#as old as i was the most obsessed about war

[girlactionfigure]

let Anne Frank rest

NOVEMBER 11, 2024

THIS IS DISRESPECTFUL

ANNE, MARGOT, THEIR MOTHER, AND FATHER WERE ZIONISTS

Here’s the thing: we have absolutely no way of knowing how Anne Frank would feel about today’s Israel-Hamas war, because her life was brutally cut short by the Nazis at just 15 years old. Is it possible that she would be attending pro-Palestine marches and donning keffiyehs? Sure, it’s possible. A minority of Jews do that.  

Here’s what we know for sure: in her own famous diary, Anne Frank wrote that she was interested in Zionism. Her sister, Margot Frank, was an ardent Zionist. She joined the Dutch Zionist youth club in 1941, and hoped to make aliyah (immigrate) to Mandatory Palestine, where she planned on becoming a midwife for the Yishuv (pre-state Jewish community in Palestine).

Otto Frank, the only family member to survive the war, was very, very strongly pro-Israel, particularly after the Holocaust (whereas beforehand, he was slightly more ambivalent, though never anti-Zionist). In fact, in the 1970s, Otto had a disagreement with the Anne Frank House, as he demanded that the museum’s statutes explicitly affirm Israel’s right to exist — a right much of today’s keffiyeh-wearing pro-Palestine movement doesn’t accept.

We don’t know how Anne would feel today. But we do know how most Holocaust survivors feel. Not only do most Holocaust survivors -- like most Jews -- support Israel, but 49% of today’s remaining 245,000 survivors live in Israel. It’s even possible that Anne may have moved to Israel had she survived the war; after all, Israel absorbed nearly 400,000 Holocaust survivor refugees between 1946-1952, including Anne’s childhood best friend, Hanna Goslar.

APPROPRIATION OF OUR TRAUMA, AGAIN

I’ve talked about Holocaust inversion on this account for years. I have numerous posts on it, with more coming. But perhaps I haven’t made this explicitly clear yet: Holocaust inversion -- that is, the depiction of Jews and/or Israelis as Nazis, crypto-Nazis, or “worse than the Nazis” and the Palestinians as the “true” victims of the Holocaust -- is a blatant appropriation of the Jewish people’s worst collective trauma.  

That is not to say that Palestinians don’t endure pain. Of course they do, and pain and trauma can’t exactly be quantified. But this obsession with stripping Jews of our very unique, deeply painful experience and placing it onto someone else is deeply offensive. At a certain point, it almost looks like these people have Holocaust envy, which is bizarre and frankly deeply disturbing.  

Why would you want this? For six years, the international community stood by as nearly 70% of Europe’s Jewish population was exterminated in the most industrialized genocide in human history. Countries all over the world shut their doors to Jewish refugees. The Allies refused to bomb the death camps and the railroads leading to the camps, despite the desperate pleas from the Jewish community. In 1939, there were 16.6 million Jews in the world. Today, 85 years later, we just scrape 15 million. This is not what has ever happened to Palestinians, whose population has not decreased by even half a percentage point since 1948, not even since October 7, and not even in Gaza (as there have been more births than deaths, according to Hamas and Save the Children). 

Even more infuriating? Not even did Palestinian Arab leadership collaborate with the Nazis during the Holocaust -- and in 1948 -- but public opinion polls from the time period demonstrate most Palestinian Arabs favored Nazi Germany. Enough. You don’t get to take this one from us, because your ancestors, too, were complicit during the Holocaust.

STOP IMPOSING IDENTITIES ON JEWS

As I explained in a recent post, antisemitism can arguably be divided into two categories: (1) “Nazi antisemitism,” which seeks to eliminate Jews physically, and (2) “Hanukkah antisemitism,” which seeks to strip Jews of the qualities that make us Jewish. In other words, forced assimilation.

Anne Frank was a Jewish child. She was born in Germany and later became Dutch. Never in her lifetime would she have worn a Palestinian keffiyeh, because at the time, the Palestinian keffiyeh was the official uniform of British officer Sir John Bagot Glubb’s “Desert Patrol,” comprised of Palestinian and Jordanian Arab Bedouins who were loyal to the British police force in Mandatory Palestine. Since Anne Frank was neither a Bedouin nor a member of Glubb’s Desert Patrol, putting the keffiyeh on her -- a murdered child -- is nothing but imposing an identity on her that isn’t hers.  

Maybe this sounds dramatic, or like it shouldn’t be a big deal. But this is also part of a larger pattern of Palestinians appropriating Jewish historical figures and claiming them as their own (the Jesus comes to mind).

And this is not a matter of doing this just to historical figures, but to living, breathing Jews. For example, several of the released Hamas hostages testified that Hamas threatened to forcibly convert them to Islam, much like their ancestors once did to ours when they conquered the Holy Land from the Byzantines in the 7th century.

IF YOU ACTUALLY CARED ABOUT ANNE FRANK, YOU WOULD CARE ABOUT THIS

On November 7, 2024, a premeditated pogrom took place in the streets of Amsterdam -- Anne Frank’s Amsterdam.

Thousands of pro-Palestinians supporters ambushed Israeli Maccabi Tel Aviv fans as they were leaving a Maccabi Tel Aviv-AFC Ajax soccer match. Much like on October 7, the perpetrators live-streamed themselves stabbing Israelis and Jews, running over Israelis and Jews, throwing firecrackers at Israelis and Jews, and beating Israelis and Jews to a pulp, as the Amsterdam police looked the other way. They stole their phones and passports, and for some time, some of the victims were missing. Jews tried to hide in a canal, in boats, in a KFC, and more, just like the Franks hid in an attic. The perpetrators forced the victims to shout “free Palestine!” They attacked not just men, but women and children. Not all of the victims were Maccabi Tel Aviv fans, or Israelis, but all of the victims were Jews -- or perceived to be Jews.  

Of course, it wasn’t long until antisemites -- and the mainstream media -- spun the event, which, again, had not only been premeditated, but the perpetrators had dubbed “a Jew hunt” (in fact, it was so premeditated Israel had forewarned the Dutch police). They said it was simply soccer hooligans brawling, or that it happened because the day before, a few Israelis had torn down a Palestinian flag, or because some of the Maccabi fans had chanted racist chants. In this regard, they’re in terrible company: every pogrom in history has had its “justification;” sometimes the justification is based on a true event; other times, it’s pure fiction (e.g. blood libel). Kristallnacht, the pogrom that marks the beginning of the Holocaust, was excused because a Jew killed a German diplomat in Paris.

Are some Maccabi fans racist? It seems so. That’s no justification for an attempted lynching. Imagine if Jews tried to lynch pro-Palestinian protestors every time they chant antisemitic chants (“globalize the intifada,” “Khaybar, Khaybar ya Yahud,” for example), or every time an Israeli flag or hostage poster is torn down. None of us would have jobs, because this happens daily, multiple times a day, everywhere in the world.

For over a year, Dutch Jewish community leaders have warned of a hostile, dangerous environment for Jews in the Netherlands, and in Amsterdam more specifically. The Central Jewish Consultation, the official Jewish umbrella organization in the Netherlands, defined the November 7 mob attacks as a “pogrom” and tied it to the growing antisemitic climate in the country, which existed long before any Maccabi Tel Aviv fans showed up in Amsterdam.

As usual, however, antisemites are tokenizing the words of fringe Jews whose views are not representative of the community. 

The Chief Rabbi of the Netherlands also issued a damning statement, noting the hostile, antisemitic climate in the country.

The above is true. But this is not a one-off event. The Netherlands has been failing the Jewish community for a long, long time. These situations don’t escalate out of nowhere. Instead of offering us your apologies and condolences after the fact, take decisive action.

For a full bibliography of my sources, please head over to my Instagram and  Patreon. 

rootsmetals

another post I started working on before November 7 that suddenly became very relevant…

[sneevl13t]

i call this one homoerotic tension!

Lets do some homoerotic shit and show each other our awful not pretty sketches 💕

[scatterbrainedbot]

THROWING THIS DOODLE AT YOU WITH AGGRESSIVE AFFECTION!!

Wanted to render it but ran out of time :') BUT PLEASE KNOW!! Your Rat son au is my Roman empire. I think about it at LEAST once a week, like the designs and concepts and characterization and UGH EVERYTHING!! ITS ALL SO GOOD!! AND UR STYLE?? IM FOREVER CONSUMING IT!!! Literally peek nostalgia, comfort, even thru the angst its just so perfect im-

and- and splinter just bring me so much joy. Hes so goofy and soft and I sob every time I see him, imagine getting like the most gentle and affirming hug- I would cry immediately.

AHHHH!! ANYWAY STAY AMAZING ZACH!! :D <33333

TRIONA

TRIONA. TRIONA I AM SHAKING.

OH MY GOD???? LIKE OH???? MY GOD??????? THOSE ARE MY BABY SONS OH MY GOD THEY ARE GORGEOUS AND COZY PERFECT AMAZING I AM FULLY EMOTIONAL

LOOK AT THEM LOOK AT THEMMMMM AHHHHHHHHHH I CANT STOP STARING AT THEM BUT ALSO HAVE TO LOOK AWAY BECAUSE I AM LITERALLY TEARING UP?????

I LOVE THAT U CAN TELL A STORY FROM JUST THEIR POSES AND POSITIONS LIKE MIKEY DEF CAME OVER TO PESTER DONNIE AND FELL ASLEEP ON HIS LAP SO DONNIE HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO STAY AND NAP TOO (cause its illegal to disrupt little brothers sleeping in ur laps of course, same rule as cats) AND THEN LEO WANDERED IN AND PROBABLY SMILED THAT AFFECTIONATE BIG BROTHER SMILE BEFORE CURLING UP BESIDE THEM THEN RAPH CAME A LIL BIT LATER WONDERING WHERE EVERYONE WAS AND AFFECTIONATELY CALLED THEM A BUNCH OF BOZOS BEFORE TAKING A SEAT WITH THEM (in a semi blind spot too the protective little baby) AND HE DIDNT MEAN TO FALL ASLEEP BUT IT WAS JUST TOO COZY AND AHHH

UGH AND THEN OLD MAN SPLINTER COMES TO CHECK ON THEM AND THOSE ARE HIS BABIES HIS LITTLE BOYS I AM SOBBING TRIONA I LOVE IT SO SO SO MUCH I AM BEYOND WORDS

[karinyosa]

As a model for Brinker Hadley I used Gore Vidal.

jay parini and gore vidal respectively, the united states of amnesia / john knowles, a separate peace

id in alt.

[willowcrowned]

less tragic knight/tragic lady obidala more couple from hell obidala. you don’t stick two bitchy control freaks in a relationship without getting some dishes broken and cars set on fire

[britneyshakespeare]

You know what. Despite it being against my doctor's orders I think I should rewatch Jane Howell's Wars of the Roses tetralogy

[lets-steal-an-archive]

By Bernie Sanders | July 13, 2024

I will do all that I can to see that President Biden is re-elected. Why? Despite my disagreements with him on particular issues, he has been the most effective president in the modern history of our country and is the strongest candidate to defeat Donald Trump — a demagogue and pathological liar. It’s time to learn a lesson from the progressive and centrist forces in France who, despite profound political differences, came together this week to soundly defeat right-wing extremism.

I strongly disagree with Mr. Biden on the question of U.S. support for Israel’s horrific war against the Palestinian people. The United States should not provide Benjamin Netanyahu’s right-wing extremist government with another nickel as it continues to create one of the worst humanitarian disasters in modern history.

I strongly disagree with the president’s belief that the Affordable Care Act, as useful as it has been, will ever address America’s health care crisis. Our health care system is broken, dysfunctional and wildly expensive and needs to be replaced with a “Medicare for all” single-payer system. Health care is a human right.

And those are not my only disagreements with Mr. Biden.

But for over two weeks now, the corporate media has obsessively focused on the June presidential debate and the cognitive capabilities of a man who has, perhaps, the most difficult and stressful job in the world. The media has frantically searched for every living human being who no longer supports the president or any neurologist who wants to appear on TV. Unfortunately, too many Democrats have joined that circular firing squad.

Yes. I know: Mr. Biden is old, is prone to gaffes, walks stiffly and had a disastrous debate with Mr. Trump. But this I also know: A presidential election is not an entertainment contest. It does not begin or end with a 90-minute debate.

Enough! Mr. Biden may not be the ideal candidate, but he will be the candidate and should be the candidate. And with an effective campaign taht speaks to the needs of working families, he will not only defeat Mr. Trump but beat him badly. It’s time for Democrats to stop the bickering and nit-picking.

I understand that some Democrats get nervous about having to explain the president’s gaffes and misspeaking names. But unlike the Republicans, they do not have to explain away a candidate who now has 34 felony convictions and faces charges that could lead to dozens of additional convictions, who has been hit with a $5 million judgment after he was found liable in a sexual abuse case, who has been involved in more than 4,000 lawsuits, who has repeatedly gone bankrupt and who has told thousands of documented lies and falsehoods.

Supporters of Mr. Biden can speak proudly about a good and decent Democratic president with a record of real accomplishment. The Biden administration, as a result of the American Rescue Plan, helped rebuild the economy during the pandemic far faster than economists thought possible. At a time when people were terrified about the future, the president and those of us who supported him in Congress put Americans back to work, provided cash benefits to desperate parents and protected small businesses, hospitals, schools and child care centers.

After decades of talk about our crumbling roads, bridges and water systems, we put more money into rebuilding America’s infrastructure than ever before — which is projected to create millions of well-paying jobs. And we did not stop there. We made the largest-ever investment in climate action to save the planet. We canceled student debt for nearly five million financially strapped Americans. We cut prices for insulin and asthma inhalers, capped out-of-pocket costs for prescription drugs and got free vaccines to the American people. We battled to defend women’s rights in the face of moves by Trump-appointed jurists to roll back reproductive freedom and deny women the right to control their own bodies.

So, yes, Mr. Biden has a record to run on. A strong record. But he and his supporters should never suggest that what’s been accomplished is sufficient. To win the election, the president must do more than just defend his excellent record. He needs to propose and fight for a bold agenda that speaks to the needs of the vast majority of our people — the working families of this country, the people who have been left behind for far too long.

At a time when the billionaires have never had it so good and when the United States is experiencing virtually unprecedented income and wealth inequality, over 60 percent of Americans live paycheck to paycheck, real weekly wages for the average worker have not risen in over 50 years, 25 percent of seniors live each year on $15,000 or less, we have a higher rate of childhood poverty than almost any other major country, and housing is becoming more and more unaffordable — among other crises.

This is the wealthiest country in the history of the world. We can do better. We must do better. Joe Biden knows that. Donald Trump does not. Joe Biden wants to tax the rich so that we can fund the needs of working families, the elderly, the children, the sick and the poor. Donald Trump wants to cut taxes for the billionaire class. Joe Biden wants to expand Social Security benefits. Donald Trump and his friends want to weaken Social Security. Joe Biden wants to make it easier for workers to form unions and collectively bargain for better wages and benefits. Donald Trump wants to let multinational corporations get away with exploiting workers and ripping off consumers. Joe Biden respects democracy. Donald Trump attacks it.

This election offers a stark choice on issue after issue. If Mr. Biden and his supporters focus on these issues — and refuse to be divided and distracted — the president will rally working families to his side in the industrial Midwest swing states and elsewhere and win the November election. And let me say this as emphatically as I can: For the sake of our kids and future generations, he must win.

Bernie Sanders is the senior senator from Vermont.

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Teacher's Pet (Agatha Harkness x f!Reader)

Synopsis: Professor Harkness takes on so few students. You're determined to become on. A non-magic AU with professor!Agatha.

Words: 7.4k

Warnings: Praise kink, possessiveness, obsessiveness, drinking, teacher/student relationship, age gap (but all over 18+), smut, fingering (R receiving), oral sex (R receiving), biting, Dom!Agatha, sub!R, power imbalance, unhealthy dynamics

You’d heard the whispers around campus about Professor Harkness’s class. The rumours were passed around like a ghost story told under the cover of night at camp. You stored them, collected each one like a gem, richer for every word you were gifted by the rumour mill. Drunk students would try one up one another at house parties, wanting to share the worst of her and win the competition.

You were fascinated with the legend of her before you ever laid eyes on her.

It was at a faculty party, your history professor extending an invitation to all of his most promising students. You’d shown up, expecting nothing but other old men, ruing the day the students grew so rowdy, passing around stories about their own college days when they showed far more respect to their professors than your lot ever did.

Instead, you’d found her, nursing a glass of red wine in the library, a heavy book open in her palm. She glanced up, piercing blue eyes settling on you with disinterest, and yet you felt like you’d been struck by lightning. You took a deep breath as her eyes left you, going back to the book in her hand, and made your way further into the room.

Your finger trailed over the spines of the book, most leather bound and weighty, older than the mess of paperbacks in your dorm room. Scanning the titles, you realised each one was on World War I. You wrinkled your nose, continuing on.

You knew you should have been trying to network with some of the most eminent professors in the history department, but now you were finding it hard to break free from the woman’s gravity. So you stayed, looking over the books, trying to find something that would suggest your professor wasn’t as boring as you suspected he was. And if you kept sneaking glances at the other woman, then it was an added bonus to your evening. Dark hair and pale skin, red lips curling up at the corner, dressed in clothes that must have cost more than your entire wardrobe combined, she was the most wonderful thing to look at in that room.

She did not pay you any attention.

“Ah, there you are.”

You glanced up, your professor swaggering through the door, a glass of scotch dangling from his fingertips. In the corner of your eye, you saw the woman tilt her head in his direction.

“Oh good. I’m so glad the two of you found each other,” he said.

You looked over at the woman, finding her staring down your professor with a look of absolute disdain. Clasping your hands in front of oyur body, you waited for some kind of explanation. Your professor drew closer, the bounce in his step seemingly suggesting he hadn’t noticed the way the woman was looking at him.

“Agatha, let me introduce you to my best student.”

He scooped you up on his way, the hand on the small of your back directing you towards her. You’d done your best to keep your distance from her, not sure she’d appreciate you interrupting her. Now, propelled towards her, a sense of anticipation mixed with anxiety curdled in your stomach into something you didn’t like.

When he said your name, those blue eyes focused on you. You wouldn’t say there was interest there, but it certainly was something more than the disdain she’d shown him.

“Agatha’s interests lie more in historical folklore surrounding witchcraft,” he told you.

“Oh,” you said, “I was hoping to look at that for my senior thesis.”

“Agatha Harkness,” she said, eyebrow raising, holding a hand out to you.

You grasped it in yours, her warm skin soft where it met your palm. It was like an electric shock went through you from her touch while you tried to fit this view of a woman with the figure of legend you’d been collecting stories on for the last few years at college.

“Don’t you go trying to poach my best student, Agatha,” you professor tutted, “I’m still trying to convince her to instead look at something more modern and practical.”

“You believe another World War I scholar is practical?” she asked, the drawl of her voice letting you know exactly what she thought of that opinion.

“I would say there’s more need for them in the workforce than witches,” he replied, still good-naturedly, but his gaze had hardened.

“We should talk,” she said to you, turning her head back to you, blocking your professor out of the conversation.

“I’d like that,” you said, knowing you sounded breathless and probably too eager, but you weren’t about to miss this opportunity.

She finally let your hand go, fingers stroking softly along the length of your palm. Your lips parted and for just a moment her gaze lingered there before looking back to your professor.

“You may go now,” she told him, not bothering to keep it behind the cover of polite respectability.

He sputtered out some argument. She rolled her eye, placing a hand on the small of your back, so different from when his hand had been there, and led you out of the door. Eyes followed the two of you, most focused on her, a ripple of something going through the rest of the party. She pushed the front door open, leading you into the cool air of the night.

“So,” she said, leaning back against the railing of the porch, “you’re interested in witchcraft, are you?”

“Yes,” you replied, softly, almost embarrassed, and yet certain in your conviction.

“You should know that oaf is taking such an interest in you because you’re such a pretty young thing,” she said, “his last favourite is now positioned somewhere nice like Yale or Cambridge and he keeps taking the credit for putting her there.”

“I have no interest in World War I,” you said, hoping that was answer enough.

“Clever girl.”

The thrill of her praise would sustain you long after the party was over.

“If you’re serious about pursuing witchcraft for your senior thesis, come by my office tomorrow morning with a proposal,” she said.

She maintained eye contact as she took a long sip from her wine, her lipstick leaving a mark on the glass. You couldn’t stop yourself watching her, already under her spell. She passed the glass to you, half drunk, and turned to walked down the steps.

“Don’t disappoint me,” she called over her shoulder before disappearing in the night.

You drained the last of the wine from her glass and left it there on the wooden floor of the porch. You returned home without bothering to take your leave of your professor, knowing he wouldn’t matter by that time tomorrow. You were going to give her the best proposal she’d ever seen, of that you were determined.

She agreed to oversee your senior thesis on historical folklore of witchcraft.

You learnt very quickly that Professor Harness’s demanding nature wasn’t an overblown rumour. She expected excellence from you. Late nights and early mornings, you spent so much time with you nose in your books the outside world stopped feeling real. Your fingers had grown ink stained and your eyes ached from the strain of reading such small type.

Every meeting, she sent you home with a new stack of books, expecting you to be there again in a few days having read them all, ready to discuss every little detail in her office for hours on end. She took up most of your waking hours, and when you did manage to snatch some sleep, she haunted your dreams.

You hadn’t gotten over the way lightning had struck at your first meeting.

Her office had turned into a sanctuary for you. You’d rush in, an armful of books almost tumbling to the floor before you threw them down into one of her chairs and curling up on the sofa she kept flush to the wall under the window. Some days you were there from the moment she arrived until long after the sun set, just reading and taking notes.

The office itself was warm, sometimes overly so, the sun coming through the window at just the right angle to heat the air. Her desk was large, imposing, the perfect symbol for the woman who had become legend around campus. Bookshelves were overflowing with all kinds of books. Cheap paperbacks, hardcovers, leather-bound, in pristine condition and falling apart. Some she’d let you pour over but leave behind at the end of the night, others she sent you off with. All you knew was you wanted the chance to read every single one.

Sharing the space with her was just as nerve inducing as it was the first time. You became so aware of yourself, wanting to impress her. When she’d sit beside you, the sofa cushions dipping until you felt yourself slip towards her, you’d grow so still, trying to not touch her, scared of what that would do to you. Sometimes, she lent forward to look at the page you were reading and her dark hair would brush your skin.

There were times when you thought she might know what you were thinking. The way you felt out of control around her. Your need to impress her. Her gaze would linger just a fraction of a moment longer than was appropriate, assessing every inch of you. Sometimes her fingertips would graze over the skin of your cheek, or she’d grasp your chin, or she’d gently move your hair out of your face. Hours spent together, and you could never tell how she felt about you or your work.

It only made you try harder.

It wasn’t until two months in that your friends decided to take matters into their own hands. You’d just returned from a full day studying in her office when a knock sounded on your door. Stifling a yawn, you pulled the door open.

“Oh, so you are still alive,” you friend said, shoving past you into your tiny dorm room.

“Hello to you too,” you said.

“There’s a party tonight. You’re coming. Don’t even bother arguing. No one has seen you since you started studying with the witch,” she said, picking up a banana on your desk that had begun to turn brown, “seriously, does she keep you chained up or something?”

You weren’t about to dignify that with an answer. Not that the thought of being bound by Professor Harkness was one that you hated. It just wasn’t worth the time explaining that.

“I have so much work I still need to do,” you said.

“You’ve been working too hard. Come on, it’ll be fun. You still remember what fun is like, right?”

In the end, you let her drag you to the party after raiding your wardrobe for something more party appropriate. Standing, clutching the red solo cup full of something that burnt as it went down, you watched the game of ping pong going on.

“I’d be terrified if I had to spend all that time with her,” some guy was saying to you.

“She’s not that scary,” you said, already regretting your decision to come.

“Nah. I heard she made some guy piss himself with just a look,” he said, swaying closer to you.

“She’s not like that,” you said, shaking your head, “sounds like that guy just has poor bladder control.”

“Ha, you’re funny,” he said, leaning closer until his sour breath washed over your face, “wanna come upstairs so you can tell me what she’s really like?”

“No thank you,” you said, shoving him away form you.

“Whatever,” he spat, “frigid bitch.”

“So what’s she actually like?” your friend said, taking the drunk guy’s place when he swung away from you.

“Quiet, exacting, demanding,” you replied, “she expects excellence.”

“Sounds exhausting,” she said.

“No, no, it’s great. I love it. She’s… great,” you said, looking down into your cup, swirling the liquid in it, “she’s kind of brilliant.”

“Careful. You sound like you’re in love with her,” your friend laughed.

“Don’t be stupid,” you snapped.

“Maybe she’s done a spell on you. You know everyone says she’s an actual witch? She’s certainly mean enough,” she said.

“She’s not,” you snapped, “seriously, all those rumours are made up by sad little people who feel inferior whenever they see a smart woman because they know they can’t ever live up to her.”

“She growled like a dog at some guy who cut her off as she was walking,” she said.

“People make up such stupid lies,” you said.

“Someone has video of her insulting some students. It went viral on TikTok,” she said.

“They probably deserved it. She has standards,” you said.

“I’m just saying, be careful with her. Maybe she’s trying to recruit you to her coven, or maybe she’s hoping to sacrifice you in some ritual to get more power,” she said.

“Shut up,” you snapped.

Downing the last of your drink, you crumpled the cup and flung it aside.

“I’m going home. I have too much work to be getting on with for this,” you said.

“Hey, no, come on. I’ll stop talking about her,” she said.

You shook her hand off you.

“I’ll see you around.”

You ignored her as she shouted after you, letting yourself out through the back gate. Curling your arms around your body, you strode off down the sidewalk. The night air held a chill to it, the slow drip of autumn beginning to give way to winter. You tipped your head back to look at the night sky, so dark, the moon just beginning to wax.

You let your feet lead you back towards your dorm building, wandering through the night and the shadows. The air was crisp in your lungs and you let yourself breath in deeply. You should have been home, reading up on the intersect of witch trails with gynophobia in the Renaissance, but instead you had wasted time on a bunch of drunk idiots for nothing.

“You’re out late.”

You startled, whirling around, heart thumping in your chest. Stepping out of the shadows, hands in her pockets, Professor Harkness looked like the devil come to collect your soul. You’d give it willingly if only she asked for it.

“I was at a party,” you said.

“You should be careful,” she said, taking slow steps towards you, “pretty young thing like you all alone at night. Anything could happen.”

The way she smiled made you feel as if she was the wolf and you the sheep, the prey to her predator. You were desperate to let her sink her teeth deeply into you.

“Nothing that interesting happens to me,” you said, voice quiet.

“Come, pet,” she said, hand landing on the small of your back, “I’ll walk you home. Can’t have something happen to you. I’ll feel so much guilt.”

You let her lead you back towards campus, the bright lights beckoning you home. You didn’t ask how she knew where to take you, so focused on the feeling of her hand splayed over your back, the warmth of her skin seeping through your thin shirt and into your skin.

“I suppose I’ve forgotten what it is to be young. I assumed you’d be curled up in bed, reading the texts I gave you,” she said, “of course you’d be out on a Friday night at a party.”

“My friend dragged me with her. Apparently I’ve been missing in action since I started working with you. She said I needed to have fun,” you said.

“I thought we were having fun,” she said, voice a low rumbled against your ear.

“We are. I am,” you said, so quick it brought a smirk to her lips when you turned your face towards her, “I shouldn’t have gone tonight. It was a waste of time.”

“Have you been drinking?” she asked. When you didn’t answer, she lent closer, “I won’t tell anyone if you have.”

“I’m over 21,” you whispered.

“Such a grown up girl,” she said, “I can smell the cheap vodka on you.”

She paused in front of your dorm building, warm light spilling out the entrance. Both hands came up to cup your cheeks, calloused skin scraping against yours, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. She lent forward again, right into your personal space. Her fingertips stroked over your soft skin as she pulled them away before her index finger gently tugged on your lower lip.

“Sweet dreams, kitten,” she whispered before disappearing back into the shadows of the night. If not for your racing heart you might have thought you’d hallucinated the entire thing.

She didn’t mention it when you slunk into her office on Monday, passing you a cup of coffee without a single word, but a raised eyebrow. You took it with grace, curling up on her sofa, opening the book in your lap. When she settled beside you, feet kicked up on her coffee table, you didn’t even look at her out of the corner of your eyes.

Her fingers were soft as they brushed your hair over your shoulder, gently tucking it behind your ear. Lingering on the curve of your jaw, you shivered, dragging your gaze over to her. The corner of her lips pulled up for a fleeting moment.

“Tell me your thoughts.”

You did, the words spilling over your words like secrets, softly spoken in the confessional of her office. You lent back, watching you, legs spread, interest in her blue eyes. Her finger ran along the length of her lip, intent as she watched you talk yourself out. Once you were done, her hand came to cradle the back of your head, nails scraping over your scalp.

“It appears as if your weekend wasn’t totally wasted,” she said.

“No,” you said.

“Good.” Her lips pressed together to repress her smile, “keep reading.”

Her long fingers tapped the book in your lap and she left you alone to your reading. You snuck a glance at her before bowing your head and trying not to think about what this meant.

Nor the way you yearned for more.

From that day, you noticed a change. Her hands would linger on you, her touch growing familiar and yet no less exciting. You stayed later and later, curling up on her sofa, growing comfortable as you waded through history with her. She guided you, shaping your research into something you could be proud of as you poured over books and wrote long paragraphs for her to read. Shared meals and shared drinks, you’d sit on the floor of her office, take out containers scattered over the coffee table. You shrunk further away from your friends, finding their conversations inane and childish, drunken antics no longer fun but puerile as you worked on something far more important. You lost yourself in that room, an addict who needed their fix every day or else you were given over to malaise.

She indulged your need for her attention, her open door policy lasting 24 hours a day. She seemed to enjoy how much you wanted to share the same air as her. Every time you said something, your eyes would turn to her, desperate for her approval which she freely gave. You spent time watching the way her fingers traced over words on the page in front of you, trying not to think about how much you wanted her to do the same thing across your bare skin. Her praise became greater, more frequent, each one hard won for, and each one treasured like the most precious of gifts, hoarding them to revisit every night before you fell asleep.

You hadn’t realised how comfortable you’d grown in her presence until the afternoon you realised you’d fallen asleep on the sofa as you tried to craft the perfect sentence. Your eyelashes fluttered and you were slow to blink your eyes open. Draped in a soft blanket, the warm air heated from the small space heater Professor Harkness had dragged into the office, you glanced around the room. It was darker than you’d remembered, the window showing a night sky while the lamps offered a soft refuge against the dark.

Something tightened around your ankle. You turned your attention towards it. Professor Harkness was sitting on the other end of the sofa, your bare feet resting in her lap. The book in her hand was left unattended as she stared down at you, a confusing expression on her face. Her grip on your ankle tightened again and you offered a lazy smile.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to drop off,” you said, voice rough with sleep.

“I’ve been wearing you out,” she said.

With the softness of sleep making it difficult to school your features, your cheeks heated at the implication. Not that you would have minded. In fact, you wished that was the reason you were so tired.

Her finger trailed along the arch of your foot. You shifted, the touch a tickle. She did it again, smiling down at you before she let you go.

“Sleep, if you have to. You’re no use to me if you’re too tired to function,” she said.

“No, no, I’m okay,” you said, sitting up, the blanket pooling around you.

The thought that she’d placed it over you for your comfort made your head spin. To then sit by you, to welcome any part of you into her personal space as you slept was even worse. Your chest ached and your heart clenched and you wanted to crawl into her lap.

“Perhaps you’re right. We should take a break. I’ve been working you too hard,” she said.

You would let her work you harder if it meant more moments like this.

“Come, pet. I’m taking you to dinner.”

You were helpless as you followed her. She drove, the car feeling so close with the dark night pressing in against the windows. You tried not to watch her, the hands you’d been fantasising about controlling the machine with such power.

The restaurant was nice. Intimate. Small tables and soft lamps offering pools of light, plenty of shadows to hide in. The maître d' seemed to recognise her, leading her to a table at the back. You lowered into your seat, taking note of the candle on the table between the two of you. The entire thing felt like a dream.

“Um, I’m not sure I can afford this place,” you said.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, waving off your worry, “I’m paying.”

“Oh.” You clasped your hands in your lap, “thank you, Professor.”

“Why do you always call me that?” she asked.

“Call you what?” you asked.

“Professor,” she replied, “I have a name.”

“Sorry. Do you not like it? I was trying to be respectful,” you said, anxiety taking hold of you.

“Agatha is fine,” she said.

“Okay,” you replied, “Agatha.”

Her smile was self satisfied and she lent back in her chair, eyes sweeping over you. You let her drink her fill of you, not sure what she was looking for, but wanting to give it to her. You’d give her anything she asked for.

“I must admit, I wasn’t sure about taking on a student. I usually don’t. But I’m glad I did. You’ve been quite the diligent student,” she said.

“I’m glad you did too,” you said.

“Of course you are, pet,” she said.

Before you could say anything else, the waiter paused by the side of the table. She ordered for you, glancing over as she did so as if ensure you didn’t argue. You weren’t about to. You’d do whatever she wanted as long as it pleased her.

The wine was expensive, full bodied, better than any other you’d had. It stained her lips and you wanted to lick it free from where it clung to her skin. The discussion over dinner was about the things you’d read that day, listening to the way she so easily connected one story to another. Her mastery was awe inspiring. It was easy to ignore the romantic setting and the wine that kept being poured for you as she spoke, her husky voice doing something delicious to you.

It wasn’t until dessert that it all came crashing back into you. The creme brûlée in front of her was beautiful. The spoon cracked the top and she took a bite, slowly pulling the spoon from between her lips. Her eyelids fluttered shut and a low moan reverberated through her chest. Your cheeks heated, thighs pressing together, turning breathless. A slow smile spread over her face and when her eyes opened again they were smouldering.

“You must try this. No other place does one as good,” she said.

“Oh, uh…” You looked down at the tiramisu in front of you.

“Come here, pet.”

She held out a spoon of the creme brûlée towards you. You lent forward, not quite able to believe what was happening. She placed it in your mouth, blue eyes holding yours over the top of the candle’s flame. It felt as if everything was moving in slow motion as she drew the spoon back.

The small noise of pleasure that came from you had her gaze lowering to your lips. Your tongue darted out, chasing the sugar on your lips. Her eyes darkened and she lent closer over the table.

“How’s that, pet?” she asked, husky, a rasp of a voice.

“It’s delicious,” you said, breathless and high pitched, a perfect opposite to her.

“It is, isn’t it?”

You watched in fascination as she scooped up some more, her tongue licking the spoon clean. Your breath hitched. Under the table, her foot gently brushed against your shin. Her blue eyes twinkled with something you wanted to drown in.

“Eat your dessert, kitten,” she said, “then I’ll take you home.”

You did as you were told, not even tasting coffee and cream of your own dessert. You were so focused on watching her devour her’s, indecent in how much pleasure she took from it. You were squirming in your seat as she finished, feeling on fire.

It wasn’t fair. Nothing about this was fair. You wanted her so much and she was just… making it worse.

She seemed not to realise the exact effect she was having on you as she led you out of the restaurant and back into her car. You stared out the window, not needing to be caught staring any more than you already had. It wasn’t until the rumble of the engine cut off that you realised something.

“This isn’t my home,” you said, staring up at the large two story house in front of you.

“No, it’s mine,” she said.

“What?”

You whipped around to stare at her. She wasn’t even looking back, the door open as she stepped out of the car.

“Are you coming or what?” she asked.

You scrambled to follow her, almost tripping over yourself in your haste. You weren’t sure what you expected, reproach for following her into her house or to be welcomed in with warmth. What you weren’t expecting was to follow her into the back where the kitchen was.

“Do you want tea?” she asked.

“Sure,” you replied, “what am I doing here?”

“Having tea,” she said, glancing at you over her shoulder.

“And then?” you asked.

“Going to sleep. I can’t trust you to do that on your own,” she replied, “clearly.”

“I really am sorry about that,” you said.

“Stop apologising,” she snapped.

Your lips formed the word sorry again before you stopped yourself. Instead, you watched her boil the water for the tea. Your confusion was mixing with your yearning, leaving you unable to do anything but wait for her to tell you what was going on. Pouring the water into two mugs, the strings from the teabags resting against the sides, she looked over her shoulder at you again.

“Come on then.”

You followed her with the two mugs of tea into her living room. It was comfortable, almost like a more lived in version of her office. Sitting beside her on the couch, comfortable and well loved, you watched her lean forward and place one mug on the coffee table. She passed the other to you, fingers brushing together, looking at you from under her eyelashes.

“There you go, kitten,” she murmured.

“Thanks.”

You looked down into the cup, steam rising from the surface of the steeping tea. Your fingers fiddled with the string of the teabag. Her hand landed on your thigh, startling you.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” she said.

“I don’t know what I’m going here,” you said, dragging your eyes up to her.

“Do you not want to be here?” she asked.

“No, no I do,” you said, rushing through the words, “it’s just…”

Her hands were gentle as they took the cup from your hands, placing it down beside hers. You could only watch as she swung her leg over yours, settling herself in your lap. Both hands cupped your cheeks, thumb stroking along your cheekbone.

“Agatha,” you whispered.

“Yes, pet?” she asked.

“I want you,” you confessed.

“I know.”

Her lips pressed against yours, scorching as she consumed your very soul. Your hands hovered above her waist, scared that to touch her was to break the moment, that it would make her come to her senses. She kissed you deeper, nails digging into the skin of your cheeks as she tipped your head back. Her tongue swept into your mouth. She was so warm when your hands made contact with her body.

She moaned into your mouth, filthy and hot, making you claw at her. She tasted of the burnt sugar of the creme brûlée and the wine you’d split with her. She kissed deeper still, stealing your breath. You tugged at her shirt, pulling it out of the waistband of her pants. Shoving your hands up, you felt the soft skin of her bare back against your palms, your fingertips, wanting to feel every inch of her.

Her hands slipped into your hair, shoving it out of the way, tugging on it in a way that had you mewling into her mouth. You felt her grin against your lips before she lent back, staring down at you. Her eyes had darkened, her lips kiss swollen, cheeks flushed.

“Do you want to stop?” she asked.

You shook your head before surging up to capture her lips in another kiss. Her fingers tightened in your hair and she made a small noise as your nails ran down her spine. You felt out of control, wanting more from her, the way you always did. There was something about her that drove you crazy, that had always driven you crazy. Even before you’d met her she’d consumed you.

She sat back again, hands slipping from your hair. You watched as her hands crossed over her body, slowly peeling her shirt off her body. You were dumbstruck, watching her with wide eyes and heaving breath. She flung the shirt aside, shaking her hair back from her face.

“Are you going to touch me, pet?” she asked.

“Yeah,” you breathed out.

Your hands slid around her ribcage, feeling the way her skin moved as she inhaled. She was so warm against your palms, real and there with you. You were slow as you trailed your fingers up, brushing the underside of one cloth covered breast. Your eyes darted up to her face, finding her watching you instead of your hands.

“Go on,” she encouraged.

You cupped them, feeling the weight of them in your hands. Leaning forward, your lips brushed over the curve of one then the other, vulnerable skin soft. Your tongue dragged over it, tasting her. She made a small noise, a rumbling in her chest, hands coming up to curl around the back your neck. She pressed you closer.

Reaching around, you released her from her bra, tugging the straps down her arm. Your mouth was on her again, exploring, until your lips wrapped around a nipple. The noise she made was one of approval, back arching towards your mouth. When you sucked, gentle at first, testing the waters, she pressed you closer again. You wanted to please her so badly.

With your hand, you rolled the other nipple between thumb and forefinger. Your name sounded so sweet on her lips, urging you to continue. Her soft sighs and the way her hips rolled against you only made you want more. You wanted to worship at the alter of her body, to take communion from between her legs, to whisper your confessions into her skin. You wanted to drown in her.

Fingers tilted your chin up, your mouth popping free with an indecent noise. She chuckled, pressing her lips to yours again, teeth sinking in to your lower lip until you tasted the coppery tang of blood. You whined, surprised at how much you enjoyed the sensation of the pain mixed with the pleasure.

You made a pained noise as she climbed off your lap, standing half naked in front of you. Your fingertips skated over her skin. Without a word, she pulled you up off the couch and tugged you towards the stairs. You followed, willing to go wherever she wanted, as long as you could keep touching her.

She paused halfway up, turning to grasp your face in her hands, kissing you again like she couldn’t stop herself. You whimpered into her mouth, hands on her bare waist. She dragged you the rest of the way up, pinning you to the wall at the top of the stairs. You groaned, pressing her closer, wanting her everywhere. One leg slotted between yours and the noise you made would have been embarrassing if you weren’t so lost in her. Her thigh pressed against you, just enough pressure to have you grinding down, seeking out more.

“So needy, pet,” she murmured against your lips.

“Want you,” you managed to choke out before her tongue was in your mouth again and you were rolling your hips against her thigh.

“When I fuck you, it won’t be against the wall,” she said.

She tugged you further down the hall, slamming open a door to what you hoped would be your final destination. Her lips were on yours again, possessing you, guiding you where she wanted you. She paused, just long enough to tear your t-shirt from your body, flinging it aside.

Her lips trailed down your neck, latching on at your pulse point. You whined, tipping your head back to give her more access. You felt on fire. Her hands were skating over your bare skin, nails dragging in a delicious way, making you gasp out her name in a plea for more.

Rather than give in and give you instant gratification, she took her time with you. Her hands were slow but sure as she peeled your clothes from your body. It was the same level of precision she used in her work, getting exactly what she wanted. Only this time, you were the thing she wanted.

When she lowered you onto the bed, you were bare before her. Your usual self consciousness was washed away in the tide of your longing for her. Her eyes swept over you, lingering, taking their time to drink you in in your entirety. Her fingers played with your nipples, watching with an academic interest as you arched up, your small whines doing nothing to spur her on.

Holding your eyes, she pressed kisses to your skin, soft and slow, making her way down your body, lingering the closer she got to the apex of your thighs. You trembled, fingers clenching in the comforter.

“You keep your hands right there, pet,” she said, staring up your body.

You nodded, willing to agree to anything she asked of you in that moment.

“Good girl,” she said before her lips pressed to the crease where your hip met your thigh. You inhaled sharply and she grinned. Her teeth sunk in, leaving a dark bruise on your skin as she sucked on it.

She hovered for a moment, her breath ghosting over where you wanted her the most. You pulsed, suspended in the moment before her mouth made contact with you. Her hands curled around your thighs, holding you open for her as her tongue ran through your folds. You cried out, hips bucking up into her mouth.

She chuckled, the vibrations going through you in a way that made you feel like you were being undone. Her tongue teased you again before pressing against your bundle of nerves. You whined, fingers clenching, her name a prayer on your lips. She pinned your hips to the bed, giving your clit a harsh suck. The feeling ricocheted through you, fire curling in your veins, your muscles tightening.

She feasted on you. Relentless, unforgiving, refusing to give you a chance to breathe. She was like a woman possessed, singular in her intent, putting everything into her goal. She was taking you apart, slowly and surely, and all you could hope was that she’d put you back together again when she was done.

Her fingers slid inside of you, so easily it would be embarrassing under other circumstances. They were slow at first, teasing and never giving you quite enough. But then she curled them, pressing into the special place no one but you had managed to find. Your legs trembled.

“I’m so close,” you whimpered.

“No you don’t, pet,” she said, “you don’t come until I say so.”

“But-“ you tried to argue.

“You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?” she asked, cutting you off, thumb running in slow circles over your clit.

“Yes,” you replied, whiney and desperate.

“Then don’t you dare come without my permission,” she said, face lowering back to your throbbing core.

Her tongue was back on your clit as her fingers continued to stroke inside of you. You trembled, shaking, trying so hard to stave off your oncoming orgasm. Tears pricked in your eyes, fingers clenching tightly on the hold you had on the sheets until it hurt. She kept going, ruthless in what she wanted. She had complete control over you.

It was so close, you could practically taste it. You were straining, doing everything you could not to tip over the edge. She was a master of your body, able to play it to perfection. Her tongue kept dragging over your clit, sucking on it, fingers twisting and curling, dragging out every iota of pleasure your body held.

“Agatha,” you sobbed, “please.”

Blue eyes stared up at you, dark and dangerous.

“Please,” you begged.

Her fingers gave another slow stroke. You whimpered, your entire body on fire, wound tight as you did what you were told. You always did what she told you to do.

“Go on, pet,” she said, “keep your eyes on me and you can come.”

You let out a relieved breath. When you let yourself go, the wave of pleasure crashed into you, wave after wave. She held your gaze the entire time, drinking in the way pleasure contorted your body. The way you cried out her name felt holy, a cry of worship as you stared into her eyes.

When she drew back, she held her hand up, tongue running up her fingers. You reached out, grasping her wrist. She let you pull her hand towards you, your lips sliding down her fingers, lapping your arousal from her skin. Her eyes smouldered as she watched you, a pleased smirk on her lips.

“You are a good girl, aren’t you pet,” she murmured, gently stroking you hair with her other hand. The pulse of pleasure that went through you was bright and intense. You liked being her good girl.

Your tongue swirled over each digit, cleaning her up as best you could. A flicker of fondness passed over her face before she pulled it away from you. Leaning forward, her lips pressed against yours, rough and intense, passionate in ways you hadn’t experienced with anyone else. It made you feel wanted, desired, the way you always felt wanted with her. After all, she’d agreed to take you on for your senior thesis when she so rarely took people on.

“Alright, kitten,” she whispered against your lips, “let’s see how many times I can make you come tonight before you beg me to stop.”

When you awoke in the morning, deliciously sore and definitely sated, you rolled over in the large bed, hands reaching for the warm body you were expecting to find beside you. All you found was cool sheets. Squinting your eyes open, the light was still kept at bay from the drawn curtains, but the room was empty of another person. You sat up, rumpled and unsure.

You slipped out of the bed, tugging your clothes back on but your feet bare. You were slow as you eased the door open, padding out onto the landing you’d paid no attention to the night before. On silent feet, you descended to the lower level of the house, following the sound you could just hear.

Agatha was in the kitchen, her back to you, encased in a flowing silk robe. You blinked, pausing as you drank her in. Her hair, wild and out of control, long fingers tapping on the counter, legs bare where they peeked out the bottom of the robe. She was breathtaking in the morning light.

“You’re staring, kitten,” she said, voice still rough from sleep.

“Sorry,” you said, slipping into the kitchen proper.

She turned her head, glancing at you over her shoulder. Her eyebrows drew together and the corner of her lips turned down.

“Why are you dressed?” she asked, stepping away from the counter, “were you planning on sneaking out in the morning?”

“No, I… I wasn’t sure what was appropriate,” you said.

“Please tell me this wasn’t your first time,” she said.

“Of course not,” you said, “although I suppose it is my first time with my professor,”

She hummed but didn’t give you more of an answer. Anxiety was seeping into your body now.

“I thought you might want me to leave.”

Her eyes snapped back to you, displeasure painting her features.

“Come here.”

You didn’t move.

“I’m not going to ask again, pet,” she said, voice hardened, “come. Here.”

On soft feet you approached her. With sure hands she caught you, fingers pressing into your hips as she held you tightly. Your eyes darted around her face before dragging down. Bare skin met your eyes until the shadow of the robe obscured her from your vision. She was naked under the robe and there was still a part of you that wanted to unwrap her like a present.

“Do you want to leave?” she asked, gaining your attention again.

Your eyes snapped up to hers and you shook your head.

“I thought I’d made it obvious that the only place I want you is with me,” she said, “the only person I want you thinking about is me. The only person I want touching you is me.”

You trembled.

“Do you want that too, kitten?” she asked, drawing closer.

“Yes,” you breathed out.

“Then you’re mine, pet,” she said, her nose skimming along the curve of your jaw.

Her hand squeezed your hips and her lips pressed to the vulnerable skin behind your jaw before she pulled away. Your breath caught and you felt lightheaded. You ached to pull her back to you, to lose yourself in the feeling of her body and her skin and her mouth. Would you ever stop feeling this way with her? You didn’t think so.

“Now, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been pushing you too hard lately. You can have the weekend off,” she said.

“Oh.” You were still trembling from the brush of her lips and her words, “thanks.”

“So you won’t be needing those clothes,” she said, flippant and dismissive, “you certainly won’t be in them long.”

You flushed, cheeks heating. There was a twist to her lips, amusement twinkling in her eyes. You slipped closer to her again, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Whatever you want, Agatha,” you whispered.

“All I want is you, pet,” she replied.

Turns out, all you wanted was her too.

[chansaw]

i read donald sutherland’s letter to gary ross pleading for the role of president snow and was so struck by his eloquence, wit, and humor. i’m posting it in full below. what a loss </3

Dear Gary Ross:

Power. That's what this is about? Yes? Power and the forces that are manipulated by the powerful men and bureaucracies trying to maintain control and possession of that power?

Power perpetrates war and oppression to maintain itself until it finally topples over with the bureaucratic weight of itself and sinks into the pages of history (except in Texas), leaving lessons that need to be learned unlearned.

Power corrupts, and, in many cases, absolute power makes you really horny. Clinton, Chirac, Mao, Mitterrand.

Not so, I think, with Coriolanus Snow. His obsession, his passion, is his rose garden. There's a rose named Sterling Silver that's lilac in colour with the most extraordinarily powerful fragrance — incredibly beautiful — I loved it in the seventies when it first appeared. They've made a lot of offshoots of it since then.

I didn't want to write to you until I'd read the trilogy and now I have so: roses are of great importance. And Coriolanus's eyes. And his smile. Those three elements are vibrant and vital in Snow. Everything else is, by and large, perfectly still and ruthlessly contained. What delight she [Katniss] gives him. He knows her so perfectly. Nothing, absolutely nothing, surprises him. He sees and understands everything. He was, quite probably, a brilliant man who's succumbed to the siren song of power.

How will you dramatize the interior narrative running in Katniss's head that describes and consistently updates her relationship with the President who is ubiquitous in her mind? With omniscient calm he knows her perfectly. She knows he does and she knows that he will go to any necessary end to maintain his power because she knows that he believes that she's a real threat to his fragile hold on his control of that power. She's more dangerous than Joan of Arc.

Her interior dialogue/monologue defines Snow. It's that old theatrical turnip: you can't 'play' a king, you need everybody else on stage saying to each other, and therefore to the audience, stuff like "There goes the King, isn't he a piece of work, how evil, how lovely, how benevolent, how cruel, how brilliant he is!" The idea of him, the definition of him, the audience's perception of him, is primarily instilled by the observations of others and once that idea is set, the audience's view of the character is pretty much unyielding. And in Snow's case, that definition, of course, comes from Katniss.

Evil looks like our understanding of the history of the men we're looking at. It's not what we see: it's what we've been led to believe. Simple as that. Look at the face of Ted Bundy before you knew what he did and after you knew.

Snow doesn't look evil to the people in Panem's Capitol. Bundy didn't look evil to those girls. My wife and I were driving through Colorado when he escaped from jail there. The car radio's warning was constant. 'Don't pick up any young men. The escapee looks like the nicest young man imaginable'. Snow's evil shows up in the form of the complacently confident threat that's ever-present in his eyes. His resolute stillness. Have you seen a film I did years ago? 'The Eye of the Needle'. That fellow had some of what I'm looking for.

The woman who lived up the street from us in Brentwood came over to ask my wife a question when my wife was dropping the kids off at school. This woman and her husband had seen that movie the night before and what she wanted to know was how my wife could live with anyone who could play such an evil man. It made for an amusing dinner or two but part of my wife's still wondering.

I'd love to speak with you whenever you have a chance so I can be on the same page with you.

They all end up the same way. Welcome to Florida, have a nice day!

sourced from this article

[ily-sunghoon]

The Omen of Sterling | ENHYPEN

Pairing : vampire!enhypen x fem!oc

Genre : vampire, kingdom, reverse harem <3, fluff, angst, smut on some chapters

Summary : The name Sterling hits like thunder for the royal bloodlines. Sterling is the most dangerous vampire family throughout the ages. After they left Krashoviel due to their sweet human daughter, twenty-one years later the same daughter came back for help... or the omen that Cairneyes warned the others about.

WARNINGS : mdni, heavy content, deep world building (i went kinda crazy), blood, murder, manipulation, gaslighting, toxic behavior, curses, religious theme mentioned sometimes, obsessive, (more to add later). DO NOT PROCEED if uncomfortable

Disclaimer : THIS IS PURE FICTION, ALL THE BEHAVIORS OF MY CHARACTERS ARE NOT RELATED TO ENHYPEN REAL MEMBERS AT ALL!

Note : hi, guys. i finally contribute to the enhablr community by publishing this old draft that i wrote years ago. it was inspired by one of my loooong dream that i had on christmas eve night back then in 2020. i decided to stick on the original names that i have for them. all the fem characters doesn't have any face claims, i leave them to your imaginations. some random male idols might appear in the future as relatives/enemy/friends. without further do, meet the characters and i hope you guys enjoy!

CHAPTERS — PROLOGUE CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV

Introduction to our vampires:

Jestel Sinflame

/jé-ssel/ 299 years old — The rightful crown prince of Krashoviel. Choosing peace over war right now (living under the same roof as his brother-like best friends rather than in the sucking dry and toxic castle). A little bit classist like his family, Sinflame, except towards Ricardo, who he saw the potential of that kid himself. His parents died during the Red War and now he’s trying his hardest to contact his brother, Holstein, who also got lost in the war.

Sarco Phelanflame

/sár-ko/ 288 years old — Phelanflame has always been the first row at wars. They’re the leader of the soldiers. Very strong since birth with a little sadistic tendency. Their personality is cold, much colder than the other vampires around Krashoviel. If not cold, they’re always a little bit of an oddball. All the elders in his family were deceased during the last war. Now, Phelanflame only has three members, including Sarco and his two other cousins.

Ricardo Nikolai

/ree-kár-do/ 20 years old — Came from an orphanage, Ricardo is a third-class vampire in Krashoviel. He got lucky because Jestel and Sarco saw his potential while visiting his orphanage, they took him home and gave him all the facilities he needed. Ricardo likes to play fight with almost everybody, but his favorite activity to do is disturbing Jusarlie’s peace.

Jasper

/jæs-per/ approximately 23 years old — A new vamp who was found in the woods during their monthly patrolling. No one knows about his background, he lost his memory, so they named him Jasper.

Saine Cairneye

/sāin/ 201 years old — Grandson of the current Queen on the throne. His mother died during the war. The Cairneye bloodline is in charge of magick, witchcraft, astrology, omen, and so on. Their current job is reading people intentions and possible-futures with their crazy personality tests. They are blessed with good physical appearance, and all of them look like elves. They have a silly little hobby, which is accidentally having a vision that scares the royal family a.k.a Sinflame!

Jusarlie Grieffang

/jou-sār-lee/ 297 years old — Grieffang, the fang of Krashoviel. They are the greatest strategists and professors, Grieffang is one of the keys of Krashoviel’s endless winning of wars. They’re still relatives with Sinflame. Jusarlie is Jestel’s distant nephew, though their age gap is not far. Rival kingdoms tried to kidnap and use Grieffangs against Krashoviel during their wars, but it was no use, Grieffangs are loyal and far smarter than them. Plenty of them are still alive after the wars along with Sinflames.

Hiael Von Ruden

/heeæl/ 314 years old — His original nation is Slevado, Hiael was a crown prince. He turned his back after the Red War, and it creates a huge controversy. He is now working under Jestel’s command and is currently busy training Jasper. He’s reserved, calm, to the point where it becomes scary rather than comforting for his surroundings. No one knows what is on his mind, but for Jestel, as long as he has made a blood pact then he’s good.

© ily-sunghoon, 2024 DO NOT COPY, STEAL, PLAGIARIZE, OR REPOST ON OTHER PLATFORM DO NOT TRANSLATE WITHOUT PERMISSION

[justwannabecat]

“That’s it! I give up!” Phantom yelled. As though he had said something blasphemous, all fighting stopped as the participants stared in confusion. “You humans think you’re the paragon of all existence, proclaiming that anything different is lesser. Well we aren’t! We’re just as sentient as you are, and we have thoughts and feelings! You just choose to ignore it so you can justify your xenophobic actions!”

Phantom turned to Technus, who had frozen in shock as Phantom went on his tirade. “And you! Tell the other ghosts I’m done saving them, too, because none of you care! You don’t care if property is destroyed, or if humans get hurt, or if other ghosts get hurt! All you care about is your stupid Obsessions! You’re too caught up in your own mind to see what you’re doing to everyone around you!”

“But your Obsession is Protection, is it not? You’ve never stepped down from a fight-“ Technus began. Phantom didn’t let him finish.

“My Obsession is Space! If I had my way, I’d spend my nights stargazing, or maybe even on the moon! Instead I’m stuck cleaning up your messes because you can’t control yourselves!” Phantom growled. He glared at the crowd of people who had gathered, curious as to why all fighting had stopped.

“Humans are cruel and hateful. Ghosts are ignorant and careless. I’m tired of wasting my time protecting both sides from the other and being blamed for it. I quit. If anyone dies, or is captured, it’s no longer my problem.“

Like that, Phantom vanished.

The Fentons celebrated, not even noticing Technus make his own escape. The crowd murmured, worry just as prevalent as confidence. The few phones that were recording the event were put away, and later the footage would be checked. Unfortunately, most recordings were corrupted beyond recognition.

Most, but not all.

——————————————————

Amity Park. Ground Zero for the start of the war between the Living and the Dead. Humanity and Ghosts.

Why it had only recently escalated to this, Batman couldn’t tell. His research found that there had been a portal opened to the Realms years ago, and the laws passed just a year after that. Most of the town was stuck behind an information blackout that the government refused to give access to. Whatever happened, Constantine assured him that it was almost certainly the government’s fault.

After almost three weeks of trying to get beyond the firewalls, he finally figured it out. “Research” that claimed ghosts were nothing but evil. News articles calling “Phantom” a troublemaker. Forums that spoke about how “Phantom” ruined the town while fighting other ghosts.

A video, old and grainy but still clear enough to be used as evidence. A glowing, white-haired boy that told everyone he was done. That he was tired of fixing everything. Of saving everyone. That nobody was good, everyone was bad, and they were on their own.

They used to have a hero, but Phantom left. Without him, both sides tore at each other until there was nothing but an all-out assault. They needed to stop this, but without a mediator they would not make it through to the ghosts.

If they could find Phantom, perhaps they could fix everything before it was too late.

[aphroditelovesu]

Yan!Mom Rhaenyra Targaryen/Yan!Dad Laenor Velaryon Headcanons (Platonic)

❝ 🐉— lady l: hi... So, it just freaked me out and I needed to write this, kind of like a base for Valyrian Heritage part 2... I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes! ❤️

❝tw: obsessive and possessive behavior, unhealthy platonic relationships, mention of mutilation and war, messy writing.

❝ 🐉pairing: platonic!yan!mom rhaenyra targaryen and yan!dad laenor velaryon x gender neutral!reader, platonic yandere!hotd x gn!reader.

Rhaenyra and Laenor have always gotten along well, although not so close, they were always friendly with each other and even came to an agreement after their marriage. They would live their own lives and be free to love someone else.

The few times they slept together were not for pleasure, but to try to conceive an heir. And it worked, when Rhaenyra discovered she was pregnant just a few months after her wedding, much to everyone's delight.

You were the only child born of their marriage, well, at least the only legitimate one. There was no doubt about your legitimacy, since you were a copy of your father when you were born and became more like your mother as you grew up.

They loved you unconditionally, there are not enough words to describe how much they love you. They say you never love anything on the world the way you love your first child and that's true when it comes to your parents. They love all of their other children, but it's pretty clear how attached they are and favor you more than anyone else.

Laenor is the most attached to you, however, as you were his child. Really his. And although he loved your brothers who were born after you, there was no doubt that he preferred you above them all. You were the apple of your father's eye, you could never do anything wrong in his eyes and he will fight anyone who says otherwise.

Rhaenyra loved you with all her heart, the first moment she placed you in her arms for the first time was like a blessing, a gift from the gods old and new. You were her precious, her most precious treasure and nothing and no one will take you away from her. No one steals what belongs to a dragon and gets away with it.

You were not only spoiled and loved by your parents, but also by your grandparents. Rhaenys and Corlys adored you, simple as that, they spoil you more than anyone and always take you to Driftmark when Rhaenyra allows it. Corlys always makes a point of reminding you of your heritage, that you are a Velaryon, and Rhaenys tries to participate as much as possible in your upbringing.

Viserys loved you deeply too, considering that you are his first grandchild and he tries his best to be present in your life. He would often pick you up and sit with you on the Iron Throne, reminding you that one day everything would be yours. And he doesn't even try to hide his favoritism. He knew that if Aemma was still alive, she would love you as much as he does.

Alicent was excessively attached to you too, and although she had grandchildren of her own, she didn't even try to hide how much she preferred your company. Although she has no patience for children, she loves you with all her heart and strongly believes that Rhaenyra is not a good mother for you, a belief that became stronger after the birth of Jacaerys. Otto encourages Alicent's tendencies while cultivating his.

You were the example for your younger brothers, Jacaerys, being the second child, is the clingiest and most protective towards you. He had you first, so you were his first. Lucerys is extremely possessive of your attention and sulks when others get it. Joffrey is the baby and the youngest and so he wants to receive more attention from you.

Your aunt and uncles were very close to you, mainly due to age and because of Alicent's encouragement, who was always sure that you would grow up surrounded by her children.

Aegon is very emotionally dependent on you and is almost always leaning around you, looking for comfort. Helaena loves you with all her heart, she wants to be by your side all the time and she trusts you completely. Aemond is the closest to you, always seeking comfort and confirmation from you, he wants to impress you at any cost. You didn't spend as much time with Daeron, but he misses you and cherishes the memories he has with you.

You were the anchor of your family after the years passed, the only person capable of bringing them all together. Viserys and you had this in common, the desire to reunite the family and you managed it, although it never lasted for long.

All servants were instructed to do your whims and desires. Laenor and Rhaenyra are extremely protective of you and suspicious of anyone who approaches you, especially if it is one of the Greens.

You loved your family, you really loved them, but sometimes all you wanted was to be free from so much pressure. You found fun and ''freedom'' in associating more with your great-uncle, Daemon, who was always taking you away with him, causing your parents to panic. You always came back unscathed, though.

However, you knew you would have to choose a side. After Aemond's mutilation, you found yourself at an impasse when your father sneaked into your room that night and asked you to run away with him. Running away with him means you would be free from your burdens, but the conflict would never stop and would only escalate.

You didn't have any more time. You had to choose between running away with Laenor and escaping the war or staying with Rhaenyra and dealing with the conflicts between the Blacks and the Greens, as well as your overwhelming and possessive family.

Choosing between your father and mother was never something you thought you would do, until this day. The thought of never being able to see Rhaenyra again and hear her reading to you or never seeing your father teaching you how to fight again filled you with fear and anguish. You knew what you had to do, but could you bear the consequences of your choice?

[writingforatwistedworld]

Self-aware au

Written before the English release!

I do not take any responsibility for you reading this no matter which age group you are from!

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, Jp-version spoiler(!!!), death, description of war, unhealthy mindset, religion, obsessive themes, unhealthy family dynamics

General! Lilia Vanrouge/(Platonic) Maleanor Draconia/(Platonic) Knight of Dawn-Yandere headcanons

Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce? Lilia Vanrouge 1.0. The more cold, hard and ready to behead the next human version of the usual Lilia (also known as the Lilia Vanrouge 2.0 model)

Lilia back then was “rough” and I am being nice calling him that

Back then, Lilia was surrounded by loss and a lot of Faes getting everything they ever owned ripped away from them

Of course this impacts him (I mean he is strolling through battlefield after battlefield so of course it does)

Lilia wasn't always such a devoted follower

Yes, he did believe in the Overseer, aka you, but only after witnessing the brutality that came with him being a general did he turn into a follower with such drastic views

After all, if there was no higher meaning to all this violence, to all this loss and despair, what was even the point of it all?

You became his moral, mental and also a bit of a physical crutch for him

Whenever he felt like he was this close to just giving up, he thought about you and that this was part of your greater plan (totally not part of some valley church propaganda)

After witnessing that human hiding behind the Knight of Dawn in all his haughtiness and cruelty, he finally set out on his quest not only to make the humans leave his beloved home but also to make them into loyal believers of the Overseer

But sadly, everything was for nought and Lilia had to go into hiding

The only thing keeping him going was his believe in you having a greater plan

A few hundred years later and Lilia finally found out what that supposed plan of yours was

Laying in that cold, lonely crib was the child of his old, now deceased enemy

Taking the child, now called Silver, in he learned the joy of a family, the boy giving him more joy than anything ever before in his life

Finally, he had found peace. Of course he did. This was your plan all along, right? You must have ordered those three fairies to make his beloved son survive until now, right?

You were, after all, a kind deity. There was no way this was all just a war happening because of greed. Because if this truly was just events happening after events then...

Lilia never finished that thought

The great ruler of the night fae, mighty and powerful sorceress who could fell an entire nation in one swoop if she wanted to was despite her cruel and aloof outside appearance a pretty devoted follower since the beginning

Despite being a Fae, she was feared just like her unborn son due to her powers (and being more or less being on the same level as a nuclear bomb but hey, I doubt that anyone of us would stand next to one of those, right?)

So it is no surprise that she turned to something, someone, to feel less alone

Especially after her husband disappeared did she wish for some sort of sign that she was not alone

And oh boy, did religious propaganda from the high church take that loneliness away

When her beloved son, although in an egg, was born, she visited your altar daily, thanking you for her child being healthy

(This could also be the reason why Malleus is the way he is but I am just a writer and not some all-knowing God so idk, just a theory)

She definitely has "taken care" *cough*totallynotproblematicforarulertobeinfluencedbyreligion*cough* of Fae that were non-believers

How dare their sinful ways dirty your holy image?

See? Totally not problematic

At first she only tried to protect her subjects after the humans attacked and took over parts of her kingdom

But after a while she started to have another goal

What if she shared your splendor with those little useless invaders?

Humans were most definitely vile but you were able to unite so many different kinds of Fae in your name under the Draconia name

So why not also unite those humans in your name in a peace treaty?

Such a kind God you were! Allowing for peace in your name!

And, well, if violence and destruction was needed to make those beings understand and surrender, then that shall be what they get

Besides, she was only honoring her husbands wish to get closer to the humans so who was she to selfishly aim for another goal?

The Knight of Dawn (long name, I know) did not always believe in you

Heck, the poor guy probably never heard of you until he fought the Fae

But if the humans from back then didn't really know about you, then how did he find out about and why did he start to see you as his God?

On this part, I would say, he and Lilia were eerily similair

Both were pushed into a war neither liked, so of course he was also in a very unstable situation which made him, like Lilia, search for something to hold on to

The three Fairies had mentioned before when he was still training to become as strong as he was now, mentioning a kind deity who accepted all, who loved unconditionally

Back then he only thought of you as one of the many deities that were prayed to back then

But once the war started and he saw your churches and cathedrals for the first time, his opinion slowly started to shift until he saw you as the highest being possible

I mean, all of us would if we lost all stability over night, having only destroyed buildings and a half-standing church in front of us

He hated the plundering of your sacred placed even before he became a believer, having the opinion that it was just a cultural difference between the two kinds

This led to him kneeling at the cracked altars of many of your churches, asking for forgiveness, hoping that you would understand that he didn't have another choice

What he would do to witness one of your sermons…

And when he was lonely enough, he imagined you watching down on him from up above

Just like a... a parent

You see where I am going with this?

So when he was facing the Queen he only hoped for your forgiveness, hoping that his loving family member would forgive his gravest sin, him killing a mother

And he found salvation, in letting that child and the retainer escape

Perhaps you could forgive him now

[gatitties]

War & crack II

—Task Force 141 x young!reader

—Summary: more headcanons with your team as you being chaotic

—Warnings: none

Part One / Halloween special

yeah, I didn't finish my brainstorm and I bring more things from this sudden idea 🫣

─ Listen, you have a lot of problems.

─ And we are not talking about your jokes about death biting your ass anymore.

─ Price's going to go bald before he retires, how the hell are you still alive today? It is a mystery to them.

─ Everyone noticed during a mission where they had to stay in a safe house for a few weeks that you had the same concentration as a fly, empty thoughts behind your eyes lost in a distant point of reality.

─ You looked like another person when you were a simple civilian, Gaz had to pull you so you wouldn't get run over a couple of times for not looking at the traffic lights.

─ Price needs to put on videos of crunchy slime or Subway Surfers so you could hear what he was saying, (Soap won't admit that it also helps him focus).

─ They discovered that you can sleep in any position, seriously, whether it's standing up, in the bathtub, your body bent in an unusual way, now they understand why you complain so much about back pain.

─ Everyone looks in silence when they give you little impulses to do stupid things, like, last time you were walking to see the area and you found a woman walking her dog, you asked her if you could pet it and when she said yes you pet the woman instead of the dog, Ghost dragged you away murmuring an apology.

─ The following days they decided that you would stay at home, they simply fed your stupidity, every time they arrived you received them with the phrase 'where have you been, loca?' while playing a wolf howl in the background.

─ Luckily it was time to return to the base, during the trip you were listening to music, despite having your headphones you had the volume so high that everyone could hear it, Soap stuck to you because he liked what you were listening, the others decided to drown out the noise with some light talk.

─ Once you returned to the base you relaxed, returning to your working state, you focused again, which relieved all.

─ One day they decided that you needed a nickname since everyone had it except you, so they began to investigate your record as a cadet and even your years in the military school.

─ You kicked and fought because you were something else a while ago, but it was inevitable to find an old report where it said that you were violent with some classmates.

─ And in your anger for probably some nonsense, you ended up biting the ankles of a guy, or a group of guys, or even one of your lieutenants...

─ Soap and Gaz cried with laughter because there was a video of what was evidenced and you looked like a rabid chihuahua attacking its worst enemy.

─ Nibbles, at least it was temporary because you didn't entirely agree with the nickname.

— Since you were now known like that, you went from friendly punches to friendly bites.

─ Once you got kidnapped and you returned to the base the next day because your captors couldn't stand having you sing old Justin Bieber songs or listening to you talk about all your obsessions, they tried to cover your mouth but you just kept making too much noise, the information was not worth it.

─ You arrived in the middle of the meeting they had to prepare the rescue, having the courage to enter the room asking who they were trying to rescuing.

─ Price casually replied that they were looking for you until he did a double take, realizing you were there.

─ You were buried in a mass of muscles after the realization.

─ When you're depressed at random times (because you don't understand how your brain works and you feel bad out of nowhere), everyone will quickly notice, like even though you're not the most talkative person all the time, you usually drop some stupid comment, but on your bad days you are simply a piece of flesh and bones that walks without knowing where it's going.

─ The first time they saw you like this they tried to do something to cheer you up, Price gave you a few days off hoping your mood wasn't due to work overload, he even wrote some of your reports.

─ Soap bought stickers and decorations to your liking to decorate your prosthesis, he also told you that he could draw you a design to have your personalized arm.

─ Gaz tried to talk to you but you just didn't want to open your mouth, he chose to just keep you silent company, maybe you hug him, you need a little physical support.

─ Ghost will leave objects scattered around knowing that you would find them, knowing that they were things that you liked or had been looking for (because the poor guy always has to pick up what you forget around the common room).

— Nothing seemed to work until a stray kitten snuck in and lit up your face, so the easy answer was any baby animal would brighten your day, it was free therapy.

— You once dyed the boys' clothes pink by accident, but at least you told them that now they could go see Barbie with you.

— You promised you'd take them to see Oppenheimer, and that's why they agreed.

— You created a group chat just to send shitpost and teach them the meme path.

— Price just leaves it on seen, Ghost has the group muted, Gaz answers from time to time and Soap is the most active, he learns fast about today's shitpost.

— You really resist the urge to trim Price's beard to make it heart-shaped.

— You use the radio to sing parts of songs when you take too long to jump into action, Price scolds you for it.

— You complain that he seems constantly in a bad mood and you open a profile for him on every dating app you know, even on Grindr.

— You found Ghost's profile browsing Tinder and Soap's profile on Grindr... you decided to use it as a weapon in case you needed any favors.

— Gaz caught you red-handed, but you made a deal and he wouldn't say anything if he can profit from the manipulation.

— You hide it like you're hiding war crimes.

— Why does Price have so many likes from single moms?

[liulith]

We as a fandom need to open our hearts to the insane comedic potential of Sir Pentious being included as a background character in stories taking place in the "old days" before Vox and Alastor's falling out. AND the comedic potential of one-sided Sir Pentious -> Vox.

Why?

Canon!Sir Pentious is attached to his era's aesthetics but he also wants to be "hip and cool" (see pilot episode; Sir Pentious as the how do you do fellow kids meme) and join the "Almighty Vees". When did he start wanting that? He's not a media demon trying to keep up with his audience and be a likeable public figure. He's a mechanic trying to conquer Hell by force thanks to his machines and obviously relishes in acting like a villain (fear me! I'm so evil! I'm the architect of destruction! etc. etc).

This is very different from the Vees' approach - maintaining a perfect public image, insidious manipulation tactics... Vox threatens Alastor in the show, but the Vees clearly haven't built their power through turf wars, which is and has always been Pentious' one and only strategy. All the machines we've seen him make are war weapons (+ the Egg Boyz who do his bidding, and help him operate those very weapons). Voxtek probably sells weaponry too but that is more Camilla's domain, so it would be more logical for Pentious to try and join her.

Pentious' and the Vees agenda and interests aren't aligned, so why is Pentious so desperate to join the Vees?

there are many reasons why Pentious could want to be part of the Vees besides the one I'm gonna talk about but you know what MY agenda is:

Vox is Pentious' idol. Pentious is an inventor, an innovator. He would have loved waking up in Hell with a mechanical body he can upgrade however he wants and finds the whole concept fascinating.

He's not against new technology, as his creations clearly go beyond what people could have had invented in his time despite their "steampunk" aesthetic (see: the effing death ray). So I think his current "limitations" are more a matter of him having to stick with what he knows best because it's hard to keep up with the constant stream of new tech. This is why he's more than impressed with Vox's extraordinary ability to adapt to change and master new technologies again and again. He's a fellow innovator! That's one reason for Pentious to be obsessed with the guy.

And if you think obsessed isn't the right word, think about this: Sir Pentious repeatedly challenges Alastor to fights even though he's clearly outmatched and it's an incredible risk to take considering what Alastor does. Pentious is OLDER than Alastor, he was there when he broadcast the most powerful Overlords' scream all over Hell. Plus, losing always leaves him in a very vulnerable position (without his best weapons). Is it madness? Hubris? An obsession for Alastor? No!

Sir Pentious to Alastor: Silence! Now Cower! For when I've slain you, the Almighty Vees will finally acknowledge me!

Sir Pentious thinks defeating Alastor is the only way the Vees will finally acknowledge him. No matter how dangerous it is, he has to try, for the Vees (Vox). Just like he took the risk of angering the Princess of Hell to get in Vox's good graces. This says a lot, for someone as paranoid as him, who doesn't trust anyone who is "too nice" to him.

If Hazbin had more episodes there should have been one about Pentious struggling with the fact he disappointed his idol and told to KHS 👀

(btw this is old news but we know that one of the Hazbin episodes that Viv originally pitched was about a science contest organized by Voxtek in which Pentious and Baxter competed against each other! Pentious could have done that after ep2!)

Anyway, back to the comedic potential of it all & Vox's arrival in Hell. Can you imagine his reaction as a newly fallen Sinner, when he's hanging out with Alastor (aka following him like a lost puppy?) and he meets Sir Pentious for the first time? Like sure, Hell is full of insane people but Alastor obviously has a Reputation and no one ever challenges him. And suddenly... Hm... Alastor?? There's an airship with a giant cannon pointed right as us?? Firing a DEATH RAY?!

It's also so funny to imagine Sir Pentious being obsessed with Alastor and considering him his archnemesis back in the day, only to slowly become obsessed with Vox instead and only caring about defeating Alastor because he thinks Vox will like it. It starts with Sir Pentious trying to "gather intel" on Alastor's new "ally", spying on them or sending his Egg Boyz to do so (and we already know great he is at spying so you can guess how that goes lol), and the rest is history.

Alastor loves attention so he probably let Pentious spy on him behind bushes from time to time if only because it's very entertaining to watch him try to be discrete and make his shadow tap on his shoulder. How hilarious would it be if Alastor noticed Sir Pentious' growing crush on Vox but not Vox's crush on him? Also, Vox misunderstanding Pentious and Alastor's relationship and thinking Pentious is a weird obsessive ex... The world is a stage and the stage is a world of entertainment!

[tame-the-lion-writes]

favorite CoD headcanons/prompts

konig

I love pathetic König drabble. I love when people write him as a massive pathetic wet cat of a man. He’s a loser and a simp, but he’s sweet, but he’s socially incompetent and what a moood. Yes, he’s frighteningly competent on the field, but he practically lives in war and doesn’t know how to connect with people outside of that life. So enter this pretty little thing and he’s all stumbling over himself—a massive creature who just wants to hold someone so tiny

And speaking of tiny!— the headcanon that he’s a cat/bunny person! That he’s supposed to be this battering ram brute but he’s also learned to be gentle when it really counts, and he scoops up adorable animals whenever they’re in sight

Also the idea that König is particularly weak to bakers. Baking means home, and so does the smell of whatever you’ve put in the oven. It’s the ✨domesticity✨ and he’s practically floating in midair like a character in an old cartoon. In short, big man following after smol baker. Perfection.

Price

Bear!Price! Literally and figuratively! He’s so round and warm and he’s got the kindest eyes, and he will wrestle his cubs soldiers into place! I don’t want him to have a six pack. He’s got strong arms, hair all over, and a belly. That’s all he needs

Dark(er)!Price, too. And I don’t mean that in like a possessive, obsessive smut sort of way. I think a lot of fluffier fanfic surrounding Price has him characterized as super soft (which I still love—don’t get me wrong). Still, while he’s very much the dad of the group and openly loving/caring towards certain people, he’s still a morally gray character because (even in his own words) he HAS to be. This man is a captain and he gets 👏 things 👏 done 👏 AKA making tough choices and justification over idealism

Ghost

Fics where Ghost gets married before Price. Cause everyone thinks Price would find a wife first, but I think Price would like the slow roll whereas Ghost would finally, finally find someone and latch on. Because yeah, he’s definitely afraid of losing you—he’s lost a lot of things in this world, and the 141 and war seem to be the only continuity, BUT!— once that wall is broken down and he allows himself to have something, he’s making sure he won’t ever let go. Because that love is his, his, his. In the purest, most selfless way possible

Ghost being characterized not as pretty, but someone who was pretty. I forget who wrote the blurb about it, but I just love the idea that he used to be conventionally attractive, and now his face is carved in, scarred, etc. He’s got burn marks littered up and down his skin, and it’s angry and red, and all the parts that weren’t burn were somehow torn apart anyway. He’s a man with too many stories to tell, and it shows but we love him anyway