#but there's a certain kind of people who act as if it's THE mass and THE only valid thing

[rawliverandcigarettes]

Speaking of my last reblog, sometimes I still think about how I was once publically dragged through the mud unprompted for daring to tag that I thought the Citadel was less than stellar, and then, after pointing out that this universe's economy was interconnected and that the Citadel benefited from a lot of good publicity while hiding its deeply corrupted innards to "justify myself", I received back a wild collection of ad hominems and name-calling accusing me to want to be sad on purpose, not understand how money worked, and also of "projecting my feelings about Brazil" on the franchise (it was during the elections where Bolsonaro won), which was inherently inappropriate to do apparently.

And a bunch of people unfollowed me over that! :D

So yeah hard to me not to think the fandom has kind of a bias towards one given so-called "neutral" perspective, even if I feel like it has overall gotten a little better (as in: I now see posts like the one I just reblogged).

[justanawesomeowl]

Biscuit guy just sent a message to a group we're both in about LTM and I'm like... I know it seems cool on the internet but it's probably one of the last things you need rn

[hazelfoureyes]

I just need you to know this story has had me in a chokehold and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it. This is gonna be a weird smutty slow burn, so still smut every post but full p in v sex will be a reward you have to work for?

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Redsmut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedysmut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds

A burlesquer with a penchant for conning men, you find your latest game interrupted when your next mark saves you from an aggressive fan— by killing him. The chance encounter left you curious, still half convinced you could complete your normal chase. Unbeknownst to you, you were the one being tracked.

「warnings/tags: HumanAlastor x FemaleReader, implied attempt to SA, fingering, plot with porn?, Multi part work, bad kind of choking, blood kink, blood licking, just in general blood, Non-Sex repulsed Ace Spectrum Alastor, stalking, murder obvs, finger sucking, smoking kinda kills if you squint, Public sex acts, garter belt, You have a stage name but no one important uses it, Greed, Lust, Human Alastor is a little different than Demon Alastor. 」

minors dni 💅🏽

Part 1 Pretty in Red

The marriage between burlesque and jazz wasn’t unexpected. Before the Great Depression took the nation into a stranglehold, both Jazz and Burlesque were immoral wastes of time only the most barbaric sought out.

And oh, did you love it. Everyone who was made to feel like nobody flocked to your theater and the surrounding neighborhood. Men, women, the people who didn’t agree with either. The biblically inclined, those closer to sodom, the sapphic dolls. Everyone was equal in the halls of jazz rooms and theatres where burlesquers were welcome.

Because of the inclusive nature of such places, you often saw familiar faces. It wouldn’t be unusual for someone from Thursday night to be seen Saturday at a different locale.

That presented certain opportunities and challenges. When you found a good mark, it was easy to be wherever he was and play it off as fate and common interests.

And when you gained a new stalker, someone wanting a personal show, it could be hard to tell until it was too late. 

Maybe it was your greed, or just your love of attention, but you found yourself focused almost entirely on a particularly well dressed man one evening. You’d seen him around before. Clean cut, sharp suit, a welcoming smile always on display. He looked like he had money, the most attractive quality of any man you could meet.

So focused on his gleaming stare from the side booths you hadn’t noticed the man at the stage front tables. You barely noticed him the night before, or the night before that, either. Because Smiles, as you took to calling the handsome stranger in the back, had been here three nights now too.

You really put on a show. Shimmying your hips, ostrich feathers following suit with every move. Your brassiere was heavy with shining rhinestones, panties of silk and lace. Your set was almost done, all that was left was to remove your top and slink away behind the curtains to hollers and whistles. Back turned, you unhooked the painful bra and let it fall to the stage with a clunk. Foot in front of foot, you stalked the stage length. With your hand hidden from view you took the feathered fan from the stagehand behind the curtain. As the music crescendoed you turned, fan unfurling just in time to hide yourself.

Groans, mass begging from the audience. Your stage name a chant now, a prayer. “Autumn! Come on!”

As the band slowed, music dying to mark the end of your number, you scanned the crowd. Eyes blinking coyly, you mouthed, “More? Did you want more?”

People were jumping to their feet, not Smiles but that was fine, you were focused now on the adoration of the crowd. The music ended, a second of silence. 

You winked, the drums hitting one last beat as you let the fan close.

Fanfare! Men whistling, women clapping. Someone shouted a marriage proposal. You took a bow, twirled on the balls of your feet and slipped gracefully behind the curtains.

Your hands wound to your spine, rubbing blood flow back into your skin as the staff removed your headdress. Someone slipped your robe over you and you nodded a thanks, aching feet carrying you to the dressing room. It was chaos, as usual. Women buzzing around, tits and ass here and there. You smiled. You happened to enjoy this part of the job. Soft bodies in shiny costumes, lovely smells and sweet voices. If you could get dressed quickly enough, you could still take a tour of the room and slide into Smiles’ booth. 

“Enjoy the show?” You’d ask. He’d lean in, maybe blush, “Always when you’re here.” Or something like that. You’d cozy up to him, flag down a waiter for something strong and pricey, and get him properly drunk. He’d wake up outside, fine and dandy except his missing cash. 

You’ll call him a drunkard if he confronts you, accuse him of getting himself robbed after you refused his advances. You’ll say it too loudly, and he’ll run off. 

You danced a little in your seat, another game of cat and mouse about to commence. But first, a smoke.

Unbeknownst to you, the well dressed man hadn’t come to see you. He preferred your singing shows at the little dive bar two blocks over. No, he had come for the man at the front table. For weeks now, he had watched him harassing the ladies of the few joints in New Orleans that weren’t regularly hounded by police. Your smiley mark even heard stories of unsavory acts, many women leaving the dance scene entirely after.

He didn’t care for it. He didn’t care for him. So he took to his hunt, following the man to come to his own conclusions. The pattern of behavior was obvious, and though he hadn’t seen what ended the last obsession, it was clear one of the performers at this club was being stalked as the next victim. 

He watched your dance with half lidded eyes, just as much as he watched the man give dirty looks to the other men cheering. Heard the, “Marry me!” shouted at you.

Yes, it was obvious to him now. 

So when the target of his interest got up and pushed his way into a staff only door, well, the well dressed man was sure to follow. 

The great thing about confidence and a nicely tailored suit is that no one questions you about why you are where you are. So while the brute he tailed had to shove past people to get wherever he was going, people smiled and made room for the gentleman who was not far behind.

He caught the street access door before it closed, allowing it to stay open just a sliver. Enough for one golden brown eye to watch the events unfold.

“Can I have a light?” The stranger asked you. You looked at him, then to the staff only entrance he just came out of. 

“I don’t think I know you….,” you handed him the lighter but he instead leaned into you, cigarette hanging from his lips. “You… new?”

You sparked the flint with a practiced thumb, taking three tries to get it lit, and put your hand out. The man didn’t budge, eyebrows rising, “You really don’t recognize me?” He asked, motioning with his hand to come closer. Your eyes glanced down the alley, cars slowly moving past the street. When you looked back, the man took your wrist in his hand. He held you so tightly that the muscles in your palm locked and you dropped the lighter. 

“What the fu-,” his hand came across your face, halting your sentence.

“I’m your best customer. Every show. I’m the one who brings flowers.”

Dozens of men bring flowers, especially on the weekend shows. You held your cheek, skin burning. Your hand pulled back, the corner of your lip bleeding from his rings. Scrambling, your mind was searching for the right words.

With a forced smiled, your shaky voice finally piped up, “Oh! Yeah! Oh geez. I am so sorry, doll. I’m just so tired, and the alley is so dark. Here, let’s go inside so I can get a better look at you.” You tried to take your wrist from him but he didn’t loosen up.

“Nah, you ain’t tricking me. You owe me.” He pulled you into him, large hand gripping your face with ease, “You can’t lead on men like this and think you don’t gotta answer for it.” He kissed you, forcing your face into his. “Bitch! Did you fucking bite me?” He threw you into the tin trash cans beside the wall, knocking the wind out of you. 

No purse, no sharp object, not even a heeled shoe to defend yourself with. You cursed, so preoccupied with Smiles you forgot your wits.

You spit out the copper saliva, his blood and yours. “I’ll keep biting, too.” 

Why scream? The sounds of the next act were bouncing off the brick walls. Upbeat jazz and applause echoing around you. No one would hear you. Men can break your body but you never had to give them your dignity. Never give them the satisfaction of a response.

No. No screaming. You instead spent your energy trying to get to your feet. He took hold of your neck now, throttling you. It wasn’t what you had expected, but as he lifted you off the ground and your little dressing room slippers fell off, you thought this was actually better. 

“Well I think that’s quite enough.”

You felt warmth, then registered wetness. Your shin scraped on the asphalt as you were dropped without warning. Trying to open your eyes, you found you couldn’t see. Wiping and blinking away the foreign liquid, you watched your attacker fall to his knees.

Blood was shooting from between his fingers around his own neck, each pulse becoming weaker and weaker, evident through the stream.

When he finally fell over, drained, you were startled to see another man with you. The light reflected off his glasses as he adjusted them, the knife still in his right hand as he did so. 

“My, my. What a mess he’s made.” The man smiled down at you, offering a hand. When you didn’t immediately react, he cocked his head to the left, “Is that anyway to treat your rescuer?”

Is that was this was? A rescue? You took his hand with both of yours, pulling yourself up. 

Smiles? You blinked away the shock, time to shift into your next part. Damsel. You weren’t out the woods yet.

“You saved my life!” As you pressed yourself into his chest, you tucked your head beneath his chin. You tried to make yourself small. “I owe you! Please let’s go inside, drinks on me!” You looked up, batting your lashes.

“I don’t think that’s wise, dear.” His gaze panned down your dress, soaked through. He could see the thinking behind your eyes.

“No, right….,” You gripped his vest, “We gotta get outta here, fast. There’s a hotel just behind the threatre.” You started to pull his suit jacket off, slipping it over yourself. “No cops, the theatre will get raided. Just— take me somewhere safe?”

You watched him look you over, arm finally extending to let you hook yours with his. 

As soon as the hotel door closed behind you, you slipped off his jacket and ran to the dressing table mirror. 

Your face was painted red, navy dress now black and sticky. It was good you stayed from view of the reception staff. “I didn’t get my rescuer’s name,” you licked your thumb and rubbed at the blood around your cheeks. 

“Alastor. It’s a pleasure.”

You laughed, “Is that what you call a pleasure?” Turning, you pulled the mostly still dry handkerchief from your pocket and dabbed the corner on your tongue. You brought it up to the frame of his glasses and wiped the blood from the metal. “I’d hate to see what you call a bad time.”

Your hand slowed, noticing the way he was looking at you. Typically men’s pupils were blown when they fell on you, but his were constricted. They flitted around your face. His hand took hold of yours, fingers separating the thumb from the handkerchief. He pulled the little square of yellow fabric free with his other hand, allowing him to hold your thumb now by itself.

His lips opened, tongue licking the blood stained finger before placing it directly into his mouth.

Your stared, horrified, as he sucked the digit clean. 

His eyes fluttered close, finger popping out of his mouth with a debauched sound. You made no attempt to take back your hand. The realization you may have hopped out of the frying pan and into the fire set in.

“You are a funny one, aren’t you?” You tried to sound as in control as possible. Calm. Unwavered. Offered a timid smile. 

He chuckled, “You could say that. May I?” His fingers lifted your chin. You didn’t know what he was asking. His soft smile looked downright loving. He smelled so good, notes of something earthy rising above the copper.

You nodded, because part of you wanted to see where it would go. And part of you thought you didn’t have a choice.

As his face came to yours, you instinctually closed your eyes expecting a kiss. But no, instead you felt his tongue wipe across the cut at the corner of your mouth. His breath blanketed your cheek. Then his hand left your chin, the warmth of his body gone entirely. 

You opened your eyes to see him at the door, slipping back into his jacket, “I’ll pay for the night.” He tipped his head to you and exited the room back first, eyes locked with yours until the door closed.

You just stood there in the silence left behind. But as if on cue, the adrenaline waned and your knees buckled under you. You were moments from death, now somehow spared. But what had he— Alastor, been doing there? Did he follow you, too? The cat and mouse had been flipped, or perhaps now this was a fox and hound?

Gripping the dressing table, you pulled yourself up and into the view of the mirror again. Face streaked in dried blood save for the one clean spot where your lips met cheek. 

You felt like a ghost the next day. It would be nice to tell someone about what happened but, “Hey a man tried to kill me and then another man killed him! Then he licked blood off my face and I let him. It was the most disturbingly erotic thing to happen to me in months!” would get you tossed into a wagon. 

“Are you rude or just stupid?” The theatre manager pulled you aside by the arm when you came into rehearsal. “You can’t just disappear like that, people were waiting.”

Your eyes narrowed, “Was… my absence really the most exciting part of the evening? Not the John in the gutter?”

He huffed, “So that’s it? Got a beau?”

“Wait— nothing else happened last night? After I left?” 

“This show doesn’t revolve around you. Plenty happened.”

“Excuse me,” you hurried into the back, “And sorry!”

You opened the street access door and looked into the alley. Trash cans neat and tidy, no dead man, nothing strange or telltale.

You ducked back inside. Had Smiles done this? Obviously, actually. No stranger just cleaned up the dead body. If the flatfeet had found him, the club would have been under scrutiny.

Good, you thought, and went about your work.

Rehearsal dragged on. Little details summoning you back to the night before. 

“You okay?” Another performer asked, grabbing your hand and inspecting the blood around your cuticles.

“Oh it’s not mine!” You laughed, she laughed, you walked off before she could clarify.

When applying your makeup, you remembered his hands on your face. They were so soft. Definitely a man of means. A brief intrusive thought, the other hands on your face last night.

You pranced on stage, going through the motions of your routine. Even in the empty hall, your eyes wandered to the booth he’d been in. And as you took the stage in earnest later that night you searched the crowd for the glint of his glasses and found nothing shiny nor promising.

Back in the dressing room you took a moment to wonder what the actual fuck you we’re doing. He murdered a man in front of you, why were you hoping to see him again? He had half a mind to kill you next.

But would that really be so bad?  Your life was routine, boring even. The only thing keeping your lungs expanding was the applause. Maybe the headlines of your death would cause such an uproar, dancer struck down in her prime, that you could bask in the loving glow all the way from hell.

One way to remain famous, you considered. A dramatic death.

Not that you were famous. You weren’t part of the national circuits. Just your local theatres, a common face and body to the sinners of Louisiana’s most infamous city. But, well, fame is relative. For the scene you were in, you were your own little star. 

A shining light. Shimmering. The faint light reflecting off— Blood. For a second you could only remember looking through bloodied, heavy lashes. 

“You’ve been so out of it. Trouble in paradise?” Ruth, the curviest of your coworkers and arguably the favorite of the crew, rested her chin on your head. Looking at each other in the mirror, you offered a soft smile.

“I’ll letcha know when I get there.”

She pinched your cheek, “Tommy said you had a new guy. I just figured-,”

“That isn’t,” you clenched your eyes shut, “no, no guy. I just got locked out last night in the alley. The sticky-,” sticky and viscous blood, “back door wouldn’t open up. I didn’t want to come in the front in my slippers so I just hoofed it home.” 

She patted your head, “if you say so! Be careful out there though. Dangerous these days.” 

An understatement.

You enjoyed the spotlight, but more than that you craved the attention doted on you after. You’d walk through the hall to the bar to adoring looks and free drinks. It bothered you that Tommy was telling the girls you had a man. You didn’t want to appear too closed off, or for word to spread to the customers. 

Last thing you needed was men passing you by for more available options. Not that the pay wasn’t fine. Ends were being met, but grifting added an element of thrill. You really did love the chase. Finding someone and deciding he would be yours, he would fall under your spell and be at your feminine mercy. It made you feel powerful, almost mythical. And the money was nice. Sometimes you didn’t even need to steal, the men would just lavish you in gifts and you’d let it fizzle out naturally. Normally their wives would snatch them back or they’d just get tired of waiting for you to leave the stage and dance into their domestic dreams. A housewife? An adopted mother to a grown man during the day, a hungry nymph at night? For what, an allowance and a home you didn’t own? Pass. Where’s that handsome man with his knife? That was a much better steel to fall onto than what these men offered from their laps.

From your view at the bar you knew he wasn’t there. But with a nod you decided the chase was still on. You were going to get your victory. If anything, this would be easier. You had dirt on him. Blackmail would be simple enough. Bloody clothes and the perfect alibi; being a woman. No cop would think you took down that hulking man. 

Ah, right. There was no body.

That would be an issue. He had to have taken it somewhere. Just find him and follow. Worst case scenario, you play the usual game and steal whatever cash was in his wallet.

Well, worst case you die. 

You slept sitting up to keep your hair set, during the day your makeup barely was there but a red lip always the star. You had three nice dresses (well, you had had four) so you figured three nights to find him before moving on.

You slinked through the crowds of the hot and sweaty dance club Moxie. Swinging music kept bodies moving, and though you kept your eyes open you didn’t catch sight of this Alastor fellow. Which was fine! You enjoyed a few dances, swing always making you feel energized. Not a waste of a Friday night.

Saturday was easy, the lounge on fifth. Smooth jazz, plush chairs, rich men. Definitely a place you could imagine Smiles to frequent. The whisky was all top shelf, and many gentlemen offered you a lap to sit. Sure, no Alastor, but you didn’t go home empty handed.

You weren’t a particularly great singer, but if the room was small enough and the piano loud enough, you could please a crowd. Your friend had you on a semi-set schedule most Sundays at her little dive too many blocks from Main Street. Her darling played piano, you sat and sang to the couple dozen patrons stuffed into the one room bar. When you finished your set, you took your bows and looked for your friend. You needed to tell her you wouldn’t be staying. 

Your polite nods and gracious thank yous were abruptly ended by a tap on your shoulder, “You dropped this, miss.” You did a mental check of your purse before turning around.

“Oh, a sight for sore eyes. Mr. Alastor.” Your face lit up, you could see it in his glasses.

“You’re too kind. Here, I apologize for the delay. I wanted to return them clean.” In his hand was your yellow handkerchief, folded neatly. You took it and found it uncharacteristically heavy. 

When you unfurled it, your brass lighter fell into your waiting palm. Your thumb caressed the engraving. 

Alastor watched your face as the lighter tumbled out. “I figured it was important, given the condition and detailing.”

You tested the weight in your hand, “Did you fill it?” You looked to him incredulously.  He nodded.

It was a surprisingly kind act, and you needed a second to regain your composure. “I don’t know how to thank you.” Your quick wit failed for a moment, but rebounded fast. “Except with a drink. My treat. To my rescuer.”

He mulled the idea, your reaction to him was interesting. Alastor had thought if he approached you first you’d show a little more fear, or shock. But you looked downright chipper to see him there. 

“Unfortunately I don’t have much time tonight. I had just wanted to return your items.”

Your smile dropped. How did he know you were here? Had he been carrying— no, he said he had them cleaned. Had he seen you here before, before the incident? A chuckle, smile brought back, “My luck is terrible. You always flee me. I hope you don’t see my company as deadweight.”

Alastor’s smile twitched, eyes hidden behind the glare of his glasses, “Not at all! I think you’d find I’m quite comfortable with-.”

“Lugging people around?” You said. That constricted pupil again, eyes wild. A chill ran down your spine. Alarms were going off. Wrong answer. You straightened your back, popping the items into your purse, “Next time.”

Alastor nodded, “Yes. Next time, then.”

You fucked it up. You knew you had, but suddenly his words felt like a thinly veiled threat. 

You turned to leave and hadn’t seen his smile sour.

It hadn’t been a threat. He hadn’t anticipated you to notice the implication. Most people would have been so blinded by his charm they would fail to notice the glaring red flags. He was mildly impressed. You would be more trouble than he had expected.

Alastor knew he needed to do something about the clearly clever woman who was seemingly expecting him. He had followed you for several days, surprised to find you not spreading word about the murder. You hadn’t spoken to anyone, really. Even the man you left the lounge with, you just smiled and nodded nearly all evening while the man dominated the conversation. So, your sharp wit took him off guard. Who were you pretending to be? And why?

All of your cleverness fell apart when you tried to follow him. It was almost comical. He felt bad. This was going to be embarrassing for you.

He took several right turns and stepped into the park just outside of the bar. You thought perhaps he had gotten lost and considered turning around after you realized you’d lost sight of him. As you passed a large weeping willow, you were pulled under the curtains of hanging moss by your waist.

Back against the large tree, you could only pout.

“What are you after, stalking a man in the dead of night?” Alastor had you pinned, both hands on either side of your head. His body boxed you in, not that there was much more to see than moss and darkness.

You blinked several times. What a question. You answered honestly, “You.” He cocked a brow. Then you lied, “Your affection. Your time.”

Something akin to a giggle bubbled from his chest. “I don’t have much affection, but I have even less time.” Your eyes darted around, looking for your next move. “I-,” you grabbed him by the face and kissed him. When you broke the kiss he was staring wide eyed, glasses askew. He opened his mouth to speak and you kissed him again, longer, harder.

He seemed frozen under your mouth, lips taut. Your hands roamed his face, messing up his hair and glasses. Mind reeling. Play the nymph. Be the whore the men always said they hated. Be too strong, too forward, too much and he’ll run off like men do. You could try again another day.

Your hand reached for his lap, his hips instinctively jerking away. Perfect. Men these days can’t get it up for a woman who takes the lead. 

Alastor was entirely unsure what the fuck was happening. You were wildly unpredictable. When you grabbed at his dick, he thought his eyes would cross from the shock. Is this what ‘affection’ meant to you? He couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t understand you. Were you really just lustful? Even after what you’d seen him—

You bit at his bottom lip, pulling slightly. Big eyes looking back at him. Your breath was already running away from you, adrenaline seemingly synonymous with Alastor. Staring up at him, you waited. His move.

It was his turn to blink. He looked off to his left, eyes swinging back to you. With a shrug, he leaned his body back towards yours. His hand slid down the front of your dress; red silk. A deer in the headlights, you tensed. The rare third option; fight, flight, freeze. Soon his fingers were tracing the lace of your stockings, climbing up the garter straps. 

His eyes were studying your face. You didn’t want to give the wrong answer again, but at this point you weren’t sure any answer was right. This was taking a sudden turn and your foot was off the brake. You closed your eyes, opting out of the scrutiny of his stare. His hand met your stomach and began to slip down again. He rested it between your thighs, longer fingers and palm cupping the entirety of your sex.

Alastor struggled to decipher your expression. It was almost like a pout, but more subtle. You hadn’t said stop or pushed him away yet. Was he right? You were just… horny? As his hand slid back up and pried their way into your panties, you trembled.

It had been so long since someone else’s hand was on you. Someone whose hands you genuinely enjoyed, who you wanted to be on you.

Is that right? You wanted him to touch you? 

Maybe it was the stare, or the smile. Probably just the adrenaline.

His hand found its place again, middle finger bending to part your folds and feel your wetness. You whimpered, hand coming to cover your own mouth. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He said it low, a husky tone he didn’t have before.

No. Maybe. You nodded yes.

“Will you be satisfied now? No more tailing me?”

No. Probably not. Another nod.

His finger pushed in, and with a kind of greed you didn't recognize your hips ground down into his palm. He slipped in and out of you with ease. You had no idea when or why you got so wet.

“I always end up dripping around you, Alastor,” you whispered through your fingers. His ring finger joined. Why couldn’t you shut up? Why did you have to bring up, well, the murder?

“A common problem for those I take an interest in.” 

Oh no. You moaned softly into your hand. Sharp mind made dull by his fingers so you didn’t, couldn’t, process his double meaning. 

Oh no. The sounds of footsteps, a pair of lovers sneaking into the park for privacy. You heard their giggles, the sounds of kisses interrupting their walking.

“Shhh”, he breathed into your ear as he worked a third finger into your heat. One knuckle, two knuckles. A whimper. His hand came to press down over your own on your mouth, a second barrier for your mewling. You groaned, the sound coming from your throat.  

Whispers. The silhouette of the two interlopers was visible through the willow’s curtains. You watched from over his shoulder, pussy clenching around him. Three knuckles deep, bottoming out.

Fuck it. You moaned freely into your hand, wiggling down onto his hand. Hips rolling, you let your little sounds of praise flow.

The couple laughed, “That’s the spirit!” A man said, a woman hushing him and pulling him away.

Alastor grinned into your neck, immensely amused. He would have better luck predicting a dice roll than your next move. 

You hadn’t realized how hollow you’d been until now, feeling so full. When alone, you focused on just cumming, fingers on your clit and mind on memories. You never bothered much with anything else.

Your hunger intensified. You wanted more. Both hands reached for his crotch again, finding nothing there for you. You could have cried. How were you a wet mess pressed against a tree and he was soft as a newspaper in a rainstorm?

Your pride stung. Men usually stood at attention around you. A half sob into the air earned you a chuckle from Alastor. “It’s no reflection of you, darling.” His nose nudged your ear lobe, “I need a little different stimulation than most.”

“Do you play for the other team?” You considered how you could momentarily switch. 

A louder laugh, “I don’t have a team.” He leaned back now to look at you. His freehand came to press on your lower stomach, gently pushing your womb down. Your brows knit, why did that feel so good? Hands going to the tree behind you for stability.

“Sure feels like you know how to play. This is-,” his hand switched from thrusting slowly in and out to moving front and back. It sent vibrations up into you. Your eyes rolled close. Shut up. Stop talking. Focus. Close.

He kissed around your open mouth, “Well, it’d be unamerican to not dabble. When necessary, or when the conditions are right.”

Double speak over, “Just tell me what to do to get you to fuck me.”

Alastor’s head fell back as he laughed earnestly, most likely alerting anyone in the immediate area. “Ha! No, this is more fun.”

“Oh fuck you,” you brought a hand around to your throbbing clit to quicken your release.

“Maybe next time, dear.” He took a second, fingers in you sliding around your walls in search of something before finding his place and continuing. Your breath noticeably changed, instead of panting you were practically holding it in. You needed the pressure, you needed something to squeeze that spring of pleasure down so it could snap back. As your face went flush, he kissed at your temple, “You look so pretty in red.”

“Oh god-,” Your head fell onto his chest, your joint effort bringing you to orgasm. 

“A little late on Sunday for prayers, don't you think?”

A tiny scream into his suit pocket, his hand not stopping until your thighs finished twitching around him. Even after his hand stopped moving you gripped him by the wrist and rolled onto his fingers a few more times. The pleasure ebbing but still spiking every time he moved against you. 

Ah, greed. That was it. He understood a little better. This wasn’t lust, not alone.  You were definitely a mix of the two. With a sigh, you released your hold and let him slide out of you. Already you felt lonelier. Already you wished to start over.

With his dry hand he smoothed out your dress. You weren’t ashamed but you suddenly felt too embarrassed to look him the eye. But you did, hearing him hum as he sucked his fingers clean. 

Why were you only ever in his mouth in the strangest ways?

“You always taste so sweet, dear. Now!” You wanted to say something clever and salacious like, ‘there’s more where that came from’ but he didn’t afford you the opportunity. He offered you his hooked arm, “It’s dangerous in the park at night. Let’s get you to a cab and on your way home.”

“Is this a hobby of yours?” Your legs were wobbly but otherwise fine. “Illegal activities in public?”

“Funny, I was just wondering the same of you. Stalking is a crime, dear.”

You bit your lip. “Touché.”

He flagged down a taxi, “Tell him where to go.” You slid into the back seat and half-whispered to the driver. Alastor leaned into the passenger side front window and after paying the man, went to close your door, “You’ve been an entertaining sparring partner. Goodbye, sweetheart.”

With a thud of the door and a growl of the engine, you were driving away from him. You could see him in the rear window. He didn’t dare to move, he didn’t need you following another step of his.

Which was unfortunate for him, as you were already scheming how to find him again.

༻Masterlist༺

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar , @angelicwillows

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan ,@valkyrie-expeditions

[alastor-simp]

La Vie en Rose🌹 - Alastor X Reader

Requested by @hitherethea

"Ugh FML!" Groaning out loud, your body was slowly making its way to somewhere quiet. Today was a very unlucky day, as there was many mishaps that left you feeling frustrated and emotionally drained. Earlier in the morning, you dropped a few plates while putting them away for Niffty. Niffty said it was fine and cleaned up the mess, but it left you feeling extremely guilty. After that incident, you were tasked with getting some groceries for the kitchen, only to being catcalled and nearly sexually harassed by some grotesque reptile demons once you started to head back to the hotel. Nothing happened to you physically, but god, why do some people have to be so gross?! Once you got back, your head got nearly speared by Vaggie on accident when you walked in through the door. She wasn't aiming for you thankfully, she was trying to hit Sir Pentious after he accidentally blasted her favorite ribbon with a laser gun. She grabbed the spear and ran away to catch Sir Pentious, yelling out an apology to you as she chased after a screaming snake slithering down the hallway.

Lord you couldn't catch a break. Your only place of sanctuary was the porch in your room. The view always helped you relaxed and the breeze was nice, despite the mass pollution in the air. Entering your room, you slowly made your way to the porch. The sky was covered in stars, but instead of pitch black, it was a dark vermilion. Well, this was Hell, so it was better then nothing. Heaving a sigh, you moved to one of the chairs on the porch and took a seat, throwing your head back as you tried to relax from the migraine that was starting to form. A few minutes went by as you continued to lean back in the chair, listening to the sounds of the cars screeching below and people yelling profanities at one another. "Why the long face my dear?" A static voice appeared next to your head, causing you to jolt and nearly fall off the chair. Looking up, you see a certain deer demon, leaning down due to his tall height, smiling like a jester at your reaction. "Not funny Al." Grumbling from your position, you got up and sat back properly in your seat. Alastor stood up to his normal position, and broke into a fit of laughter, probably still finding your reaction hilarious. "HAHA! Apologies, my dear! I didn't expect you to take a tumble!" He made his way over to the other chair and sat down, placing his microphone against the wall, before turning to you with his legs crossed and hands on his lap. Finding his response ridiculous, you rolled your eyes. "Yeah right. You enjoy scaring the crap out of everyone."

Shrugging his shoulders, he continued to stare at you, smiling widely. "Anyhoo! What seems to be troubling you, my dear?" Alastor asked you, as he continued to stare at you. His sharp smile turn to a more soft grin as he awaited your response. Sighing again, your eyes turn back to gaze at the view. "Not a very good day today. I made a mess for Niffty, almost got raped by some gross lizard-like demons when I left the grocery store, and then the icing on the cake was getting nearly speared by Vaggie from her chasing after Sir Pentious." Alastor continued to listen to you, his face changing a bit from slight sadness to extreme anger, especially when you mentioned the demons who tried to assault you. Looks like he has some hunting to do later. He may be a serial killer, but any inappropriate actions towards a lady infuriates him. Pushing his feelings of carnage away, he continued to stare at you. Your body was slouched on the chair as your eyes continued to stare at the sky. Instead of the kind smile you usually wore, it was replaced with a somber frown. Moving his hand slowly, he placed his clawed hand on your head, giving you a slight rub. He wasn't use to acts of affection, so this was the best he could offer. "Is there something I can do to make that frown of yours turn back into a smile?" Surprised by Al's words, you looked back at him. He was still smiling, but he was staring at you with kind eyes. You found it sweet that he wanted to cheer you up instead of leaving you alone in your negative emotions. Thinking long and hard about what you wanted, you came to a conclusion.

"Um, could you sing for me perhaps?" Al nearly froze at your request. Out of all the things you wanted, you wanted to hear him sing? Oh what a charming doll you were! Alastors smile grew tremendously, almost to the point it broke his face. Grabbing his microphone, he turned to you, positively joyful at your request. "My my! What an adorable request! Now then! What song would you like me to sing my dear? Request away!" Alastor was beaming at you. He was surprisingly cute like this, but you wouldn't tell him that. Any song? This was tough. You knew he was a fan of oldies and jazz and detested some music genres. Soon you came up with the perfect song for him to sing to you. Blushing at him, you looked away from him, twirling your hair with your fingers. "La vie en rose, please." Alastor was actually surprised at your choice, as he tilted his head. "Why that particular song, my dear?" You looked back at him, face flushed. "Well, I heard that you knew how to speak French, so I kinda wanted to see if it was true or not." Twiddling your fingers, you continued to stare at Al, who was still smiling. "Can you really? Speak French, I mean?" Alastor nodded his head: "Oui mon cher!" Oh no, that made your heart race. Al's voice was already amazing as it was, now you get to hear him sing to you in French?! Someone better pinch you to make sure this is not a dream.

Clearing his throat, Alastor adjusted his position, placing his mic in front of him, as he was preparing for his small performance for you.

(Credit to Paranoid Dj on Youtube for this awesome cover)

🎶𝑄𝑢𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑠

𝑄𝑢'𝑖𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑏𝑎𝑠

𝐽𝑒 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑎 𝑣𝑖𝑒 𝑒𝑛 𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑒

𝐼𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑡 𝑑𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑡𝑠 𝑑'𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑟

𝐷𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑡𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠

𝑀𝑎𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑖, 𝑐̧𝑎 𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑡 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒

𝐼𝑙 𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑒́ 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑛 𝑐œ𝑢𝑟

𝑈𝑛𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑑𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑛ℎ𝑒𝑢𝑟

𝐷𝑜𝑛𝑡 𝑗𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒

𝐶'𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑢𝑖 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑖, 𝑚𝑜𝑖 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑢𝑖 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝑙𝑎 𝑣𝑖𝑒

𝐼𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑙'𝑎 𝑑𝑖𝑡, 𝑙'𝑎 𝑗𝑢𝑟𝑒́ 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑎 𝑣𝑖𝑒

𝐸𝑡 𝑑𝑒̀𝑠 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑗𝑒 𝑙'𝑎𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑐̧𝑜𝑖𝑠

𝐴𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑗𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑒𝑛 𝑚𝑜𝑖

𝑀𝑜𝑛 𝑐œ𝑢𝑟 𝑞𝑢𝑖 𝑏𝑎𝑡🎶

Two words, HOLY S***! His voice was incredible! The whole time during his performance, you were blushing madly, but also it felt like all the frustration you were feeling before slowly diminished. Singing out the last of the lyrics, a sound of applause radiated from his microphone. "Enjoyed the performance, darling?" Alastor looked back at you, noticing your flushed face and wide eyes. "Darling?" Alastor tilted his head at you, confused at your reaction. Breaking from your trance, you started nodding rapidly. "Yes! I enjoyed your performance very much!" Satisfied that you enjoyed it, Alastor gave a nod, as he placed his microphone back to where he left it. Looking back at you, he raised his hand and grabbed your chin with his fingers. "Feeling better, chérie?" His ruby eyes gazed into yours, almost as if he was staring into your soul. Heat rose to your cheeks as you suspected you were as red as his hair. "Y-es I am. Thank you again Al." No longer feeling upset about the day, your emotions improved and you gave Al a warm smile. Humming with approval, Al still held your chin, but not before leaning closer to the point your noses were touching. "Wonderful my dear! Glad your smile has returned especially since you are never fully dressed without one! If you desire another performance in the future, seek me out."

Goosebumps began to form on your skin, as you continued to stare at Al. He is so close!!! Tongue-tied, you nodded your head. Pleased with your response, Al let go of your chin and stood up from the chair, adjusting his suit and hair. He remembered his previous mission, before he sang to you. Feelings of wrath and rage bubbled inside him, but he hid it as not to alarm you. "Well then! I have some business to attend to at the moment! Have a good evening my dear!" Alastor bid you a farewell, as he diminished in a black shadow, and disappeared from your eyes. Watching Al leave, you covered your face with your hands. It was true you were no longer feeling upset about today, but now you were starting to feel other emotions. Your heart was pounding and your palms were sweating. What was this feeling? It wasn't fear, cause you knew you weren't scared of Alastor, so what was it? Admiration? Or was it something else?

[jyoongim]

Can I request an Alastor x reader where she is a newer sinner. Really nerdy, obsessed with history, fun facts, animal facts, and shy at first. Just says things randomly, like “did you know that if a cow has twins more often than not she abandons ones just rearranging things when bored, someone will come down to lobby in the middle of the night and there she is moving the couches at like 3am. Doesn’t think when she speaks when she sees Alastor in his overlord form just says something like “smash” before walking off. Kind of a this gives me conflicted feelings and made me learn something about myself I don’t think I should know. It can be smut or fluff I don’t mind! My friends just say I have adhd, never been tested, don’t wanna be lol, I just ramble when I get excited and talk too much or too loud when excited too. It’d be nice to see a reader like me :) thank you love! I’m trying not to ramble so I’m sorry if this all over the place!

Hehehe could be possible adhd but I’m also certain everyone has a touch of tism as well so you’re not alone hehehe.

(I too have undiagnosed adhd)

Typing this from my phone cause I’m scared to do it on my work computer😭 should have brought my iPad to work

————————————————————————-

You had always been…different.

When you were alive you spent most of your time doing your hobbies or reading. You weren’t much of a social butterfly but did make the effort every once in a while. But people always treated you like you were an annoyance.

You were strange. Even by demon standards.

But you made a lovely addition to the Princess of Hell’s hotel.

You enjoyed being about to sprout random facts and have people actually be interested.

Animals, history, science you name it you randomly knew it.

You rambled during bonding excersies until you caught yourself yapping and instantly apologized.

You talked to yourself (having been caught in the act more than once)

Husk called you a loose screw but Angel found it charming. Charlie thought you were just the cutest.

And Alastor….

Well you definitely piqued his interest.

————————————————————————

You and Angel were having a “self care” day. Well Angel was. You were just happy to play in his fluff. Angel was telling you about the latest shoot he had to do and then the subject jumped to saying lives. “Oooh cmon toots don’t tell me no one’s were had the hots for that brain of yours” you pin curled his hair, “hmmmm not that I know of. Besides most people think I’m strange, wouldn’t want to scare the masses”

Angel rolled his eyes “well what about here at the hotel? Anyone catch yer fancy?”

You think about it but your mind comes to a blank. Nope you couldn’t in point who you would be the SLIGHTEST but interested in.

The sound of shoes met your ears and you turned to see Alastor entering the lobby. Your ear perked up and your eyes immediately locked in.

You would say you and Alastor were friends. The two of you had great conversations, he listened to your rambles and always told you facts of the time period when he was alive.

He wasn’t in his usual pristine attire. Instead of the polish look, he was dressed more casual. A white button up, rolled at his elbows, wearing dress pants and suspenders, he even didn’t have his gloves on.

He paid no mind to the two of you in the lobby, seemingly in his own world.

“Smash” you said tilting your head, causing Angel to burst out laughing and you blush when you realized you said that out loud.

Alastor turned around, eyebrows quirked “something amusing was said?”

You quickly shook your head while Angel chuckled “Our fact machine here thinks you’re hot*

Alastor blinked, his eyes settling on you.

You wanted to hide in the couch from embarrassment, but Alastor just took a sip of his coffee and began to walk from where he came. He got to the hallway door because pausing briefly, turning to look at you over his shoulder

“I suppose I would ‘smash’ you too dear”

Your cheeks burned and Angel choked as Alastor disappeared.

[smitethestate]

"If voting was worthless they wouldn't be trying to make it harder."

"If voting worked they'd make it illegal."

Okay these are both fun slogans but let's talk about what really happened here in the US.

First they made it so only white landowning men could vote. Then over the years other groups of people kept fighting for the right to vote and winning and the white landowning men were like "fuck well we can't defeat the masses outright on this so we'll just make a bunch of rules that make it hard for them to vote." And the oppressed masses fought against those too and won a bunch of gains on the issue like the Civil Rights Act.

So the powerful learned from their mistakes and made other, more subtle rules to make it harder to vote as the two parties battled back and forth to win the most power and influence and corporate donor money.

Republicans fought by making it as hard as possible to vote because they tend to win when less people vote, and especially when only the privileged with a lot of money and free time can manage it.

Democrats fought by trying to get more people to vote, but it's a bit more complicated than that. They're still beholden to wealthy corporate donors, so they can't just let pure democracy happen. They can't let real leftists become presidential nominees or allow real leftist policy like universal healthcare to pass. What they can do is convince you over and over to vote for the "reasonable" option under threat of Republican Hell so that you not only give them more power, but hand over your money and your time/energy to convince other people to give them more power and money.

Republicans benefit from the same kind of threat to their constituents, even as they're more blatant in their fight to stop people from voting.

The result is a system in which both the statements at the top of this post are true. If our voting system threatened to turn the US into a socialist utopia where the masses had all the power, they'd make it illegal. Democrats have never made a serious move to abolish the Electoral College. They absolutely mobilized to prevent even Bernie from becoming the Dem nominee. They'd do it again.

And you can see the same patterns in similar nations. Labor gained power in the UK only to become an anti-labor neoliberal party practically overnight. France elected a leftist government and Macron just went "nope."

But they're never going to make voting all the way illegal for just landowning men again, let alone make it outright illegal, because they know that would inspire the masses to rise up and make too much trouble again, and who knows what they'd lose? The current situation is working out great for them.

Meanwhile, of course Republicans want to make voting a certain amount of hard because they do want the most power, but even Trump probably knows better than to outlaw voting. At most he'd turn the US into a sham democracy like his idol Putin.

Which would of course suck, but the point it that the two statements up top are both essentially true but reductive.

Voting isn't worthless but those in power are never going to let us vote our was into a society that removes or even significantly reduces their power. You can maybe make things temporarily a little better or prevent them from getting worse for some people by voting.

But the problem is that people aren't just voting. They're voting and then telling themselves that they did their duty and using that as an excuse to do nothing else. Or they're voting and donating millions to Kamala in mere hours while GFMs for Palestinians and other desperate people stagnate. Or they're voting and giving all their attention, energy, and time to the two big party presidential candidates by volunteering or yelling at people on social media or both so all the money and power is funneled back into those who already have nearly all of it.

And nothing is left to actually fight for a better world.

I don't care to tell people whether to vote or how. It feels to me like a choice between a fast death or a slow one, which sucks either way. What pisses me off is that we're letting the powerful convince us to invest so much in them with this perpetual election season as the world circles the drain, and the most powerful know full well that this leaves us with too few resources to ever topple them from their thrones.

You're letting them pull your strings instead of breaking them. Things get worse every year and the longer we do this, the worse it's going to be for us all, and worse still for future generations. How long are you going to fight to slow down the train that's headed for the cliff instead of jumping off it while there's still time?

Don't scold me about voting on behalf of the train conductors hoarding all the train food. It's not a perfect metaphor ok but the point is fuck off and fuck this.

[melodyatlas]

jason getting turned into a werewolf and having a fun time hunting tim down and catching him <3

and then he's either happy about the smell of fear or he gotta get rid of it <3

either way sex?!

Jason knows there are definitely both pro's and con's to being a werewolf.

Pro's list:

His senses are heightened, even outside of his wolf form

He gives off a more menacing vibe, even to people who don't know what he is- he can tell, people instinctively cow to him when he bares his teeth now

Con's list:

Shifting is a bitch

Shifting is a Bitch

Shifting is a BITCH

yes that deserves to be on the con list three times, it's /that/ much of a bitch, in fact....

SHIFTING IS A BITCH

He doesn't have quite as much autonomy as he'd like when he changes. It's not as if he /vanishes/ and the wolf takes over. And it's not as if he's high-jacked, forced to watch as his body acts of it's own will.

But his instincts /do/ override logical thought a lot of the time. And it's more than a little difficult to snap out of it when those instincts tell him to do something.

It's how he finds himself running through the woods just outside of Gotham, chasing down a certain Red Robin. The logical part of his brain is telling him that Tim knows what he's doing, luring Jason away from the city.

But he wonders if Tim /really/ knows what he's doing; He's leading Jason away from the dangers of being found out, sure, but he's also putting himself further from help.

Jason isn't chasing Tim for the fun of it (though that is a perk of the chase- the adrenaline pumping through him, flooding his brain with all kinds of happy chemicals because his chosen interest is making it a challenge for him), he's chasing him because at the end of the chase, when he wins (because he will win) he gets his prize.

The logical part of his brain is telling him Tim /isn't/ a prize. But... That part of him can definitely be ignored right now, because he can't think of a better reward for catching the little bird than the noises he'll make, the feeling of him beneath him, around him. Tim definitely a prize.

And Jason /will/ win.

But not before he has his fun.

So he continues on the chase; He lets Tim 'lure' him further into the woods for a little bit longer before he starts herding Tim around to a denser part of the woods.

Tim is good at what he does, a quick and clever vigilante, who is normally quite good at tricking others into what he wants them to do. But he's small for a hero- and mostly he makes it work in his favor, but here and now? He starts running out of steam long before Jason's supernatural stamina starts to wane.

Jason can tell when Tim is starting to flag, so he chases him a little bit further before rounding him back to a large cluster of roots he saw a few moments ago. It works just as he'd hoped, Tim stumbles, twisting his ankle on the mass of roots. And in true Tim Drake fashion, he just keeps going.

He's hobbled now, though, and it's only moments later that Jason stops toying with him, and closes the distance between them to tackle Tim to the ground.

His hand slips between Tim's head and the ground, cushioning what could have been a devastating blow on another root, and instead softening it just enough that Tim bites his lip open at the impact instead of biting through his tongue and getting a concussion from the blow.

Small mercies for Jason's own sake; He doesn't want Tim concussed for this- wants him in his right mind, wants to see what noises he can coax out of him while he's fully cognizant.

The blood welling up on Tim's lip draws Jason's attention. He isn't a vampire- but, /god/, does he kind of feel like one when the urge to suck Tim dry hits him at the first taste of it. He takes Tim's lower lip into his mouth to keep sucking at it, nibbling to get more blood to well up.

He can feel how tense Tim is beneath him, his hands pushing hesitantly at Jason's chest, but he doesn't /really/ try to push Jason off- just gives an attempt to pull away from Jason's mouth before realizing that Jason was not going to let go of his lip and freezing up a little beneath him.

It lasts until Jason tires of playing with Tim's lip, and instead decides to lick into his mouth. He opens up for him beautifully, letting out this surprised little noise, muffled into Jason's mouth, as his hands fist into Jason's shirt where they had been resting.

Jason opens his eyes to see Tim's sliding shut and takes the opportunity to kiss down from Tim's mouth to his neck, laving the soft skin there with attention, biting at the top of his suit's collar. It's too high- covering too much skin- covering the scar /Jason/ had left there-

So he rips into it with his fangs, lets the wolf-strength tear the heavy material in ways he wouldn't have been able to before he turned. He kisses and sucks at the newly-bared skin, leaving marks near the scar that he can't help but stroke.

It pulls a shudder from Tim, and with his mouth finally free to speak- "J-Jason- what're you-?"

Jason can't help the growl that tears through him at that, because shouldn't Tim know what he's doing? Red Robin is /his/. He's just staking his claim on what they both know. Tim's the one who brought him out here all alone, after all.

Suddenly, it's /very/ important that Tim really understands what he asked for by stealing Jason's discarded mantles- parading around in Jason's colors-

Jason buries his face in Tim's neck, teeth latching on again while he tears at Tim's armored leggings, the reinforced material shredding like paper under his strength.

The small bit of tension he had unwound from Tim with his mouth builds right back up once he's bared below the waist. Jason can smell the fear that shoots through him- the first taste of /true/ fear Tim has let loose all night.

And that's not right- Tim isn't supposed to be afraid of him. They did that song and dance years before. Even back when Jason had beat Tim half to death the kid wasn't actually scared of him. Now they're closer to actual friends- partners, even, sometimes.

So Jason makes it his new mission to remove the fear from Tim. He can't help his own rutting against Tim's thigh, but he doesn't try to free himself, instead he pets softly at Tim's hips, trying to rub the tension away with gentle pets.

"Jason- look at me."

At Tim's request, Jason noses and licks back up Tim's neck, before pulling back just enough to lock eyes. They stay like that for a long few moments, Tim's hands still fisted in Jason's shirt, Jason's still stroking at Tim's sides.

Jason lets out a little whine when it goes on too long, rutting a little harder against Tim's thigh before leaning in to kiss at the corner of Tim's mouth.

He doesn't know if it was what Tim saw in his eyes or if it was the kiss or the long press of his hard length against Tim's thigh, but the fear eases slightly, and Tim seems to force himself to relax a degree.

It's not gone, Jason can still smell it, but Tim turns into the kiss briefly before pulling back enough to speak against Jason's lips, "Okay. Okay- take what you need."

And if Jason didn't go nonverbal during these little bouts as a werewolf he would tell Tim it's not what /he needs/. It's about showing Tim what they are. But he can't wrap his head around words right now, so he just licks back into Tim's mouth and finally pulls his hands off of Tim to shove his own pants down.

He will show Tim, though. By the end of the night, Tim will realize why he led Jason out here on his own, he'll realize why they both had such fun with the chase- and he'll realize that there's a reason he's submitting to Jason so beautifully.

[nothorses]

About that "a trans man committing a mass shooting proves trans people really are the gender they identify as" post: women have committed mass shootings too? Okay it's a lot less statistically frequent, but it happens (as the song "I Don't Like Mondays" demonstrates). It reminds me of the time TERFs on Reddit assumed the woman who shot up the YouTube HQ in 2018 was trans, and then when she turned out to be cis, someone immediately speculated she was getting justified revenge on an abusive BF who worked there (though that comment got downvoted and may have been a troll)

I took this opportunity to look more into statistics around mass shooter demographics, and interestingly, there are a lot of myths tied up in this issue.

This article looks into a few studies and databases to investigate the "90% of all mass shooters are white men" myth, and finds that in actuality, "It really depends on what type of mass shooting you’re talking about. Several of the highest-profile mass shootings in recent memory [...] were committed by white males, such as the 2017 Las Vegas attack by Stephen Paddock. But much beyond that, the stereotype breaks down; Muslim man Omar Mateen killed forty-nine people at a Florida nightclub in 2016 on behalf of a terrorism group; white male Adam Lanza killed twenty-seven people in 2012 at an elementary school, though Asian student Seung-Hui Cho killed thirty-two people on the Virginia Tech campus in 2007. And so on."

This article fact-checks the gender-specific claims as well, in the context of trans people, and finds that there have been more claims that shooters are trans than can be reasonably substantiated, and that even this number is overshadowed by the number of cis women who have committed mass shootings.

I bring this up because I think the first article in particular brings a lot of much-needed nuance into the issue:

"The whites-are-overrepresented-among-mass-shooters meme does serve a useful purpose in that it helps displace another myth about mass shootings: that they’re most often perpetrated by angry immigrants from travel-banned countries, and that nothing is more dangerous to America that the scourge of Islamic terrorism. … These are worthy ends, but we shouldn’t have to build another myth to reach them.”

What are we saying when we talk about these kinds of incidents this way?

What I find interesting is that in a lot of these conversations around crime, we recognize that crime is often the result of poverty. Indeed, this study finds that the number of mass shootings increases in countries that experience an increase of income inequality.

We can also often recognize that these numbers are skewed because they rely on media coverage, arrests, and criminal charges; all of which are influenced by societal bias. The first article on mass shootings notes that, "mass shootings with white victims tend to get more attention, both from journalists and those on social media, than those with victims who are people of color. This is a well-known pattern and explains why the public is quicker to react to a missing young blonde girl than a missing young black girl."

Are white mass shooters covered more because their targets- being overwhelmingly people and institutions they have ties to- are also usually white?

If "white men are overrepresented as mass shooters" means white men are particularly dangerous and must be feared, what does this imply about other demographics overrepresented in certain crime statistics? What does it mean when we find this isn't true- is there suddenly just is not an issue of white cis male violence? I would certainly disagree.

And I think this gleeful claim that "trans men are proving their gender" by committing acts of violence- again, far more rare than cis women doing the same- only plays into these issues.

Is crime the result of entitlement and privileged anger, or is it the result of a broken system failing its citizens? Are cis men committing acts of extreme violence because they are all- regardless of race- whiny pissbabies who take joy in hurting others, or is this the result of a system that teaches men they can only express emotion through anger and violence? That human connection is not for them, and that needing things makes them unworthy of manhood, love, or even life?

I'm not saying we need to coddle and woobify mass shooters. I'm asking: is this an issue we fix by fearing and hating and wishing death on whole demographics of people based on how represented they are in criminal statistics, or can we make systemic and cultural changes that meaningfully prevent this from happening in the first place?

Do we condemn groups as Bad because some of them have done violence, or do we examine the causes and work toward meaningful solutions?

Obviously, trans men and trans people in general are not in any way "overrepresented" as perpetrators in mass shooting statistics. But I think the people reveling in any new trans male shooter are making it very clear that they don't care about solving problems; they're just interested in looking for reasons to hate, fear, and condemn this specific group of people they already dislike.

[apas-95]

When Marxists say that certain groups, are adventurist, they have in mind the very definite and specific social and historical features of a phenomenon, one that every class-conscious worker should be familiar with. The history of Russian Social-Democracy teems with tiny groups, which sprang up for an hour, for several months, with no roots whatever among the masses (and politics without the masses are adventurist politics), and with no serious and stable principles. In a petty-bourgeois country, which is passing through a historical period of bourgeois reconstruction, it is inevitable that a motley assortment of intellectuals should join the workers, and that these intellectuals should attempt to form all kinds of groups, adventurist in character in the sense referred to above.

— V.I. Lenin, Adventurism, 1914

Let us go over to the second point, the question of terrorism. In their defence of terrorism, which the experience of the Russian revolutionary movement has so clearly proved to be ineffective, the Socialist-Revolutionaries are talking themselves blue in the face in asseverating that they recognise terrorism only in conjunction with work among the masses, and that therefore the arguments used by the Russian Social-Democrats to refute the efficacy of this method of struggle (and which have indeed been refuted for a long time to come) do not apply to them. [...] We are not repeating the terrorists’ mistakes and are not diverting attention from work among the masses, the Socialist-Revolutionaries assure us, and at the same time enthusiastically recommend to the Party acts such as Balmashov’s assassination of Sipyagin, although everyone knows and sees perfectly well that this act was in no way connected with the masses and, moreover, could not have been by reason of the very way in which it was carried out—that the persons who committed this terrorist act neither counted on nor hoped for any definite action or support on the part of the masses. In their naïveté, the Socialist-Revolutionaries do not realise that their predilection for terrorism is causally most intimately linked with the fact that, from the very outset, they have always kept, and still keep, aloof from the working-class movement, without even attempting to become a party of the revolutionary class which is waging its class struggle. [...] The first thing that strikes the eye is the words: “we advocate terrorism, not in place of work among the masses, but precisely for and simultaneously with that work.” [...] The day “when the working people will emerge from the shadows” and “the mighty popular wave will shatter the iron gates to smithereens”—“alas!” (literally, “alas!”) “is still a long way off, and it is frightful   to think of the future toll of victims!” Do not these words “alas, still a long way off” reflect an utter failure to under stand the mass movement and a lack of faith in it? Is not this argument meant as a deliberate sneer at the fact that the working people are already beginning to rise? And, finally, even if this trite argument were just as well-founded as it is actually stuff and nonsense, what would emerge from it in particularly bold relief would be the inefficacy of terrorism, for without the working people all bombs are power less, patently powerless. [...]

This fabulous argument, which we are convinced is destined to become notorious, is by no means simply a curiosity. No, it is instructive because, through a sweeping reduction to an absurdity, it reveals the principal mistake of the terrorists, which they share with the “economists” (perhaps one might already say, with the former representatives of deceased “economism”?). This mistake, as we have already pointed out on numerous occasions, consists in the failure to understand the basic defect of our movement. Because of the extremely rapid growth of the movement, the leaders lagged behind the masses, the revolutionary organisations did not come up to the level of the revolutionary activity of the proletariat, were incapable of marching on in front and leading the masses. That a discrepancy of this sort exists cannot be doubted by any conscientious person who has even the slightest acquaintance with the movement. And if that is so, it is evident that the present-day terrorists are really “economists” turned inside out, going to the equally foolish but opposite extreme. At a time when the revolutionaries are short of the forces and means to lead the masses,   who are already rising, an appeal to resort to such terrorist acts as the organisation of attempts on the lives of ministers by individuals and groups that are not known to one another means, not only thereby breaking off work among the masses, but also introducing downright disorganisation into that work. [...]

Nor does the leaflet eschew the theory of excitative terrorism. “Each time a hero engages in single combat, this arouses in us all a spirit of struggle and courage,” we are told. But we know from the past and see in the present that only new forms of the mass movement or the awakening of new sections of the masses to independent struggle really rouses a spirit of struggle and courage in all. Single combat however, inasmuch as it remains single combat waged by the Balmashovs, has the immediate effect of simply creating a short-lived sensation, while indirectly it even leads to apathy and passive waiting for the next bout. [...] This very point is explained in No. 8 of Revolutsionnaya Rossiya, which declares that “it is easy to write and speak” of armed demonstrations “as a matter of the vague and distant future,” “but up till now all this talk has been merely of a theoretical nature.” How well we know this Language of people who are free of the constraint of firm socialist convictions, of the burdensome experience of each and every kind of popular movement! They confuse immediately tangible and sensational results with practicalness. To them the demand to adhere steadfastly to the class standpoint and to maintain the mass nature of the movement is “vague” “theorising.” [...] Demonstrations begin— and blood thirsty words, talk about the beginning of the end, flow from the lips of such people. The demonstrations halt— their hands drop helplessly, and before they have had time to wear out a pair of boots they are already shouting: “The people, alas, are still a long way off....” Some new outrage is perpetrated by the tsar’s henchmen—and they demand to be shown a “definite” measure that would serve as an exhaustive reply to that particular outrage, a measure that would bring about an immediate “transference of strength,” and they proudly promise this transference! These people do not understand that this very promise to “transfer” strength constitutes political adventurism, and that their adventurism stems from their lack of principle. [...] Anyone who really carries on his revolutionary work in conjunction with the class struggle of the proletariat very well knows, sees and feels what vast numbers of immediate and direct demands of the proletariat (and of the sections of the people capable of supporting the latter) remain unsatisfied. He knows that in very many places, throughout vast areas, the working people are literally   straining to go into action, and that their ardour runs to waste because of the scarcity of literature and leadership, the lack of forces and means in the revolutionary organisations. And we find ourselves—we see that we find our selves—in the same old vicious circle that has so long hemmed in the Russian revolution like an omen of evil. On the one hand, the revolutionary ardour of the insufficiently enlightened and unorganised crowd runs to waste. On the other hand, shots fired by the “elusive individuals” who are losing faith in the possibility of marching in formation and working hand in hand with the masses also end in smoke.

— V.I. Lenin, Revolutionary Adventurism, 1902

[genz420]

Beauty of Scars & Flowers - Chapter 7: Gift and Embraces.

Master List

Previous Part - Next Part

The morning air was crisp, and the chill nipped at the exposed skin of Lyanna’s neck and chest. When she heard the Southern ladies complain about the cold, she should have understood that her definition of cold and theirs were two completely different things.

Lyanna liked the cold. She preferred it much more than the heat of the sun. She enjoyed the feeling of the wind kissing her skin and the warmth that spread from her chest. Yet as she stood in the courtyard, watching all the ladies being fussed over, she regarded every listening to the unknown ladies. 

Her attendance at the outing was not her idea but her uncle's. It seemed that, with each passing day, Larys was more eager to give her away to any man who gave her the slightest attention. She was unsure who was hosting the event but knew of the people that would be in attendance.

Lyanna was determined to find out if Ser Alan was serious in their courting dance or if she was just another pretty thing for him to play with. She had thought that Ser Alan would have been a good match for her when she had first met him, but with each passing day and the presence of a certain prince, her confidence that he was serious about his attenuation shrunk. 

She watched from beside the horse that was assigned for the day as the ladies of the court gathered together, laughing and whispering with one another. The fact only reminded Lyanna that she was an outsider among the people of the Crownlands. 

Perhaps she should start to assimilate herself more with the customs here. She is sure Helaena would happily have her company during the masses that the Sept holds on the holy day. Or she could change her yellow and blue wardrobe to green. It seemed like she was going to be there for the long run. 

Lyanna continued to run her bare hand over the horse's mane as she watched longingly at the ladies. Not paying attention to the words that her uncle was saying. 

She had not paid attention to the words since he insisted she spend her day outside the Keep, choosing to act childless and pretend that her uncle did not exist. Larys would have been offended, but Lyanna always acted childishly when forced to do something she did not want to do. 

Aemond watched from his post within the threshold of the courtyard as Lyanna petted the horse in front of her. The second he took the step out of the keep, he could not turn back once he was spotted. 

The prince took a deep breath before straightening his back and making his way toward the two Strongs within the courtyard. The sword at his hip felt like it suddenly weighed a ton, and the gloves in his hand became as hot as Vhagar's wither skin. 

Larys noticed him first. The cripple bowed his head to the prince and stepped away from his niece, allowing the two young adults a moment to themselves. Aemond should have known that Larys had heard of the blossoming friendship between him and Lyanna; it always seemed that Larys knew the things happening around the keep before anyone else. 

“My Lady Strong,” Aemond broke the silence between them, his hands gripping the gloves in his hand to the point his knuckles turned as white as them. 

The prince's voice was enough for Lyanna to tear her gaze away from the ladies. As Lyanna turned to face the prince, she quickly curtsied to him before offering a kind smile. Before Lyanna could return the greeting, Aemond held out the pair of gloves in his hand. 

They were cloth, Lyanna noted, as white as fresh winter snow with a few different colour flowers embroidered along the cuff. They were beautiful, yet she made no move to accept them, just looking at them as if they were made of fire. 

Aemond waited for Lyanna to move to accept them, making a slight shift of his weight. He had spent the last few days reading about the culture of the first men, and he knew the significant meaning of a gift of gloves, but maybe this was too soon. Perhaps he should have started with letters and not moved straight to a piece of clothing.

Larys stood to the side, leaning on his cane as he watched the duo with narrow eyes.

“These are for you, My Lady Strong,” Aemond said again. His voice made Lyanna look away from the gloves and toward his face. 

He could see the slightest tint of pink on Lyanna's cheeks. So faint that if he did not have her face committed to memory, he could not notice a difference. Aemond watched as Lyanna swallowed and smacked her lips together before she pulled her eyebrows together.

“You did not have to, my prince,” Lyanna finally spoke up, taking a deep breath after she finished speaking.

Lyanna took a step away from the horse she had been petting and toward the prince. So close that Aemond could smell the floral perfume that she was wearing. It was so intoxicating that Aemond could not help himself from stepping toward her, closing the gap between them even more. 

“I insist,” He told her, his voice slightly softer and quieter than before. 

Lyanna looked back down to the gloves, one hand gently moving toward grasp one of them. Aemond could only watch as her fingers moved along the embroidery, waiting to see the reaction she would have. 

But before Lyanna could speak up, Larys joined the two of them. The clubfoot looked between his niece and the prince and the gloves that he was holding. Larys might have spent most of his life in the crownlands, but he remembered the customs and traditions of his people. 

“Say thank you, Lyanna,” Larys told her, and for the first time, it seemed like his niece did not fight his words. 

“Thank you,” she said as she took the gloves and looked back up at Aemond. She held them against her stomach, tracing her fingers over the embroidery while offering him a smile.

“Will you be joining us today, Ser Larys?” Aemond turned his attention away from Lyanna, not fighting the smile on his face. 

“I am afraid not.  My foot prevents me from riding. I trust you will after my beloved niece?” Larys asked Aemond as he taped his cane against the cobblestone. 

Lyanna could not help but snicker at her uncle's words as she looked down at her shoes and tried to bite away the smile on her face.  Beloved niece was the most humorous statement that her uncle had said so far.

“Of course,” Aemond assured Larys, who quickly gave the two of them a curt nod before leaving them. 

Lyanna watched as her uncle left, feeling like she could breathe again as he left her presence. She felt as if she could act like her true self without the nagging feeling that every move she made was the wrong one in her uncle's eyes. Lyanna looked back to Aemond, gently playing with her new gloves. 

“I did not know you would be joining us,” She told him as she returned to the horse. 

Aemond rested his hand on the pommel of his sword as he mirrored her movements. Standing not even an arm's length away from her, he patted the horse's rump. 

Helaena had been the one to inform him that Lyanna would be spending the day away from the keep with the rest of the young courtiers. Revealing to him, she planned to find out Alan's true intentions.  It just so happens that his training season had been cancelled, and he had the day free to do whatever he pleased. 

“I thought it would be fun to spend the day with my fellow young courtiers,” He answered as he looked around the courtyard. 

Lyanna did not stop the laugh that escaped her. 

She knew that Aemond held an interest in the lives of the courtiers. Only enjoying hearing the gossip about their lives but never socializing with them. 

“You think spending the day with Ser Alan will be fun?” She asked as she looked at Aemond; her words and smile were one of jest. 

That smile made Aemonds stomach feel warm. 

The morning sun made her skin glow, and Aemond wished he could thank whatever handmaid had dressed Lyanna. For the dress she wore hung off her shoulders. The skin of her shoulders and collarbones were free to soak up the sun's rays, and Aemond could feel his mouth drying at the thought of what it might feel like against his skin, against his lips. 

He pulled his eye away from the freckled skin and back toward Lyanna’s face. A tight smile was on his face, and any on-looker would assume that the prince was in a sour mood. 

“I think spending the day with you in the King’s Wood will be fun,” He whispered to her, not wanting the people around them to hear such tender words. 

“You honour me,” She whispered back, not hiding the smile that came on her face at his words. 

– – 

The ride to the Kingswood was filled with jokes shared between the prince and the soon-to-be lady of Harrenhal. The two of them were within their own world, not caring about the glances that were shot toward them by the other courtiers or side glances of Ser Arryk Cargyll. 

The two simply enjoyed the ride toward the wilderness, with Aemond pointing out different features of architecture to Lyanna. She had enjoyed listening to the prince and his knowledge about the city he had lived in his whole life. She didn’t focus her attention anywhere else but on him as they rode through the city and eventually the King’s Road to get to the camp. 

Once the group of courtiers arrived at the camp, Aemond could not help but slightly judge the scale of the camp. It all seemed rather intimate, with men and women all drinking and laughing loudly.

But maybe this is what this kind of event was like. 

Part of Aemond suddenly realizes that he was not invited, that he had invited himself, but he could not care. He wanted to spend the day with Lyanna. 

Aemond, still looking around, dismounted his horse first before handing the reins to Ser Arraky. He moved his neck around until he heard a satisfying crack. He then set his gaze on Lyanna, who was still atop her horse. 

Aemond, being the gentleman that he is, moved toward Lyanna. Instead of taking hold of the reins, he offered her a hand, which she gladly accepted. 

With one hand holding on hers, Aemond moved his other hand to rest against where he assumed her hip bone was. He relished in the moment of helping her dismount the horse and settling onto the ground. 

Even once Lyanna had her bearings, Aemond did waver from her side. He watched as she pulled her hair over one shoulder, exposing the bare skin of the other. His eyes stayed lingering on her chest and how, with each breath she took, her chest would almost spill out of her chest. 

The hand that Aemond had used to help Lyanna off her horse still rested against the dip of her hip. The feeling of her dress against his hand made his head hurt, knowing that only a few barriers separated them. 

He quickly removed his hand and stepped away as the unmistakable sound of the most annoying knight of the seven kingdoms sounded behind him. 

“Lyanna! You look beautiful, and with the flowers I have gifted you in your hair,” Alan broke the silence between Lyanna and Aemond. The knight’s arms were open wide in greeting, and a smile on his face. 

Even Aemond could not deny that the soon-to-be lord of Horn Hill was handsome. His face was free of scars and a typical man of descent of the first man. A common trait he shared with Lyanna was that Alan properly did not have to learn the dance of customers that is shared between two lovers like Aemond had to. 

Lyanna moved away from Aemond and toward the knight as she offered him a small smile. Aemond had not noticed the white flowers in Lyanna's hair, yet his gift cost significantly more than a few flowers. He’s held more meaning and commitment than some stupid flowers. 

Yet Aemond knew she probably cherished the flowers.  

“I thought I should make use of them before they wither away, Ser Alan,” Lyanna greeted back as she allowed the knight to take her hands.  

“No need for the formalities today; it will simply be us,” He spoke sweetly to her, his voice like honey and Lyanna now remembered why she tolerated the man.

“I think that Lord Larys would appreciate it if the formalities stayed,” Aemond said as he moved to stand beside Lyanna. He did not break his gaze away from Alan, instead straightening his posture.

The moment the prince spoke up, the joy on Alan’s face left and was replaced with distaste. It seemed that the two men held the same feeling for one another.  

“Prince Aemond,” Alan greeted with the bow of his head, letting go of Lyanna’s hands and stepping away from her. 

Lyanna looked back at Aemond, a slight pout on her face, before looking back to Alan with a smile.

“The prince is to be my chaperone for the day,” she told him as she tried to uplift the mood and situation. 

“How gracious of him,” He agreed, not looking at Lyanna but keeping eye contact with Aemond. 

The soon-to-be Lord's tone was only joyous, and it became clear to Lyanna and Alan that their plans for the day would not go according to plan. Yet the prince could not be happier. 

Lyanna grasped Alan's hands, pulling his attention back onto her and putting a warm smile on her face. She knew she had to charm a man who had been taught just like the rest of the daughters of nobility.  

“I have read a great deal about the wildlife in this area. Ser Alan, would you like to accompany me while I try to forage for some flowers,” Lyanna proposed, but her smile vanished as Alan ripped away his hands from hers and took another step away from her. 

“After I finish welcoming the rest of the ladies,” he told her curtly. Before Lyanna or Aemond could wish him a farewell, he was already moving toward another smaller group of ladies. 

Lyanna nodded to herself as she took a deep breath. Smoothing out of the front of the dress, she was unaware of the longing gaze of the prince standing behind her. 

“I will accompany you,” Aemond spoke once he was sure that Alan was far enough away from them, offering Lyanna his arm, which she gladly accepted.

“Thank my prince,” she thanked, giving him a small smile as they moved toward the tree line. 

With one wave of his hand, Aemond dismissed Ser Arryk as he and Lyanna left the group and ventured into the woods.

– 

“My prince?” Lyanna spoke up as she took Aemond’s arm once again. 

The only response she got from Aemond was a low hum as he guided the two along the riverbed. 

Lyanna kept glancing between him and the shrubbery around them, weighing the pros and cons of bringing up the topic she wished to talk about. 

The gift that Aemond had given her was the main thing she wished to ask about, but she feared that she might come off as rude and ungrateful for the prince's generosity. But the meaning behind it weighed heavy on her mind. 

If Aemond knew the significance or if it was just a friend gifting something to a friend like she had been doing with Helaena. 

“Why the gift?” Lyanna finally asked as she kept her eyes away from him so as not to see how he reacted. 

Aemond took his gaze off the greenery before them and glanced at Lyanna. He could see the slightest build-up of sweat on the side of her neck and that the bright sun was hurting her eyes. Could tell that she was slightly nervous when she asked her question. 

Aemond looked back before them as they entered a fall clearing of tall grass and wildflowers. The sound of birds and the buzz of insects were slightly overwhelming, but the smell was divine. He understood now why Lyanna yearned for nature and if this was what she was giving up while residing within the Keep. 

“Do I need a reason to give a dear friend of mine a gift?” Aemond simply asked as he tried to avoid answering the question. 

He kept his back straight as Lyanna unlinked their arms and moved to look at the flowers in front of them. She had taken out the small white flowers in her hair when they first entered the tree line, mumbling what he assumed were cruses in a foreign language as she did so. 

“I am your friend?” Lyanna asked as she picked a wildflower and handed it over to Aemond. The prince gladly took the flower from her as he nodded his head.

“I consider you one,” he answered as he followed her through the tall grass. It seemed like Lyanna knew where she was going, but a small part of Aemond worried about the safety of the land they were on.

“It’s just that to me, that kind of gift means something,” she told him, not stopping to look back at him. 

It was easier for her to focus on the nature around her than the heavy gaze of the prince. 

Aemond smiled as he noticed the slightest blush on the back of Lyanna’s neck. He would bet that her face held the same fairness of pink. A gift as simple as gloves had her flustered and confused, and that fact made Aemond proud of himself. 

“I did not know; my apologies,” He apologized as he sped up his pace to keep stride with Lyanna. 

Aemond knew what it meant. Knew that gloves were only given when serious interest was there. He had confirmed it not only with the maesters but also with two knights that were from the north. 

Ser Criston had almost overheard the conversation he had to have. Gods know that the Kingsguard would have run to his mother and told her. The headache from that would not have been worth it.  

“Perhaps you could tell my uncle such,” Lyanna proposes, worried about the future of their relationship if her uncle gets the wrong idea.  “The gift of gloves is often a late courting gift between betrotheds. I fear that my uncle will think it is you showing interest,”

Aemond hummed for her to continue; part of him wanted to keep listening to Lyanna, and the other wanted to ensure he had gotten the right information. 

“It symbolizes a man asking for the woman's hand. It is also a type of clothing,” She told him as she turned to look back at him. 

Lyanna stepped back and leaned against what she knew to be an oak tree. She could feel the roughness of the bark against the soft skin of her back, and she was sure her hair would be intertwined with the bark. 

She put her hands behind her back as she watched Aemond move closer to her as if a predator stalking its prey. 

Aemond moved to stand before Lyanna, one of his feet almost next to her as he leaned his weight against one leg. The prince crossed his arms behind his back, looking over Lyanna once. The humidity of the air caused her hair to become slightly frizzy, and a few strands had stuck themselves onto her temples. 

“What does clothing have to do with courting,” He asked as if he didn’t already know. But he wanted to hear her say it, needed to hear her say it. 

Lyanna could feel her chest become hot as Aemond's gaze remained on her. She had nowhere to run, not that she wanted to. 

She swallowed the saliva in her mouth before looking Aemond up and down. She did not know how he could look so flawlessly and perfectly put together. 

Lyanna took a breath before straightening herself. 

“You can not touch each other, so giving a gift that you have both had against your skin becomes the closest thing to it. Gloves, shirts, and garters,” she answered, her voice trailed off at the last word. 

The prince had asked her a question, and who was she to deny him an answer. 

The sides of his mouth perked slightly up at her words. Part of him thought that Lyanna would not tell him the whole truth, but he was glad she did. Aemond took another step toward the trapped Lyanna. They were so close to one another that their chests were almost touching. 

Only one breath separated them from one another. 

And at that, Lyanna could not help but slightly lick her lips as she forced herself to keep his gaze.

“Garters?” he asked, and his voice had a slight tone of jest. 

Both of them knew that they should not be talking about this. 

Should not be so close to one another. 

Should not even be left alone with one another. 

All it took was one onlooker for there to be repercussions of this conversation. 

But that was part of the thrill for both of them.

“It’s scandalous. Erotic even, the intimacy of giving something that will hold up a woman's stockings so close...I’ve heard men even have messages in silk embroidered in them,” Lyanna continued, and she did not waver as she saw Aemonds hand move to touch a loose curl of her hair. 

She did not move as she felt his knuckle gently graze against her ear or when one of his hands gently clasped around her waist. 

She did not move as the prince leaned him to the other side of her face, cheek against cheek, as he whispered in her ear.  

“What kind of messages?” he asked her before he moved his lips to ghost against the skin of her cheek and jawline. 

“I have yet to have such kind of gift, so I can not say,” Lyanna answered as she carefully moved her head to the side, yet she worried that any movement she made would scare away the prince. 

Aemond smiled as he gently planted a kiss against her jaw, moving his free hand to hold the other side of her neck; Lyanna moved to grab his wrist as she shifted on her feet.

Aemond carefully moved his thumb along the side of her jaw as his lips made their way to the underside of her jaw. 

Everywhere he touched, he left a trail of waking fire along her skin. He could tell how his actions affected her by how her breathing deepened, and she leaned into him.  

She could feel the blush that was on her face and chest. Yet she did not want the overwhelming feeling to end. 

She wanted to feel his lips against all the skin of her body. She wanted to feel his hands against her skin. She wanted him. 

She could take in here in the woods if he allowed. Fuck dignity and tradition. She now understood why lust dedicated people's actions. 

“Maybe I could change that,” Aemond whispered against her skin as he planned another kiss against her skin.

Lyanna was about to nod before a lady's scream pulled them out of their haze. The two moved just far enough away to look each other in the eyes.

The sound of laughter of both men and women quickly followed the scream.

She was the first to move as she pulled herself away from Aemond and the tree. Not caring about the pain of her hair being stuck within the tree's bark. Lyanna moved her hand over the skin of her neck where Aemonds lips were. 

She cleared her throat and turned to look at the prince, who was already watching her. For once, Lyanna could not read his face. 

“It seems that the ladies are having fun. “We should rejoin the party, should we not?” Lyanna asked, and Aemond nodded. He started back toward the group, leaving Lyanna to follow after him. 

– – 

Lyanna was knelt before the Heart Tree. She could feel the wet dirt against her knees as it seeped through the fabric of her stocking, probably staining both the fabric and her skin with each second she stayed. The corset of her dress felt tight against her chest with each breath she took, and the pins in her hair felt like they were stabbing her scalp. 

But through her pain, the only movement was those of her lips as she whispered her prayer. 

She had made a beeline for the Godswood when she and Aemond arrived back at the keep, not stopping when she heard the prince call out to her. And once she arrived at the holy place, she had planted herself before the tree and had yet to leave it. 

The sun had long left the sky, but Lyanna remained.

She prayed through the pain of hunger that came from her stomach—prayed through the bite of the chill of night.  Her eyes closed so she did not have to see the red weeping tears of the tree judging her. Yet even with her eyes closed, she could still feel the eyes of the nameless gods judging her as she prayed and repented.  

Whenever she thought she had prayed for enough forgiveness, her skin would burn where Aemond’s lips had once ghosted against her neck and lips, and then she would start the prayers again. 

It seemed like any self-dignity and preservation that Lyanna thought she had would burn to ash the second the prince joined her side. No, whenever the prince was in eyesight, they would become as if the flames of desire burned inside her. Lyanna knew what would happen if anyone were to discover the events today: she would be sent back to Harrenhal, and the title she fought so hard for would be given to her uncle. 

Lyanna could not allow that. Could not let all the sacrifices be for nothing. 

Larys could not help but compare his niece to a child asking for forgiveness from a parent as he watched her pray. The moon's light casted a shadow of her body against the ground, and Larys was reminded of how young Lyanna was. He was sure that if her parents had survived the fire, they would fight to keep her locked away in Harrenhal and away from any man she might be able to marry. 

The language of her prayers was now foreign to him, but he knew that his niece would not spend hours before her gods praying for a simple mistake. She had been raised by devout worshipers of the old ways, and every decision she made was with them in mind. Larys knew that much about his estranged niece.

“Care to say why you missed our dinner,” Larys broke the silence of the night. 

He waited for Lyanna to respond to him, yet as he watched her kneeling figure, she made no movement to get up or answer him. Larys tapped his cane against the ground and cleared his throat, waiting for a response from the girl deep in prayer. 

“No. I’m praying, so go away,” she answered him, her voice coarse, and it was clear that she needed a drink to soothe it. 

Lyanna did not want to face her uncle. Even if he was a cripple, she was sure that he would be able to see through her lies and know precisely what she had done. That he would punish her for her harlot actions and desires. 

So Lyanna remained knelt. She would stay before the tree until she could move past her improper behaviour and thoughts. The gods would tell her when she was done. 

“You have been praying for hours,” His tone was one of authority, yet Lyanna could only choke down a snicker at it. 

He might be her elder, but Larys held little true authority over her when they were in private. He could not physically punish her, nor would the rest of their family be okay with any humiliation that Larys might put her through as a punishment. She was sure her aunts would ride to the Keep themselves if he did so. 

“I have been neglecting the gods since I arrived in the south; I just wish to show devotion once again,” Her voice was louder this time as if with each moment Larys spent in her presence, she was coming out of her trance of prayer. 

“Lying before that tree is a sin, Lyanna. That is much I remember,” Larys told her, hoping to use her faith to gain the truth from her. 

Her words were not lies and, therefore, not sin. She tried to tell herself. 

Lyanna sighed to herself. She knew that Larys would not be leaving her alone. With shaky legs, she stood up. The sound of her knee popping raised slight concern, but the stiffness in her legs and throbbing pain in her head raised more. 

Maybe she shouldn’t have skipped her dinner. 

Lyanna's hands moved to rest on her hips as she took a deep breath and turned to face her uncle. Rolling her shoulders as she moved toward her henched man. 

“Is praying to the old gods forbidden now? Do I need to go to the Stept and light a candle?” Her tone had a bit of bitterness and venom that the sweet girl here a second ago did not usually possess, but it was reminded of a woman he had long since forgotten.  

Or tried to forget. She often plagued his dreams, and sometimes, when he was awake, he could swear that he saw her within the darkness of the corridors.  

“It is time to retire for the day, Lyanna,” He calmly told her. He did not want to alert her of how her voice truly shivered his bones. 

The darkness of the night made her hair look almost black; her soft features were suddenly sharp, and he could see a sparkle of green in the brown of her eyes. As Lyanna stood before Larys, it was as if her face was transforming into hers.

As he spoke, Lyanna could not help but roll her eyes. She knew that it was of no use to fight now. She was tired, and her bed was calling for her. 

She let her arms fall and began to move toward the exit of the Godswood. But as she moved past her uncle, he quickly wrapped a hand around her arm, stopping her from moving further. 

Larys debated whether or not he should press the issue further. He might be able to gain the truth from Lyanna if he continued to annoy her with his questions. 

But as he held her arm in his hand, her eyes only narrowed, and her mouth turned into a scowl. The more he looked, the more he saw of her. 

But she was always present in Lyanna in the way she held herself—the quickness to her jabs of words. 

Larys let go of her arm, resting both hands on the pommel of his cane. He offered her a small fake smile.

“You remind so much of her in this light,” He quietly whispered to her, as if the tree in front of them was listening to the words. 

Lyanna's brows pulled tougher, and she swallowed the spit in her mouth. She moved slightly to face her uncle, unsure of who he was referring to.

“My mother?” She asked, her voice louder than Larys’s. 

He shook his head as he responded. “The wretched witch that raised you,”

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@delaynew @coldmermaidhologram @snh96 @sahvlren

[cleolinda]

(For our purposes, listen to it without the visuals first.)

I wasn't going to keep posting about Unreal Unearth, but something happened yesterday.

It's been five months since I first heard this song, and I'm still astonished by it. You know the tiktok skit about the Star Wars wedding music, and the guy is grooving along until the Imperial Death March filters in, and then he's kind of alarmed, like, wha—? And then he realizes it slaps anyway and he keeps dancing? That is "Eat Your Young."

It's the morning of March 17th. The EP with the first three singles from the new album has dropped. I've got my phone blasting the song on the bathroom counter, I don't understand half what the man is saying nor did I expect to, I'm cheerfully mumbling along in the shower, grooving along,

wait they did what for a war drum

Get some Pull up the ladder when the flood comes Throw enough rope until the legs have swung Seven new ways that you can eat your young Come and get some Skinning the children for a war drum Putting food on the table selling bombs and guns It's quicker and easier to eat your young

What the fuck, this song goes so hard. That's the chorus. The conceit of the whole album is that it loosely follows Dante's Inferno, so this is the third circle of hell, gluttony. Hozier himself says that he wasn't specifically thinking of Jonathan Swift's A Modest Proposal—

“I don’t know how intentional the reference to Jonathan Swift was in this. That essay [Swift’s 1729 satirical essay A Modest Proposal in which he suggests the Irish poor sell their children as food] is such a cultural landmark that it’s just hanging in the air. I was more reflecting on what I felt now in this spirit of the times of perpetual short-term gain and a long-term blindness. The increasing levels of precarious living, poverty, job insecurity, rental crisis, property crisis, climate crisis, and a generation that’s inheriting all of that and one generation that’s enjoyed the spoils of it. The lyrics are direct, but the voice is playful. There’s this unreliable narrator who relishes in this thing which was fun to write.” [Apple Music album notes]

—and I believe him. The song's not a suggestion, a proposal; it's an invitation to atrocity in progress. I also believe he probably wasn't thinking of Greta Thunberg's iconic speech at the UN Climate Action Summit, not specifically, but that's what I hear in the song, like the flip side of a coin:

You have stolen my dreams and my childhood with your empty words. And yet I'm one of the lucky ones. People are suffering. People are dying. Entire ecosystems are collapsing. We are in the beginning of a mass extinction, and all you can talk about is money and fairy tales of eternal economic growth. How dare you! [...] You say you hear us and that you understand the urgency. But no matter how sad and angry I am, I do not want to believe that. Because if you really understood the situation and still kept on failing to act, then you would be evil.

I feel like on some level, even coincidentally, "Eat Your Young" is the answer to the question, what would you sound like if you were that evil? Who would you be? I can think of a dozen possibilities just off the top of my head or looking around my blog, from something as petty as studio executives mangling trees to deprive striking workers of shade (while hoping they lose their homes), all the way up to the US school-to-prison pipeline. The National Rifle Association keeps politicians in its pocket while the US has more mass shootings than days in a year, Nestlé fucks shit up around the world as a way of life, even ChatGPT sucks up water while threatening jobs—and for what? And yet, I promise you most of these things weren't the inspiration for an Irishman’s song—some of them hadn't even happened yet. There's just that much fresh You Would Be Evil to go around. I am certain that Hozier wrote the song partly about (as one article puts it) "Ireland's housing crisis: Millennials, a generation sacrificed," given that time back in the day when he helped occupy a building—a housing crisis happening in multiple countries. There's so much of the world I'm not touching on. I can stuff a paragraph with links and it's utterly inadequate.

I haven't even mentioned war.

There's an overwhelming sense this decade of the future being fed into a meat grinder. That sense is in this song. What would it sound like to be in the head of someone who didn't give a shit about anything but profit? Well, it might sound like this.

And if you haven't heard it, well—I'm going to sound absolutely out of my mind after saying all that, but "Eat Your Young" has a beat and you can dance to it. It's sexy. And I'm certain that's on purpose. You get seduced into the sound of it, as if by something demonic, something that enjoys sucking down the future and is not going to stop. And the sheer fucking catchiness of the song keeps you listening to it—thinking about it—when maybe you push away the dry headlines we get everyday. If you let this song stay in your head, it becomes a lens. Five months later, I still think about it when I read the news. Maui was on fire and tourists stayed. Within days, the prospect of developers swooping in to buy up land reared its head. If there's something still to take, there is ground to break, whatever's still to come. Get some.

I was born in 1978 —I'm late Gen X. In my forties, I'm young enough to worry about the future still; I’m neither so rich that I can just plan to retire to Mars, nor so old that I can know I'll be safely gone before the world might go up in flames. But I'm also not my nephew, whose school year just started back up, or the neighborhood kids who race him home down the sidewalk in the afternoons. Yesterday, he had his very first mass-shooter lockdown drill. He’s six.

I think music can put the feeling back into numb fingers, and I think that's why "Eat Your Young" works so well—Hozier calls the song fun and playful, and I think you have to have that, something you can live with rather than just switch off for your own mental survival. We need music to feed spirit at protests; we need something to keep our feet moving. Don’t give up, don't close your eyes and slip away. Those kids, they have dreams we could try to steal back for them.

Since I mentioned Maui:

Why Hawaiian sovereignty has undeniable context for the Maui fires

The Climate Crisis and Colonialism Destroyed My Maui Home. Where We Must Go From Here

How You Can Donate and Help Support Maui Communities Right Now

The Maui Strong Fund

[theoi-crow]

TW: religious trauma, threat mention, weapons mention, child neglect, homophobia, abuse, coercion and religious PTSD.

Why fearing a deity keeps me from developing a genuine relationship with that same deity.

I grew up Catholic and one of the first things my mother taught me was the concept of Heaven and Hell. Essentially after death one gets judged based on the actions they took while they were still living and is either rewarded with heaven or punished with hell. It was a simple concept to understand but it brought up a question that ultimately made me leave the religion.

Do I genuinely love God or am I afraid of his wrath? (Like a held hostage who is coerced into choosing options that won't upset my captor out of fear of his retaliation)

Even the reward of eternal bliss felt like it was designed to lessen the threat of eternal damnation as a consolation prize for all those years of panic attacks and anxiety over the thought of being sent to Hell. I always hoped for a third milder option that allowed me the freedom to develop a genuine relationship with God without said god having to rely on coercion. I wanted to experience an honest relationship without a weapon pressed against my back in case I made the wrong move or asked the wrong question.

Due to this looming threat, the relationship I had with God felt transactional and lacked genuine affection because I knew God's love for me was conditional and depended on me following arbitrary rules from a book written by a lot of different people (each author having their own agenda different from the rest so they were constantly contradicting each other because the different entries were written in different time periods and places with vastly different political movements specific to their locations and situations but were combined together, like a mass Tumblr post with over 50 blogs that don't all agree on what the rules should be).

The many rules always made me feel like Alice playing a game with the Queen of Hearts with rules that were unclear and no one was interested in explaining them to me until I did something they didn't like and were able to find something in the book that condemned me for it.

Having to adhere to these rules in order for me to be rewarded and not punished felt like a relationship between a gay child and homophobic parents that expected said child to act a certain way. If that child obeyed, they were rewarded with affection and approval, but if said child didn't, they were kicked out and forced to fend for themselves against a world that wasn't built to protect and help gay children. Being Christian felt like I had a leash around my neck being held by an entity that constantly told me he loved me, so long as I did what I was told.

I didn't think it was possible to love a deity without fearing them until I met my gods.

According to the ancient Greeks: Once a human dies they go to Hades. Unless they make some kind of undeniable mark in the world everyone goes to Hades.

If you were a famous and exceptional human that changed the world in a positive way you'd go to Elysium but you purposefully had to do something so extraordinary your legacy and name became well known because according to the Elysium wiki, in the beginning "only mortals related to the gods and other heroes could be admitted past the river Styx. Later, the conception of who could enter was expanded to include those chosen by the gods, the righteous, and the heroic." (LINK) The ancient Greeks believed the gods were in charge of giving people fame because those who were famous were often related to the gods (for example: people believed Pythagoras (the one that the Pythagorean theorem is named after) was either the son of Apollo, or Apollo himself: (LINK)

Tartarus is strictly for gods and humans can't go there but the worst humans are still punished by Hades as shown in the myths of Sisyphus (LINK) and Tantalus (LINK) but you have to royally eff up. You have to do it on purpose like enacting laws that target vulnerable people (both Sisyphus and Tantalus were kings and politically involved) or commiting mass genocide as examples of the severity I'm talking about. These are crimes against humanity you cannot accidentally do, they involve terrible deeds that are premeditated with the intent of destroying the lives of innocent people.

But if my main problem is the concept of Heaven/Hell, why am I bringing up Elysium, Hades and Tartarus, concepts that influenced how Heaven and Hell work? (LINK)

Because unless you choose to dedicate your life, time and energy and become famous for making an undeniable mark in history (an effort that isn't just you doing normal good deeds or making mistakes you later regret but actually dedicating your life and becoming well known for your efforts like activist Greta Thunberg, or purposefully hurting innocent people like serial killer Ted Bundy) everyone else goes to Hades and I love that because when I work with my gods I may not get automatic access to Elysium but there is no threat of eternal punishment either.

Which means I interact with my gods because I want to!

Not because I'll be rewarded or punished but because I want to interact with them and develop a genuine connection with them! There's no condition of me needing to convert others, in fact I don't even have to tell people I believe in them! (the gods understand the world can be a dangerous place for their followers due to the many religious wars and religious politicians in power).

I'm not required to talk about them! I'm not even required to keep this blog but I do it because I genuinely love them and I love talking about them! I've even changed majors mid semester in order to dedicate my life to learning about them. I'm studying to become an archeologist who specializes in the ancient Greek religion in order to make that information more accessible to Hellenic Polytheists and anyone else interested in the gods. I don't do it so the gods will reward me because I don't need them to, they will be just as happy if I delete this blog, quit my career and go about my day living my life. I do it because I love learning about the gods and I want to share the information I learned in case it helps those that are interested learn more about their gods too!

I've even made it my mission on Tumblr to share what I've learned about the gods to hopefully help others connect with their gods more easily especially for those who are having trouble connecting with them. And this was all unprompted. The gods literally had nothing to do with this. It was my own choice because there is a specific god I sometimes have trouble connecting with due to varying factors and it makes me feel awful when I can't connect with him, especially when I need his guidance the most so I want to help others avoid experiencing that feeling by letting them know they're not alone and helping them figure out what's blocking their connection because it can be a miserable experience.

My favorite part about a lack of reward and punishment is having the confidence to say I seek the gods because I want to seek the gods.

I walk with the gods because I want to walk with the gods. This is my will, my choice, and mine alone. No one is forcing me to do it and there isn't some big prize at the end if I do, I can stop anytime I want and nothing will happen. I have made an independent choice to seek the gods, meet them and got to know them and I can genuinely say I love them more than I ever thought was possible. I do.

I love my gods.

[kindestegg]

Collector, Hunter and Caleb: On cycles of violence

Baby titans. Flapjack. Evelyn. What do they all have in common?

If you guessed "they were key components in making a character question what they've been told and pursue a new life, kickstarting major events", you're correct!

Hi, I'm Romeo the local Collector obsessed TOH fan!! And I REALLY need to talk about how Collector's backstory parallels Hunter's and Caleb's. Like I REALLY REALLY do.

Just as a quick disclaimer, if you're still feeling lost on Collector's backstory, I made a quick write up of my analysis for it here.

Now, if you're up to speed, we can start talking about the parallels. You see, I feel Collector's backstory is so fascinating because it really solidifies one of the recurring themes of The Owl House: cycles of violence.

Specifically, I want to talk about cycles of violence that aren't easily changed or broken. Societal ones, ones that worm themselves into the very norms of conduct that inform a certain people's behavior.

For Caleb, that was being a witch hunter, something that not only do we know was part of the local culture of Gravesfield back when he and Philip came to it, but that also apparently by Philip's memories, was even something he looked forward to.

I'm not going to get into how this ties into historical, real life witch hunting, because I feel it's hardly appropriate I, as someone who's not that well versed on such history, go into it in a theory post about a Disney cartoon.

But even in this fantasy world, the fact of that matter is that this witch hunting was enacting a system of organized violence. Children were brought up since early on to act out witch hunts, to understand witches were enemies and should be hunted. The othering of witches, the insistence of them as monstrous and inhuman. All this must have led to the witch hunting culture of Gravesfield.

And Caleb and Philip were deep in it.

Now, we know how the story goes. Both brothers go to the demon realm, meet a witch. Caleb gives it all an earnest chance, resolves himself to learn about how witches really are, and humanizes them, even possibly falling in love with a witch, who we now know as Evelyn. Philip despises it all from the start, refuses to ever see the place as anything but damned and monstrous.

From this, Caleb and Philip become symbols of opposing forces: That of change, a break in the status quo, a shining light of questioning why things are and calling for peace VS That of tradition, the desperate want to keep the cycle going, inability to envision anything different than has ever been, to question the old teachings.

Each fought for what they believed in. But Caleb lost and the cycle continued, evolved.

In the real world it is much of the same. Change happens gradually, but even when it does, the cycle does not break easily, it evolves into something else.

Philip's hunt turns to the entirety of the Boiling Isles. He creates the Coven System, to get rid of all witches, yes, but also to keep them easier to control, predictable. He becomes Emperor, and now there is a new system of control, a new cycle of violence.

The Emperor's Coven is suspiciously the only one allowed to use all kinds of magic, a way to assert this authority as well as making recruiting Coven Scouts easier. Witches who do not conform to the system are captured and petrified en masse, the Coven Scouts ensure all witches and demons must fall in line, or else. The parallels to our world and state forces used to control the population is not something that goes unnoticed.

Hunter is part of the Emperor's Coven, too. He's placed as the Golden Guard, the most important symbol of the Emperor's Coven, a substitute for Lilith once she reforms. As such, Hunter too starts out by enforcing a system of violence, just as Caleb did before.

The cycle even more glaringly becomes a cycle now, as Belos literally keeps making grimwalkers and restarting the cycle of the golden guard. Belos enforces the cycle of violence, and hopes this "new Caleb" will do it too, and every time he attempts to break it, Belos breaks him first. In a way, there are two cycles of violence at play: that of which is systemically mantained over the Isles, and that of which Belos mantains over Hunter and every other grimwalker he's made.

Hunter, of course, eventually defects as well. He meets Luz, Flapjack, and then Willow and Gus and when he knows it, he's got a whole lot of people he cares about and that care about him. And he becomes a little less willing to carry out the system of violence he was placed in every day. Until he defects for good.

So the cycle breaks once more, but this time, Belos doesn't catch up to him, at least not yet. In the present, Hunter is still surrounded by friends and a loving mother figure. He was part of breaking the cycle, of at least helping stop the Day of Unity. Change is starting.

So where does Collector fit into all of this? Well I'd first like to address the elephant in the room. For a character whose backstory also involves breaking cycles of violence he sure was aiding in one, by giving Belos the draining spell and encouraging the creation of the coven system. But that's just another aspect of cycles of violence.

Because cycles of violence don't just imply systemic violence or even violence perpetrated through constant abuse. But also, the cyclical nature of violence. The ability that someone who has grown up with violence normalized and has had violence done unto them can then channel that into violence towards others.

Now, before I am misinterpreted, I'd like to make some things clear: One, I am not of the simple opinion that "abused people turn into abusers", that is an ugly myth. Two, I have been a victim of abuse myself, and am a psychology graduate. I feel confident speaking with authority about this subject. Third, there is a difference between the psychological concept of generational trauma and internalized violence and the idea that being abused will turn someone violent.

What I am implying here is that Collector's behavior of dismissing both the violence done unto the grimwalkers, as well as towards the victims of the draining spell is something that he has learned and internalized as normal due to his life experiences.

Recall if you will that Collector is a member of an alien species that has a high disregard for life. In the same breath that they will say they preserve creatures to study them, they will also attempt to destroy all that opposes them. Collector grew up with this violence being seen as normal. He was brought to meet the titan trappers and taught to wear the titan skulls, following in his family's footsteps.

But... just like Caleb and Hunter before them, they saw a different path they could take when it came to the titans. A way to approach them without violence. They gained an interest for titans, just like Hunter with wild magic, just like Caleb with the demon realm.

Once left alone to do so, they approached the titans, specifically young ones, close to their age. They played and maybe even learned some of their favorite games for the first time there.

They also became horribly traumatized.

Both Caleb and Hunter have suffered greatly as a consequence for their defiance. No system of violence lets itself be broken peacefully. Caleb had his life taken, so did all the grimwalkers. Hunter, while having escaped with a good support system, lost Flapjack.

For Collector, that came in the form of having to watch all the remaining titans he had so happily introduced himself to play with get killed off by his own family. We do not know the full logic of how or why his family did this, but we know it was brutal and we know the end result: King's egg alone and Collector in the disc, imprisoned for centuries.

Collector is a child, and if there was still any doubt in any fan's mind of this, For the Future stomped it out for good. Collector was a child when he had to watch his family kill off his new friends. He was a child when King's Father, likely in the middle of these attacks and motivated by it, sealed him away. He remained in stasis for centuries during this imprisonment.

I can only imagine that would really mess up any kid up. And through that, I think we can begin to understand what the mindset was for Collector when he took Philip up on his offer.

I've seen people be surprised by how friendly and childlike Collector acted in this latest episode when compared to his previous appearances in season 2, and I think we need to remember that Collector was in a much different condition back then. He had lost everything he cared about, got stuck in a prison for centuries with no one to talk to and no hope of anyone ever finding him, and when someone did find him, it was Philip fucking Wittebane.

And something I think most of us have already clocked about Philip is that he prefers the people he collaborates with to be vulnerable. Someone he can easily control, usually through their emotions and attachments.

We see this in Elsewhere and Elsewhen with his tendency to praise and lead Lilith and Luz on to get what he wants, knowing they need something out of this and are desperate.

We see this with Lilith, whom he uses the guilt of her sister being cursed to make her follow his every command and not question his rules.

We see this with every grimwalker including Hunter as they're told he was the one who "saved them and took them in".

We see this with Luz and how he leads her thoughts around in Hollow Mind to twist it in how she helped him unwittingly before.

And though his relationship with Kikimora and her schemes is more of an odd one, with him mostly paying her no mind, Follies at the Coven Day Parade at the very least touched on the fact her mental health at the Emperor's Coven is not doing well. She's also desperate for something and being led around by Belos' promises, even if that thing she's desperate for is... power. But er, we love an evil girlboss.

Look, what I'm trying to say is that Philip saw a child that had been horribly traumatized from seeing his friends die and then getting stuck in fantasy perpetual prison for centuries with no enrichment, no one to talk to, just eternal loneliness and sadness and he absolutely took advantage of it.

He used every single part of Collector's broken psyche to his advantage, including possibly withholding his freedom to interact with the outside world through the disc, shutting him up and cutting his vision whenever he might have wanted to.

And Collector, having grown up in an environment that encouraged killing everything in your way if necessary, having nothing else to lose because everything he could have cared about not killing was to his knowledge gone...

Absolutely took him up on the offer. And so, the cycle of violence is mantained, the one who had to witness such violence, unable to stop it, now carries out the same type of violence against others. Out of anger, maybe, but mostly out of desperation. For Collector, there's nothing left to do but do what Belos says, otherwise it's back to loneliness and darkness. And if Belos says "kill every last witch and demon in the Boiling Isles", he'll get that.

Collector's glee in this is not something that can be excused, however. It must be examined through the lens of understanding this is a bad thing, that this is a case study in how children internalize violence and learn to be not only compliant to it, but also even revel in it. He's gone from victim to perpetrator. Not because of any of the abuse or trauma he faced, but because of his environment creating the perfect conditions for it.

But that's when our heroes come in. The cycle of violence did not complete itself. The draining spell was stopped. And the way it was stopped is also incredibly powerful in its symbolism.

Because it was King who went out of his way to contact Collector and who freed him. King, a titan, the last of a species that was at war with the collectors, now extended a hand for our Collector to be free. Despite everything indicating that they should not find each other, should not be together, they came together to stop the Day of Unity.

In the Day of Unity being stopped by the Collector, so another cycle of violence is broken: that of titans and collectors being at odds with each other. In them is represented the hope for the future: two children who are free of the anger their species would hold for one another, now united in their wish for a better future.

When King decides Collector shouldn't be imprisoned again and insists to Lilith and Eda that they let him talk to them peacefully, that's him taking a step to break the cycle of violence. When King says "it didn't work" he's not just talking about the fact Collector could go free. He's talking about the fact imprisoning Collector was a violence done unto him that only brought about more danger and more violence, did not teach him anything, and doing so again could risk worse things to come.

When he says "it's worth a shot if no more people get hurt" he includes everyone in that equation. He includes Collector. And that's breaking the cycle of violence.

In a way, you could say if Belos and Collector's arcs as villains are both about stopping cycles of violence in different ways.

With Belos, he has spiraled down so deeply he has become the cycle itself, eating everything in the way and infecting everything, unable to live on without creating more violence onto others, and so he must be stopped by force if necessary. In this, The Owl House doesn't shy away from the fact that in the real world, sometimes you need to fight back, you cannot resolve everything peacefully, and breaking the cycle will involve hurting someone before they hurt more people.

But with Collector, another side is shown, one that reminds us that we must have nuance, and sometimes, we will be faced with the difficult reality that those doing violence unto others are also people who are hurting, who are lonely, who are sad. Specially children who have grown in environments where violence and prejudice was normalized. Sometimes children will be violent, will be bigoted, will repeat every little horrible thing the adults in their lives taught them. But they're still children. And they still deserve a chance to learn and a chance to grow.

It's about recognizing the difference between a young person who genuinely wants to learn and hasn't had the opportunity to, and someone who is not interested in this. Collector's backstory tells us he does have an interest in being good, he just needs the opportunity.

Collector isn't an easy character to approach like Hunter or Caleb. They do not have the benefit of starting off the narrative dead and buried, leaving the audience to assume mostly good things out of his deviation. Neither do they have Hunter's rebellious teenage bravado that allows him to show his defiance to Belos or his tragic fate of being a grimwalker binding him. They just are an alien child with immense power who tried once to deviate from the norm and then got the worst luck of the entire universe after them, and procceeded to become bitter and angry and absolutely sadistic afterwards.

But there's still good in them. And just like Caleb and Hunter, their efforts to break the cycle of violence they were raised in, as well as the efforts to denounce their fellow collectors will not go unnoticed.

[cosmicjoke]

Okay, this is a bit of a call-out post, which I don't like to engage in, but some of the stuff that's been brought to my attention, that's apparently been being said about me and, by extension, people who share my views, isn't really something I can let stand.

So apparently there's some blogs going around vague posting about Levi fans who dare (oh the horror) to call Levi a good man and a hero, saying stuff like doing so is how one treads down the path toward Nazism, because it's a "denial" of Levi's faults, and if we don't condemn his violence as outright bad or wrong, then we're liable to start making excuses for and justifying all forms of violence.

Do I even need to lay out why this argument is absurd and absolutely childish at its core? I don't think so, but I will anyway.

One of the overarching and main themes of AoT is that we shouldn't flatly condemn people for their actions without first understanding the context of those actions. That nothing is ever so simple as being flatly right or wrong, good or bad. That there can be and are complicating factors that might lead to any, given person's actions or behavior.

Levi himself is a prime example of this, and we see the error of flatly condemning and writing him off as "bad" in the form of Jean's and Mikasa's judgmental and dismissive attitude toward him after seeing him engage in acts of violence, only to themselves be forced into similar acts moments later.

The stupidity inherent to uniformly condemning all violence as bad or wrong lies in its total failure to consider any mitigating circumstances that might have lead to the violence in the first place, and, ironically, it's THAT sort of basic and simplistic thinking that leads toward the kind of fanatical, ideological foundations of Nazism and other, similar movements. Nuanced thought, consideration, empathy and critical thinking are never the things that lead down that road. Moralistic and generalized view points are what do that. To call Levi a "morally grey" character is to fundamentally misunderstand that morality itself is a "grey" concept. There's no such thing a black and white morality. Almost nothing is always right and always wrong, including violence. Very few things, if anything, can be definitely categorized as right and wrong in and of itself. The argument that some things need to be wholly condemned or eradicated is, for example, the same sort of logic that people who advocate for censorship apply. All pornography is bad or wrong? Better to just flatly condemn and ban all of it, then. Oh my, you're going to let two men marry each other? What if someone wants to marry an animal next? Better just make gay marriage illegal then, I guess. Many Jews are bankers, and banking is a corrupt business that preys on people's vulnerabilities, thus, all Jews are really just money launders and loan sharks and need to be stopped. Killing and violence is always wrong, and so people who kill or commit acts of violence are always criminals and bad people with malicious intent or who reveal in other people's pain. See how that works? All generalizations like that lead to is mass persecution, either of a concept or of a person/group of people, without taking into consideration the actual complexity or nuanced reasoning for why something or someone might be a certain way or do a certain thing. That's what's dangerous.

To deny Levi is a good man or a hero because he commits acts of violence is to totaly deny and strip him of all the many aspects and characteristics of his personality that makes him who he actually is. Levi's violence doesn't define him. It isn't who he is. Rather, it's a product of the world he lives in and the circumstances of his upbringing and life. It doesn't signify the person he is at his core. It doesn't negate the immense compassion, kindness, empathy and sensitivity with which he regards and treats other people. It doesn't render his heroism worthless or questionable. It doesn't undermine his intentions or motivations. It doesn't rob his many sacrifices of their selflessness. That's why I say Levi is a good man. Not because he's on the "good guy side" or because he holds a certain set of ideological beliefs, but because of those inherent qualities which define him as a good man. Compassion, kindness, empathy, emotional intelligence, and a genuine desire to help others for others sake. He's a good person because he actually, truly cares about other people. Is that assessment of him supposed to somehow lead down the road to fanaticism? How absurd.

That's not to say Levi doesn't have flaws. Of course he does. He's a human being, and all human's are flawed. Nobody ever said Levi was a "perfect" hero, just that he is a hero. Understanding Levi's violence and where it comes from and why he engages in it doesn't mean we're excusing it or calling it "good". It's simply an attempt to understand and acknowledge one of the main themes of AoT, which is that a person committing a "bad act" doesn't in and of itself make them a "bad person", and that certain actions and behaviors that are deemed "bad" by society can and often do have reasonable and justifiable explanations at their root. Does Levi resort to violence too often and too easily? Sure. I've said that and acknowledged it on multiple occasions. I've dedicated entire, long-winded analysis posts to exploring the duality of Levi's compassionate and empathetic nature with the fact that he's one of the most violent characters in AoT. His knee-jerk reaction and response to most situations is to apply physical force of one kind or another. Levi is also an extremely emotional character, and is given at times to bouts of emotionally excessive response. When he kicks Eren and Jean after his conversation with Erwin. When he manhandles Historia for her initial, flat refusal to take the throne. When he kicks Eren's teeth in during the RtS arc, or on the airship in Liberio. When he tortures Zeke in the cart on the way to the capital. These are all instances of Levi giving in to his emotion and responding violently. And no, it's not good, but it also doesn't make Levi bad. It doesn't make his intentions malicious or cruel in nature. In all of these instances of violence on Levi's part, it's driven by an intense emotional response, generally in regard to some traumatic event. Levi learning Erwin might not be the good man he thought he was. Levi having to torture a man for specific information, only to have the point of it threatened by Historia's self-pity. Eren interfering with Levi's direct command during a situation in which time was severely limited in making a decision. Eren slaughtering countless innocent people. Zeke forcing Levi to kill more than two dozen of his own soldiers. All of the examples one could point to of Levi being "unnecessarily" violent, meaning in a way that didn't further some larger goal or cause, were all moments of emotional reaction linked either to trauma or urgency or both. Most of these responses from Levi, in fact, came about because he was upset about someone else getting hurt, or at the possibility of people getting hurt. They're rooted, at their core, in Levi's compassion for others. They're emotional responses triggered by Levi's empathy and care. He gets angry because he's scared or grief stricken over someone else' suffering. And that's my and other fans' only point. Levi's violence might be considered bad by some, but the underlying reasons for it almost always prove Levi's goodness. He responds so strongly because he cares. So to refuse to acknowledge the circumstances and context surrounding those acts of violence and to refuse to acknowledge the influence of his upbringing in his inclination to respond with violence is grossly unjust and unfair to who Levi is as a person. To pretend that his very nature can't be contradictory to his actions and behavior is to deny, not just Levi's complexity as a person, but the complexity of people overall. Because Levi's nature is, much of the time, contradictory to his actions, especially when one only looks at his actions in a vacuum instead of in context. He's a violent man who also holds more kindness and compassion in his heart for people than any other character in the story. That's a contradiction. But it's true, nonetheless. You can be a good person who does bad things, or things deemed wrong by others and society.

Levi doesn't enjoy violence, and anyone who says he does or tries to claim he does is flatly wrong. To say, just because Levi is good at violence, that must mean he's somehow born to it, or that it's in his nature to want to commit it, is equally unjust and unfair in the way it dismisses the circumstances of his life and upbringing. A person can be forced into doing something that goes against their core temperament and personality due to forces outside of their control, and acknowledging that about Levi and his violence isn't the same as claiming him to be a "perfect hero". He's not perfect, but he is a hero. He's a hero because he's inherently selfless and kind and empathetic toward other people and their suffering, because he's willing to do all he can to help other people, despite an upbringing which forced violence and a familiarity with violence into his life, despite a childhood and young adulthood filled with deprivation and poverty. He wasn't born with a violent temperament, he was raised in an environment that necessitated a reliance on violence in order to survive, and so we see that manifest in Levi as an adult. A reliance on violence to survive. Again, to not acknowledge that and the impact it had on Levi's behavior and actions is unjust and unfair to him as a person. A stupid oversimplification of not just Levi as a character, but of people in general, and of the concept of justifiable violence too. Pacifism is an ideal, but one which doesn't and can't always coexist with reality. To judge someone and condemn then for engaging in violence, no matter the circumstances surrounding that violence, when nature itself is predicated on violence, is absurd.

Context matters. Circumstances matter. Intent matters. Levi's violence was never ideological in its reasoning. He never committed acts of violence in service to some abstract school of thought or philosophy. He never killed anyone because he thought they represented or symbolized some great evil or threat to the world and needed to be eradicated as a result. Levi's acts of violence have always been practical in nature. Defense of himself and others against people directly threatening their well being. And further, Levi has never, not once, tried to impose his way of thinking or doing on a single, other person. He's always, always, allowed everyone to decide for themselves. To come to their own conclusions of what they believe is right and wrong, good or bad. He's always allowed everyone their own agency. He's never manipulated or badgered or bullied anyone into agreeing with him or tried to brainwash anyone into a certain set of ideological beliefs. He's only ever wanted and tried to ensure people the freedom to make those decisions for themselves, and he's only ever tried to protect people, more often than not at great cost to himself.

He's the very definition of a hero, and to accuse people who call him that of exhibiting the kind of ideological thinking that leads to Nazism is not only absurd, but a massive insult, both to Levi's character and to the intelligence of his fans. As if they're incapable of understanding the nature of violence because they differentiate between acts of violence by applying critical thought to outside factors and mitigating circumstances. I guess our justice system is similarly incapable of understanding the nature of violence too, then, because it also dares to weigh outside factors and mitigating circumstances when judging a person's "crimes" or "guilt". It isn't the people who apply nuanced thought and consideration to Levi's actions who are susceptible to fanaticism, it's the people making those sorts of accusations who are, in exposing their total inability to divorce themselves from their black and white view of reality.

[her-reidiance]

I'm high and extremely emotional about Livinia Falcone (Penance) being the such a great complement and contrast to Margaret Nearl. It's like... so apparent. It had to be intentional or it's just a genius coincidence. This'll be long because I ramble, but please bear with me.

Like, first off,

I mean, you have the obvious white-black contrast in their outfits. You also have the contrast in their weapons, a nimble swordspear and a heavy hammer OF JUSTICE (and it might be cheating to mention that Nearl has long hair and Penance has short hair) (EDIT: I forgot her braid sorry), but then, then! You have the compliments! The glowing dagger in Nearl's hand, the codex in Penance's.

You also have like, the way their backstories complement each other in certain ways. Nearl was a competition knight, a hero to the masses and a symbol of safety and hope that was ultimately controlled by the interests of the bureaucracy. She was forced to leave her hometown, and live in the wilderness. Penance, on the other hand, is a judge. An enforcer of the law that supposedly keeps the people safe but was actually in the pocket of the Bellone famiglie. Despite doing everything she could, to believe in justice and try to uphold the law, she was shackled by her limitations especially to mafia affairs, even if she wasnt as tightly leashed by the Bellones and allowed to give guilty sentences sometimes. Both women were basically pawns to the powers that be in their countries, and it was an open secret that they weren't much more than that.

Where they differ is their outlook. Nearl's family motto, "Fear neither hardship nor darkness" lives through Margaret most visibly. She says it often, and she exemplifies what a platonic ideal of a knight would act like. She's noble, courageous, kind, she fights for what's right. She is uncompromising in her values but not close minded. It's beautiful and inspiring to see.

Penance is not so lucky. She's disillusioned. She has hope but it's faint and tricky. By the end of Il Siracusano she's ready to leave Siracusa behind and try to atone for her past inadequacy (hence her Operator name). She is a woman with honor that had to be compromised. She drinks, and apparently to blackout sometimes. Her codex, the toke of law she values so much, is literally bound in thorny vines and can in fact prick her. She's an idealist who had those ideals challenged, and while she didn't break, she did bend, and she has yet to recover.

Penance is the Tarnished Knight; a weapon of justice that was misused and as a result her faith in justice shaken, the hope that Don Bellone gave her in his final act a tenuous one and one that fosters complicated emotions. She fights for what's right, what's truly right this time, but she may never feel like she's cleansed herself of her previous wrongs. She fights for what she hopes is the right thing, for something to believe in. It's a realistic goal. She is beautifully tragic in that sense.

Nearl is the Radiant Knight; a symbol of hope that was discarded by her country and as a result found firm footing in her faith in the wilderness. She fights for what's right, affirmed in her beliefs by the Followers, by Rhodes Island. She fights for a better tomorrow, a very idealistic and optimistic outlook. It makes her all the more impossibly dazzling.

[sonicjustbecause]

Relatable or not relatable?

Some (many) months ago, somebody complained that Japanese characters shouldn't be necessarily relatable and even talked about Sonic getting retatable as a bad thing. And that's a weird statement to me. The first character i found relatable was a japanese character. I was 12 at that time.

As a child I watched lots of cartoons. Western (such as Disney, Hanna&Barbera... even cartoons from the '30s that were still around, and most were in their original language, English) and Japanese. Italy has a long tradition with the Japanese cartoons, it goes as back as the 60's. And they were translated directly from the Japanese language.

Western characters, overall were all somewhat perfect. Not Mary Sues but almost. The good boys were all nice, smiling, outgoing, humble and talented. The bad guys were all clumsy, sadistic, psychopath, uncivilized.

I think the character I could related most were the smurf. There were grey areas there, because the smurfs, though overall all kind hearted, didn't always act wisely and used to mess up, even badly. And the evil Gargamel and Azrael saved and took care of a wild cat.

Now, at 12 I found a character I could relate with. And she was a Japanese character:

She loved cats, she was likeable (uh, maybe as annoying as prime Sonic, and probably for this I love them both) and she failed at school. well, not all things were like me, I mean, at school for some reason I was some times just slightly less than the top student, and other times I failed bad. My strong point was science. Also she had the worst boyfriend she could ever had, a punchbag with a lame personality. But a character should not be identical to you to be relatable.

In general, most Japanese character are relatable, they're flawed. Few might be too perfect or too over the top (Goku for example became more and more dumb. In Super he was flanderized to be suddenly turned later in a straight up antihero, but between the end of the first serie/early Dragon Ball Z his IQ started to suffer in favour of his ever growing muscles mass)

About Sonic, I've found X Sonic very relatable. In Sonic X he is very elusive and way less friendly than in other series, yet he was interesting to follow, not too perfect with his bad social skills, his crippling fear of water, yet always cheerful (Some of his behaviours didn't make sense here and there though, but I don't talk about them there, is not important for the topic).

Some claim autistic people in particular love Sonic. I don't think Sonic is especially loved by autistic people. The myth is born under unfortunate circumstance. A certain Chris Chan, who was a massive Sonic fan and who happened to be autistic. Though is not his fault that the fandom has a bad name, there are some Sonic fans that tainted the Sonic fandom reputation by their own taliban-like behaviour. This is the reason I noticed people fear to talk with any Sonic fan, as this comment on DA shows (VEI-6-Vesuvius is me)

The comment is not rude in any way, yet it was needed to point out 'I respect your opinion' and I perceived as this person was intimidated by me being a Sonic fan.

Is not a nice feeling seeing decent people afraid of you because of the bad Sonic fans.