. You can’t lie to me,” he almost purrs, a low chuckle making shame fire up inside of you, “and I can feel you, princess. Squeezing me, barely allowing me to pull out to fuck back into you. Fuck — I should feel you right now, no stupid rubber between us.” 

Another broken moan slips from your lips when he roughly lets go of the hold on you, your fingers clench hard around the thin sheet under you, and your hips jerk up even more. It’s like you want to feel him more, to have him imprint himself deep into you, so far under your skin that you won’t be able to wash him off, and you don’t even know why you feel like this. Why it made you feel like this a week prior too, all the hesitation and fear as you picked up the phone and heard his breathy, distorted voice, flying out of the window the moment he started ordering you around. But was it truly an order when your only hesitation came from the fear of judgement, and you could only feel your body tingle with excitement? Sitting in front of the window, having no idea where he was hiding, putting on a show for the killer you swore you hated and making yourself come the hardest you’ve ever done. 

“It makes you feel special, doesn’t it? The way you’re the only exception. The only one I would never hurt.” His voice is lower, hitting you to the core, making your toes curl and your breath falter in your chest. “You’re like a daisy in a garden of bloody, red roses.” 

“Please,” you breathe out, choking on your tongue, eyes fluttering open shyly. 

“Want me to stop?” He coos, head cocking to the side as he lands a sharp slap on your asscheek that makes you hiccup on a whimper and then another to your boob that drags a louder cry out of you. “Don’t want to hear how special you are?” 

But that’s not what you meant. Your pleads were about something else, something you struggle to confess. 

A deep laugh resonates in his chest as he looks down at your already wrecked face. You’re so precious, he can’t believe you sometimes think he could hurt you. His prettiest game, his wildest fantasy. The thrill he feels in his bones every time he’s close to you, so, so near to being discovered and yet always safe. It’s exciting, getting to his brain so much he can hardly hide how much it turns him on. But you’ve never been this close before. He dreamed about fucking you, having you pressed under him, begging, moaning and crying as his dick hit deep into your sweet pussy, pounding into you over and over again until you were nothing but mush in his hands. He wanted to strip you down completely and leave nothing of the women he sees and admires every single day. He dreamed of having all this power over you, watching you get weak on your knees and let him do anything he wanted, watching your body convulse in pleasure and your brain empty. And here you are now; wet, fucked-out eyes looking up at him while your pretty, plump mouth opens and closes as your shut-down brain tries hard to find the words. 

“Speak up, princess. I don’t like to wait.” 

“Please, wa-want to feel you,” you slur in a whisper, eyes blinking lazily as you try to hold onto what’s left of your sanity. 

He chuckles, his thrusts coming to a stop that makes you whine in disappointment. “You want me to fuck you raw, detective?” 

You hum, nodding slowly, not for the lack of enthusiasm but for the amount of shame that’s looming over you like a tornado. But Ghostface doesn’t like your silences, he doesn’t like it when you hesitate, that’s not what turns him on about you. It’s your impulses, the way you jump into things headfirst without thinking, for some it may be dumb, but to him, it’s just that sprinkle of insane bravery that makes life exciting. Your head is yanked up again with a rough pull of your hair, but his hold quickly moves to your neck. “I thought we were over the phase where I have to drag the words out of your mouth, detective. I’ll ask nicely one last time, do you want me to fuck you raw?” 

You swallow your pride and reply meekly, “Ye-yes.” 

He chuckles, pulling out of you almost completely before sinking in again with no warning, knocking the air out of your lungs, air that’s already struggling to fill them as his hold on your neck doesn’t loosen up. “See? It wasn’t that hard, was it? Even your stupid brain could put two words together.” 

You gasp for air when he finally lets go and your face sinks on the pillow again. 

“I’d love to, but I won’t risk it. Maybe next time, maybe if I’ll ever feel like telling you who I am,” he replies, and you groan in disappointment. Not only he doesn’t give you what you want but he also mocks you, reminding you why you’re here and how your mission flushed down the toilet as you let him play you like a violin. 

“Then — fuck — please, fuck me harder,” at this point you want him to fuck you so hard your brain will just unplug and your superego can stop nagging at the back of your mind. You don’t want a single thought in your brain, just pleasure and lust. 

“That I can give it to you,” he hums happily, and in a second, he complies. His hips start snapping against you at a fast speed, his tip hitting you deep repeatedly as he keeps you arched back with one hand around your waist and the other one wrapped around the makeshift ponytail he made with your hair. 

You can already feel the orgasm build up at the tip of your stomach, but it only worsens when Ghostface roughly pulls you flat against him. Your head falls behind on his shoulder, eyes rolled far in your skull as your lips hang open to let out desperate moans and suck in as much air as possible. 

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he moans, his thumb rubs against your neck and jaw while his right hand squeezes and pulls your boobs hard before pinching the nipples. “Listen to those pretty sounds you make,” he snickers, “and you still want to pretend you’re innocent and pure? You’re fucked up just like me, baby, that’s why I like you so much,” he slurs. 

You blink, once again adjusting to the light is uncomfortable but you make out just in time the fact he’s holding a Polaroid camera. “Smile for the camera, babe,” his voice rings in your ears but doesn’t reach your brain and before you know it, you’re coming just like that. The look on your face is not a smile but an expression of blissed pleasure, the exact moment as the climax explodes inside of you, making you clench around his dick and shake in his arms, your arm twisting back, letting your hand claps on his bicep and sink your nail in the thick fabric of the black cloak.  

Ghostface would like to say he’s disappointed and scold you for misbehaving, but he can only stare at you with amused disbelief written all over his face. But you only see the constant expression of the mask and once again, you fear for a second he’s mad at you. Truth be told, he could even kill you right now, you wouldn’t mind much or even notice, too lost in the pleasure that’s still looming on your body. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, hips slowing down until they stop completely, “you just gifted me the most precious pic in my collection,” he whispers. You feel like the edge of mockery is still persistent but at the same time something genuine lingers in it, it doesn’t make it less creepy, but the ‘fuck me harder method’ worked because you don’t question his, and yours, fucked morality and just smile dumbly. 

And that smile, united with the slow bat of your wet eyelashes, is what he needs to lose it. 

“Oh, fuck it, I’ll clean you up once we’re done and if you’ll try to turn me in, I’ll find out, so you better keep your promise, alright?” 

You don’t get what he’s talking about right away, too fucked out as you lay on the mattress waiting for his next move, but when he pulls out of you and swiftly pulls the condom out, you get it. You bite your lips in anticipation and swing your hips in invitation. 

The sight would be enough to make him come right there, and he damns himself because out of all people, you can’t be his biggest weakness. It got to be some fucking joke of destiny. “Will you go to the police?” 

“No,” you mumble.  

“Good girl, because these little games are just for us, me and you, you can’t use what we do here to help you with your case.” When he sinks inside of you again, he feels like he could lose it all for the way your wet, warm walls wrap around him. “Fuck, fuck,” he curses, voice even more distorted now that he murmurs through gritted teeth, “you feel so fucking good.” 

His thrusts now are almost primal, desperately pounding you against the mattress, keeping you pinned down with a hand on the back of your head —not that you need that, you wouldn’t be able to hold your neck up even if you wanted to— and holding for dear life on your hips with the other. You’ll probably have some bruises by the end of the night, if not colored prints on your skin, surely light discomfort at the touch will follow you for a few days. And you almost want to beg him for more, to mark you in some other ways, to leave something just for you to see and carry with you. Sick and perverted thoughts cross your mind, and you push them away swiftly. 

You bite down on your lips when his hand leaves your side to torture your nipples again, he can barely push his hand between your body and the mattress, but he has just enough space to play with your sensitive nipples, making them even harder and causing you to clench even more around him. He loves how sensitive you are there and how each rub, pinch, and slap has you easily squirming and moaning under him.

“Look at you, going all dumb on my cock,” he groans, mockingly giving one harsh slap to your tits before his fingers trace your cheek. Your skin is so hot he can almost feel it through the fabric separating you, but what he’s most fascinated about are your tears, black mascara running down your beautiful face, dying on the pillow and your tortured parted lips. “Are you still thinking about being better than me or — fuck — have you finally embraced your dark side?” 

Not a word comes out of your mouth when you whimper back, and not even a thought crosses your mind. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he grins smugly. “You know,” he breathes out, head thrown back as it gets harder and harder to contain the orgasm, but he doesn’t want it to end so soon, “you should fire yourself and be my toy, just my toy, every time I need you, everywhere I need you. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? It’d make you feel even more special.” 

You mumble a weak reply, it’s a whispered ‘no,’ but your body doesn’t deny how much the thought turns you on. Too many responsibilities in your life and your job, too much to carry daily, but right now? Nothing. Guilt will eat you alive tomorrow but not now. Something feels exciting about being on the run with him, being the one that runs, instead of the one that chases. But it won’t happen, you believe in your job, and you want this slasher to end.  

“Cause only I can get you like this, ugh,” he grunts, hips slamming faster but more sloppily against your ass, the vulgar sounds filling up the room. “No man before and no man after will make you come this hard. Nobody, love. No matter how much you’ll want to, they all will disappoint you and you will look for me in every single one of them,” he groans, each word punctuated by a harsh slam of his hips, “well, the lucky ones that will get a taste before I’ll get them and kill them.” 

You don’t reply, just lay there, looking like a mess as you try to fight another orgasm because coming again would be humiliating. 

“It turns you on, doesn’t it?” You can hear the grin on his face and his voice has the edge of insanity of the usual. “Let’s be honest, you’ve got a list of shitty partners, you would’ve been grateful if I got rid of some of them.” 

“Fuck, just — just fuck me,” you beg, your hand reaching behind to touch him somehow, but he doesn’t like it. 

He grips your hand and pins it behind your back bending your arm, you hiss in discomfort, but he doesn’t let go. “Oh, no, angel. You don’t make the rules in this game, I do. If I want to sink into your brain and get so deep into you that I’ll make sure you will never come out the same, I will. I’m the darkest side of yourself, the fucked up filth you’re too afraid to face,” he groans. “And I know you’re close again. Your tight cunt is squeezing me, and you made a mess on the mattress,” he snickers. “Imagine if they find this place, this mattress, your DNA on it,” he stops, leaning next to your ear, voice dropping lower, “or better, imagine if they find us now. What do you say, detective? Would they be disappointed? Would they just jack off at the view? You look so hot right now, I wouldn’t blame them if they’d get off to you, to us together. Kill them surely, blame them not. We’re so hot, detective.” 

You squirm under him, feeling like the room is spinning fast and you can’t ground on anything. You have a darker thought in mind, something you can’t confess to him or else he won’t stop mocking you. You want to get caught, but not by your colleagues, by his partner. What would he do if he saw you and his partner in crimes like this? Would he understand this, or would he snap? Maybe even feeling betrayed. Does he even know you and him have been playing this game of attraction for a while now?  

Your silence doesn’t make Ghostface suspect anything. You simply look totally fucked out, brain empty as you plead in soft whimpers and moans. 

“You sound so fucking good,” he praises. “Why don’t we play another little game, uh?” 

Your eyes open in surprise and you hum with no strength, “what?” 

“Beg me to save your life,” he says, grabbing the knife again and placing it close to your neck. “Come on, do it for me, I won’t ever hear you say it because I will never want to kill you. Please, detective,” he coos, hips slowing down because your pussy is fogging his brain and he’s not sure his always-perfect aim and reflexes will work right now. 

You take a deep breath and then speak. “Please, Ghostface, please, spare my life.” 

His head rolls back, and a deep, groggy moan comes out of his lips. “Fuck, yes, keep going,” he orders, hips picking up the rhythm again as he skillfully flips the blade to the lesser sharp side just to be safe. 

And you obey. You beg, choked-up words slipping from your lips that soon turn into please, fuck me harder, and then please, wanna come. You feel boneless, your body is too hot, and you feel you might pass out, you need a release and then hope something bigger than you will make you get back on your legs and walk out of there as if nothing happened, as if you never followed your guts and found his —their— safe haven. 

“Come for me, love,” he orders, throwing the knife to the side before his hand sneaks under your body to roughly slap your clit a few times, enjoying the louder moans he drags out of you by doing so and watching with pleasure as your body squirms and shakes. “And don’t forget to smile for the camera.” 

This time your eyes lock with the polaroid that he points toward your face as his chin rests on your shoulder. But it only lasts for the time of the picture, your body collapses again when he lets go of your hair and you let the pleasure pervade you from head to toe. It’s breathtaking and mind-blowing, and next time you’ll fuck someone else you’ll hate that he’s right. You will feel him everywhere, you will feel his dick deep inside of you every time your fingers will desperately try to take its place, and every time you’ll let someone in your bed, but you don’t hate that thought as you should. 

“Fuck,” he groans, giving you a few more pumps to make sure you rode your high before slipping out and then roughly flipping you over. “Close your eyes,” he orders, and you follow with no hesitation —honestly, you were struggling to keep them open in the first place. 

Your heaving chest, your parted lips still letting out cries, your wet cheeks, and your trembling closed thighs are the last drop he needs to let go. Deep moans reach your ears while his hot cum drops on your face, most on your skin but some in your mouth, and they get even louder when you shyly swallow it and lick your lips for more. 

“Fuck, fuck, you’re —” he gasps but doesn’t finish, holding onto nothing as he empties himself all over your face. “Fuck.”

He feels dizzy, the orgasm still shaking him up, but then he looks at you and has to bite back a moan. The white strings of cum are covering your blissed face, your eyelashes are clumped together by the tears, and your lips are plump and darker, he knows he doesn’t want to forget what you look like right now. “Smile one last time, baby.” 

And you do, the corners of your mouth lift and then you hear the click of the polaroid. You think for a second you should’ve told him to don’t take them, he could easily blackmail you, or straight-up get you fired, but once again, you don’t truly care, and you don’t deny how much the idea of those photos turned you on.

You should get up, grab your pants, jacket, shoes and leave. But you feel heavy and tired, you’re still shaking, and your breath didn’t go back to normal, yet. 

“Don’t worry, detective,” Ghostface whispers, something passes on your face to clean you from the mess, but you don’t know what, and only then you open them ajar, just to see he’s still wearing his mask. “I’ll take care of you.” 

The Ghostface mask is the last thing you see. 

When you wake up, you’re in your bed, wearing your nightwear, completely cleaned up, but your bones and muscles are still sore, and a terrible headache is throbbing in the left side of your brain. You turn around, rubbing your eyelids with your palms before you can fully focus on the pillow and see three things on it. The Ghostface mask, a polaroid of you two from before, his face next to yours as he pulled your hair, and a note. 

“It was a pleasure playing with you, my pretty detective. Can’t wait to see what our next game will be like♡ ” 

general taglist: @froggyforyoongi , @wingsss45 ; @tddyhyck ; @technologyculturedneo

© neowinestaindress; all rights reserved. do NOT repost, modify, or translate any work from this blog on any other platform and claim it as yours. you can find my works on ao3 (neowinestaindress) and wattpad (winestaintedress_; currently inactive).

[metamatar]

This is maybe a stupid question but do you think there's any ties between like orientalist trends in western countries that glorify dharmic religions and Hindutva? Like I've heard 'Hinduism is the oldest religion on Earth' and 'Hinduism/Buddhism are just so much more enlightened than savage Abrahamic religions' and 'how could there be war and oppression in India? Hindus don't believe in violence' from white liberals and it certainly seems *convenient* for Hindutva propaganda, at least.

Not stupid at all! Historically, orientalism precedes modern Hindutva. The notion of a unified Hinduism is actually constructed in the echo of oriental constructions of India, with Savarkar clearly modelling One Nation, One Race, One Language on westphalian nationhood. He will often draw on Max Mueller type of indology orientalists in his writing in constructing the Hindu claim to a golden past and thus an ethnostate.

In terms of modern connections you can see the use and abuse of orientalism in South Asian postcolonial studies depts in the west that end up peddling Hindutva ideology –

The geographer Sanjoy Chakravorty recently promised that, in his new book, he would “show how the social categories of religion and caste as they are perceived in modern-day India were developed during the British colonial rule…” The air of originality amused me. This notion has been in vogue in South Asian postcolonial studies for at least two decades. The highest expression of the genre, Nicholas Dirks’s Castes of Mind, was published in 2001. I take no issue with claiming originality for warmed-over ideas: following the neoliberal mantra of “publish or perish,” we academics do it all the time. But reading Chakravorty’s essay, I was shocked at the longevity of this particular idea, that caste as we know it is an artefact of British colonialism. For any historian of pre-colonial India, the idea is absurd. Therefore, its persistence has less to do with empirical merit, than with the peculiar dynamics of the global South Asian academy.

[...] No wonder that Hindutvadis in both countries are now quoting their works to claim that caste was never a Hindu phenomenon. As Dalits are lynched across India and upper-caste South Asian-Americans lobby to erase the history of their lower-caste compatriots from US textbooks, to traffic in this self-serving theory is unconscionable.

You can see writer sociologists beloved of western academia like Ashish Nandy argue for the "inherent difference of indian civilization makes secularism impossible" and posit that the caste ridden gandhian hinduism is the answer as though the congress wasn't full of hindutva-lites and that the capture of dalit radicalism by electoralism and grift is actually a form of redistribution. Sorry if thats not necessarily relevant I like to hate on him.

Then most importantly is the deployment of "Islamic Colonization" that Hindu India must be rescued from, which is merely cover for the rebrahmanization of the country. This periodization and perspective of Indian history is obviously riven up in British colonial orientalism, see Romila Thapar's work on precolonial India. Good piece on what the former means if you've not engaged with it, fundamentally it posits an eternal Hindu innocence.

[happy-little-worker]

Ain’t nobody gonna see this but I have theory of the Calamari Inkantation. Splatoon 3 Spoilers.

Okay so I was listening to Wave Goodbye, the Splatoon 3 Credits Song, over and over like a normal person, when at some point I realized when they get to the portion that starts the Calamari Inkantation lyrics, there are non-filtered voices singing. Humans Voices. (Pictured is around the point where that section starts)

Then I thought to myself: What if the Calamari Inkantation originated as a song humans made on Alterna? A song to help them continue despite their world falling around them. Then I started looking into the logs and reflecting on past events with the song and..

Let’s just say Sunken Scroll #23 from Splatoon 1 saying: “Nowadays, this song and dance may as well be carved into the very DNA of all Inklings.” ..might be a tiny bit more literal than expected. Let’s take a look at what we know.

The Calamari Inkantation is a literal incantation. Series of words, or a song in this case, that causes magical effects. It has, in many cases, been known to give strength, physical or otherwise, to those who have been in audible range of it. Ex. Giving Cuttlefish the strength to break out of his restraints and Smallfry to temporarily evolve(?) into Hugefry.

With that said, I believe the “Calamari” part could be from the place it was “founded” in and taken on as a traditional song for. Calamari Country. Which is where Callie and Marie come from. Perhaps the Inklings of the area long ago found the sheet music.

Moving on, the part of this that helps this theory’s case is Alterna Log005: Fresh Intelligence Awakens.

After the liquid crystals that retained decades of humanity’s wishes was absorbed by the squids, octopuses, and other sea creatures that inhabited Alterna’s waters.. it imbued them with fresh impulses that “bore a striking resembling to humanity’s passive desire to return to the Earth’s surface”.

Interesting. The desire to return to the surface was slowly fused into their DNA. You may be thinking “But what does this have to do with the Inkantation?” And that’s exactly where I’m going with this.

So if we are to think.. the Calamari Inkantation was made by the humans on Alterna, perhaps filled lyrically with their wishes.. and the sea creatures absorbed the desire and wishes of humanity to return to the surface through the liquid crystals.. and the Calamari Inkantation gives sea creatures the literal strength to move forward..

And the INKADIA-BORN OCTOLINGS, who were SUFFERING in poor conditions UNDERGROUND in DOMES heard the CALAMARI INKANTATION and suddenly their “SOULS WERE FREED” and THE DESIRE TO RETURN TO THE SURFACE AND THRIVE WAS EVOKED INTO THEM AGAIN?

AFTER YEARS OF LIVING A HARD MILITARISTIC-STYLE LIFE WITH BEING INDUCTED INTO THE ARMY AT A YOUNG AGE, THEY FOUND THE STRENGTH TO LEAVE THEIR ENTIRE OLD LIFE BEHIND? TO RISK IT ALL. EVEN THEIR OWN LIFE. TO JOIN WHAT THEY WERE PRESUMED TO BE THEIR WORST ENEMIES ON THE SURFACE IN HARMONY?

After thinking about all this and rewatching the Octo Expansion Surface Cutscene (from that last GIF), I nearly wanted to CRY. They had never seen the real sky before, the real SUN before. They made it. Not only the Octolings but humanity’s final wishes made it too.

That’s my theory. Perhaps I’m wrong but either way I would love to see what people think. Thanks for reading.

Oh and also, since it named the “Inkantation” that means someone knew of its power... This just in, did the Inklings cheat in the Great Turf War?

But that’s for another day lol

[youuuimeanmee]

Get ready with me to be surprised with

✨️Anya's Origin✨️

Hint: Romania

I had some free time, so I reread the latest chapter of Spy x Family, chapter 92.

Barbara said she and Sigmund were in Covenia for awhile. We know Westalis and Ostania are a reference for the West Germany and Eastern Germany, so I wondered if Covenia is based on a real place too. I was bored, y'see.

I quick-searched a country name that ended with -nia, but no luck.

I remembered a theory that Anya is more superior in Classical languange because she might've come from a place that uses that languange. A wild idea popped up to me that Covenia still uses (or references) that language. Since Sigmund has many classical books, it's not a stretch to assume he learned that language because he used to live in Covenia. Based on that assumption, I searched what country is still using Latin languange, what languange that references Latin.

... bingo.

Covenia and Romania. Who would've thought.

I searched where is Romania located because my geography sucks.

Oh it's in Europe, great! And it's close with Ukraine too, Russia...

Wait. I thought the story is based in the '60s, so, could they be related at that time?

Wow, so they ARE related.

And the timeline matched with SxF's world too.

When I clicked the "Romania" word, I stumbled on this.

.....

Could it be,

Anya originally comes from Covenia, which is a reference to Romanian People's Republic?

Does it mean the organization that experiment on Anya is based in Soviet?

And to think that Sigmund, a well-known neurology professor, used to rehabilitate wounded soldiers in Covenia... Is it really a rehabilitation though?

*cold sweat*

Anyways.

If Anya really comes from Covenia/Romania, the initial spelling of her name would make sense then, but I have zero idea about Romanian alphabet to confirm it.

Of course I searched it.

The Romanian alphabet is a variant of the Latin alphabet used for writing the Romanian language. It is a modification of the classical Latin alphabet and consists of 31 letters, five of which (Ă, Â, Î, Ș, and Ț) have been modified from their Latin originals for the phonetic requirements of the language

Oh shoot it's getting warmer.

Double check to make sure, I tried to look if [î] is really the replacement alphabet for [y].

OH SHIT.

K, Q, W and Y, not part of the native alphabet, were officially introduced in the Romanian alphabet in 1982.

Now it makes sense. No wonder Anya spelled her name like that.

It's because in the place where she came from, the alphabet Y wasn't used yet. And it's not supposed to be Ania either; it's Anîa. But I doubt a small child like her would understand the difference between i and î.

Summary:

Anya might've come from Covenia/Romania. It explains her initial name and her excellence in Classical language.

The organization that experimented on Anya might've come from the Soviet.

Sigmund might have some connections with Anya more than we thought; the theories were right on track. Because he studies neurology and lived in Covenia for some time, he is fluid in Classical languange and he knows how to make learning more fun.

I wanted to try searching what kind of brain-related research did Soviet do at that time, but then I might come up with lobotomy or some dark shit and I'm not prepared for that, so I'm gonna let the sleeping dogs lie until we get more informations from Endo.

Annd that's it. I'm very surprised with this finding. My quick 5-minutes search turned into 2-hours brainrot. And my hands are still cold. I'm not sure if it's intentional from Endo or it's just some happy coincidence, but at least I'm more aware with Covenia now.

Thank you for following me in this short journey! Byee 👋

[girlactionfigure]

Me: I don’t deny your identity. I acknowledge Palestinians exist today.

Them: Jesus was a Palestinian, not a Jew!

Me: Well, no - he was a Jewish rabbi. He had a bris, kept Shabbat, kept kosher, & his “Last Supper” was a Passover Seder. Besides, nobody would be called “Palestinian” for ~1,900 years after #Jesus died.

Them: Jews are #Khazars with no history in Palestine!

Me: Well, no - millions of DNA samples have now scientifically proven that Ashkenazi Jews (like their Sephardi & Mizrahi brothers & sisters) originate from the Levant (Israel).

Ashkenazi Jews migrated to the Rhineland (western #Germany) between 800-900 CE. 

#Yiddish - the language spoken by #Ashkenazi Jews for a millennia - is a mixture of Jews’ original Hebrew & adopted #German.

Meanwhile, there is no evidence of any Khazar influence on Ashkenazi customs, language, or culture.

The #Khazar tale (claiming some or many Turkic Khazars converted to #Judaism), while interesting, is not supported by any archeological evidence, and can be considered nothing more than a story.

Besides, it’s unassailable that the Ashkenazim were living ~1,500 miles from the Khazars, which may as well have been on the moon in the Middle Ages.

Them: Palestinians are Canaanites, the original inhabitants of the Land!

Me: Well, no - there’s zero evidence the Palestinians are Canaanites. This theory followed other similarly false claims over the past several decades that the Palestinians descend from the Philistines (an ancient Aegean Greek “sea people”) and even the Jebusites - a people for whom there is no evidence outside of the Bible of their having ever existed (if they did, they have been gone for at least 3,000 years).

One thing is clear, all of these recent tall tales about Palestinians’ ancient roots in “Palestine” were created in an attempt to delegitimize the State of Israel & not as some academic attempt to find Palestinian roots.

The #Canaanites (who spoke a language similar to #Hebrew, not #Arabic) have been extinct for more than 3,000 years; and there are no #Canaanite influences in any modern Palestinian language, culture, cuisine, customs, or religion.

Furthermore, DNA studies now prove Canaanites are closest in descension to modern-day Armenians & Western Iranians - but, culturally, there has not been a “Canaanite” people in ~3,000 years.

Meanwhile, there is a practically infinite amount of archeological, biblical & non-biblical text, and architectural evidence proving beyond any doubt that Jews lived in the Land of Israel continuously for more than 3,200 years.

Arabs only started arriving in Eretz Israel in significant numbers during the Arab Imperial conquest out of the deserts of the Arabian Peninsula in the mid 7th century CE when the Land was still majority-occupied by ~350,000 Jews.

Arab conquerers #colonized the Land of Israel & subjugated the Jewish majority.

That’s right, the Arabs were the #colonizers - this is historical fact no matter how much that might make your head hurt.

Them: The Jews are foreigners who stole Palestinian land!

Me: Ok, now you’ve officially ticked me off by repeatedly denying MY identity - one that was OBVIOUS to everyone before the last ~55 years when KGB-inspired propaganda went into mass effect in an effort to delegitimize Israel.

Can’t say the same about your identity … even though I keep trying to offer to respect it!

The Arabs only ruled Eretz Israel after conquering it in the 7th century & until they were kicked out by the Seljuks ~400 years later. Never during that time, did they even attempt to establish an Arab or #Muslim state or capital anywhere in Eretz Israel (Jerusalem is never mentioned in the Koran, and while the city is holy to Sunni Muslims, it is not holy to Shia Muslims).

And during the time of Arab rule, there was obviously no state or country called “Palestine.”

Then, during the 400 years before the start of the British Mandate around 1920, the Land was a distant & severely neglected province of the Ottoman #Turkish Empire.

In fact, in the late 19th century, as Jews began moving back to their homeland in larger numbers, there were only ~200,000 people living there (mostly a sparse, nomadic population), and Jews were the majority in #Jerusalem.

Post-WWI, the League of Nations (the precursor to the UN) legally granted Britain a "sacred trust" called the Mandate for Palestine (a name given to the land by Roman Emperor Hadrian in 135 CE).

The Mandate for Palestine was the least controversial of the 15 post-WWI mandates because everyone KNEW Jews were from “Palestine.”

So the Mandate for Palestine, which included the legal requirement for Britain to aid in the establishment of a Jewish National Home, passed unanimously by the League of Nations.

Among other things, the unanimously passed & legally-binding Mandate recognized “the historical connection of the Jewish people with Palestine and to the grounds for reconstituting their national home in that country.”

Besides, before the Jews started returning to the Land in large numbers in the late 19th century, it had become almost entirely war-torn ruins, arid desert & malarial swamps.

But the returning Jews were determined to rebuild their homeland; and the evidence is undeniable that Jewish labor & the Western technology they brought along helped to make the desert bloom again.

The result of a new booming economy in the midst of mostly rural, undeveloped land is no surprise; and hundreds of thousands of Arabs from neighboring lands immigrated to Mandate Palestine in the early to mid 20th century.

In fact, once Arabs began to rebel against the Jews (with pogroms & full-blown barbaric massacres on a particularly wide scale in 1920, 1921, 1929, and in 1936-1939), they made extremely clear to the British that they resented the name “Palestine,” which they claimed (incorrectly) was a modern Zionist invention.

For example, at the British Peel Commission in 1937 (looking into Arab riots from the year before), local Arab leader Audi Bey Abdul-Hadi testified that “[t]here is no such country [as Palestine]! Palestine is a term the Zionists invented!”

Again, during the 1946 Anglo-American Committee of Inquiry that was set-up to make recommendations for the territory, Arab-American historian Philip Hitti testified, “There is no such thing as Palestine in [Arab] history, absolutely not.”

The Arab position was not particularly surprising, as "Palestine” is not an Arab word (Arabic does not even have a letter “P” or a sound for “P,” which is why you often hear Arabs today pronounce it with a “B” as “Balastine”).

The Arabs in the Land at that time mostly identified with their local clan & otherwise considered themselves “Arabs” of “Southern Syria.”

In fact, just about anyone who was called a “Palestinian” pre-1948 was a #Jew.

This is why nobody made any attempt to create a “Palestinian state” during the 19 years between 1948 and 1967 in which #Egypt occupied #Gaza & #Jordan occupied the “#WestBank.”

The hard truth - even though I’m still acknowledging a #Palestinian people exists today - is that an Arab “Palestinian” identity was created for the first time in any signifiant way at the height of the Cold War in the mid-1960s & at the behest of the #Soviet#KGB, which wanted to expand its influence in the region, undermine the only democracy in the Middle East, and which had been repeatedly embarrassed by Israeli victories over invading Soviet-backed & Soviet-armed Arab states.

So the KGB wrote the ridiculous “Palestine Liberation Organization” (PLO) charter & molded Yasser Arafat at what was known as “KGB U” in #Moscow to use #terror & #propaganda to destabilize Israel.

Over the decades since then, many Arabs in the Land have come to self-identify as “Palestinians.”

Even among Palestinians today, however, many still identify with their clan over a separate “Palestinian” nationality (e.g., the clans do not intermarry & many are constantly engaged in some degree of violent conflict).

And the 2 million+ Arabs citizens of the State of Israel (who have equal protection under the law & more rights & privileges than they would have in any Arab and/or Muslim country on Earth) almost exclusively identify as either #Israeli-#Arabs or as simply #Israelis - not as #Palestinians.

Them: #Jews … I mean #Zionists … are bad, ok? Just ask the UN.

Me: Right. Just ask the #UN 

Captain Allen

@CptAllenHistory

[themousefromfantasyland]

Why are people not talking about this:

In the Little Mermaid 2023 remake, they changed the setting of the story.

Despite what many believe, the original 1989 animated movie wasn't set in Denmark. Judging by the architecture of Prince Eric's castle, the animals present during Kiss the Girl, and the landscape of the land itself, the movie is set in the European Mediterranean. Disney all but confirmed this in latter years. There were actual theories about Eric's kingdom being in Italy.

In the remake, Eric's kingdom is an island heavily implied to be on the Caribbean sea.

Eric is adopted and his mother, the Queen is super alive in this, and she is black. Grimsby here is portrayed by a Pakistani-British actor, making him ambiguously brown. Carlotta was replaced by a character named Lashana, and she is portrayed by a Trinidadian actress.

The island population is super diverse, with black and brown people everywhere.

They have a tropical climate and the only trees seen are palm trees.

Instead of waltzing when they visit the kingdom, Ariel and Eric dance Caribbean music.

When Eric shows several maps to Ariel, he suspiciously cites the names of a lot of South America countries, like Venezuela and Colombia, implying that the kingdom is closer to these countries than it is to Europe. He even cites my country, Brazil, referred as the Brazilian Empire, which dates the movie from anywhere between 1822 and 1889, when Brazil was indeed an Empire.

@ariel-seagull-wings @princesssarisa @angelixgutz @amalthea9 @thelittlehansy

[armed-with-a-waffle-iron]

Bat Timeline vs Bat Publication Timeline

I kept my receipts and citations here. I felt canon ages are the best tool to track time. Also, I used cover dates.

Neat things I noticed:

Nothing much happened in Gotham until Robin arrived both in continuity and in print history. Sorry but your lone wolf Batman doesn't exist :P

Dick permanently becomes Batman at the same age Bruce was when he became Batman; 25. Kinda poetic if you ask me.

Babs was Oracle longer than she was Batgirl in both continuity and publication history!!

Completely forgot that Dinah was literally her own mother once upon a time. Weird stuff.

There's not enough Jason!Robin stories to fit the 3 years some fans claim he was Robin for. Also the 3 years idea doesn't work if you track Dick's age. My guess is he was originally younger than 15 when he died but DC aged him up so he could be an adult when he returned as Red Hood.

It's pretty clear that Helena's integration into the group began the expansion of this complicated "family unit". She set the precedent for those noirish vigilante work relations.

Tim has to be a vampire if he's meant to be 17 three whole very explicit in-continuity years after he had his 16th birthday.

Stephanie has basically been in this gig as long as Tim! And almost as long as Helena too. Proper seasoned ass-kicker who Damian should look to for pointers.

Also remembered that Cassandra's Batgirl run is the best thing to come out of Gotham in the early 2000s.

I dunno I think the One Year Later timeskip was just unnecessary.

Kate and Renee are almost as new to the vigilante gig as Damian!

Bat-adjacent Rose Wilson was said to be 14 during her first appearance around Year 15 so she's the same age Tim.

Not Bat related but Lian Harper's age works with my timeline so yay! Born early Year 14, she's 5 during Cry for Justice in Year 19.

I have a theory, based off of Batman #416, that Dick graduated high school at 17. He says he was Bruce's partner for 6 years and that after he was fired; he left college after the 1st semester, then moved around the country, had his own adventures, and "eventually" ended up with the Titans. Also, he was 21 during the Titans' 3rd anniversary (New Titans v2 #71) and 19 when he became Nightwing (Tales of the Titans #44) so the Titans (re-)formed when he was 18. This means he probably only turned 18 in the academic year he began college (or has a summer birthday). So he was Bruce's partner from ages 11-17, did his own thing for a while as he did in the 70s, eventually joined the Titans at 18, and became Nightwing at 19. Jason comes into the picture soon after Dick retires the Robin identity.