#either complete nonsense or tragedy

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (part 10)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

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

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds 📍 Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie Part 13 - The Release Part 14 - Someone like her smutty💦

Part 10 Good Deeds

Alastor takes you out as promised, but work/hobbies call him away. Not that you mind, you have your own hobbies to pick up.

「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem!Reader, references to racial violence, reference to a word that’s now very much a slur, Hate for Aubrey, inaccurate portrayal of how easy it was to drink, oh yeah murder, mentions of a dismembered body, bloody shoes, physics hijinks with a corpse, these idiots in love, gators aaaaaye baby, domestic fluff?? Kind of?? Did I do it?!」

I think about Emmett Till often. Though his heinous murder came after the time this story is set, what happened to him wasn’t an isolated incident. So it is referenced here in a sense, because I can’t stop thinking about him when I think about racial violence in the south both what it looked like before and what it looks like now. I don’t say anything explicit and change the act, but it is still important to warn you. If you don’t know about the tragic death of Emmett, here’s a site with links to articles and essays. Be careful, it is awful and his deceased and battered face will come up on some links, as his mother wanted the world to see what they did to her baby. It’s an image I cannot forget and I rightfully shouldn’t. I know it’s off to have such a heavy topic before this love story but this case is the kind that would motivate such a killer as Alastor, and I don’t want to miss an opportunity to remind us of Emmett’s short life even if it’s done in a silly fanfic surrounded by nonsense. So forgive me for perhaps an odd real life addition, I’d be disappointed in myself for not addressing it when Emmett has been on my mind every time I think about the era someone like Alastor could have lived in. An era that did exist and people did live and suffer in.  An era not far removed from us, my father was alive when this happened.

Part 10 - Good Deeds

minors if you interact I will interpret that as a deep hate for me as a person so MDNI 👌🏼

“I’ve got to speak with the valet, go on ahead and find a table you like.” 

You didn’t want to do that at all, but knew Alastor wouldn’t ask if he didn’t want it. Well, he didn’t really ask, did he? He was certainly in his element, the shining and towering hotel every bit as pristine as his own public image.

It was as if every head in the room spun around to look at you. Everyone’s hair freshly styled, jewelry shiny and heavy, clothes immaculate. Your dress was lovely, no doubt, but no one looks at the elephant in her tutu at the circus and proclaims, “A ballerina!” This was, rather obviously, not your scene.

Alastor had presented the dress to you so sweetly, though. You woke up to find it hanging on the closet door hook, the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes. He had either waited for you to fall asleep to hang it or woken up before you for just the reason. It was red, his favorite color for you. The latest fashion, loose and straight. No corset. The neckline showcased a large, flat bow. 

“Partly a gift for me,” he had said as his hands slid down your sides when you had gotten dressed, “Such softness shouldn’t be hidden behind rigid boning.”

You settled into a large seashell shaped booth, the back coming up and over like you were the speck of sand yet to form into a pearl. The table was small, a glittering pattern under its shiny veneer. Everything was…glistening. Even the darkness past the windows seemed to be sparkling back at you. A few people turned to look you up and down, smiling and beginning to speak to their group before even turning back to them. 

You could wither, or bloom. So you learned back as if you were bored, legs crossed and feet gently shaking with anxiety or boredom, you hoped no one could sus out which. 

It was so odd. In your usual haunts, newcomers were greeted with curious smiles and maybe the tiniest suspicions. You were being picked apart to the bone by sharp stares and even sharper tongues, no matter how silent their jabs were to you. 

“They’re probably jealous.” Your head snapped up, when had Alastor made it in? “They look at you and know, ‘oh, that’s the kind of woman my husband would rather have a conversation with.’” You laughed, you absolutely could have stolen the attention and more from at least one of these women’s husbands.

“Perhaps they recognize these earrings, gone missing from their jewelry box earlier this year.”  You weren’t above accepting a woman’s stolen jewelry. It was her husband's fault anyway, might as well enjoy it. 

Alastor’s finger came to your chin, lifting your face further into the light, “Give em a good look, darling. I want them to eat their hearts out.” The blush that swept across your features was so fierce, the difference in temperature between your cheeks and your arms caused a chill to run down to your shins. He took a seat beside you, scooting up close and flashing that smile. A smile that had you chasing him into dark alleys and grabbing dead men by the ankles. 

A waiter came by, placing a drink in front of Alastor and asking what you’d like. You were so used to being in such spaces with the kind of men who answered for you that you didn’t reply immediately. When Alastor brought his drink to his lips, you realized it was you who was expected to speak. 

“Oh! A corpse reviver please.”

The man smiled and left with a nod. Alastor choked, hitting his chest with the fleshy part of his palm, “That was intentional, wasn’t it?”

You danced in your seat, “I’ve never been somewhere that has the stock for it that I was…allowed to order what I want.”

Alastor set his drink down and leaned back, shoulder pressing into yours teasingly, “I can’t imagine anyone disallowing you a thing.” With a sigh, you reminded him of the things you did to get your marks drunk and off their guard. You were surprised when he nodded like he remembered. “I saw that! You would sit so quietly on their laps. I remember thinking you were much more boring than you had initially made me believe.” You recoiled, and he shot you a look, “Who stalked who first, hm?” 

With a huff, you let it go. You weren’t actually sure the answer to that anyway. Focus let free from Alastor, you began to notice the looks were back. But no longer cutting into you, but wide and devouring. A few smiled at Alastor, some tipped their heads to him and offered a look of recognition. “Aren’t you popular.”

“I haven’t been out in awhile. They’re probably curious.” He took another sip, “Should be, atleast.”

A prideful smile slid up your face. You uselessly tried to mask it by licking your teeth. 

Something that happened when in public with Alastor that was unlike you was the tendency to become small. Not shrinking to provide him space; it was a turning in of your shoulders and touching of your knees in a subconscious effort to curl into a little ball of joy. Actively fighting the tug, you leaned back and opened your chest. An exercise in mental focus. 

“It’s weird. How you can be friends with my kind of people and….well, whatever is happening here.” Your hand waved at the room before you both. 

“My friendship with these people compared to our friends at the dives is…. A light bulb compared to a fire. One was manufactured to fit a need, one exists somewhat naturally.”

Tall and slim, body flat from collar bones to knees, a slip of a woman entered the room and you felt a shift in the atmosphere. Her hair was short and pitch black, fashionable to say the least. A few heads turned, a few upturned lips shifted into sneers. Side glances, hushed words, intentionally heard huffs. You turned to Alastor to find his face was as confused as your own. 

“Who is that?” You said it low, not knowing if she was friend or foe. 

“That would be Mrs. Aubrey Debreaux. Popular socialite and frequent hostess.” A sip of his drink, speaking about her like a character in a novel. “This icy reception is news to me though. She’s usually the life of the party.”

“She’s a real wet blanket now…Your circles seem really fickle. Always a bit of gossip.” You realized as soon as you said it that, well, that was the point. Alastor needed the gossip, and, well, he clearly enjoyed it.

“That’s what the wealthy do. Gossip and pretend the drama is as stressful as someone looking for their next meal.” Swirling his drink absentmindedly, his eyes followed Aubrey through the hotel bar. When you asked if he knew everyone there, he said it was his job to know people.

“Your job is in radio. You host a show, Alastor.” You laughed through your nose.

“Well, my other job.”

“I’d call that a passionate hobby.” Your hand came to rest half on his and half on the booth bench low and hidden, not wanting to monopolize, but he quickly took it and held it on the table. Another struggle to keep your shoulders from drawing inward.

The room moved on, forgetting you both were there and eventually about Aubrey too. Or so you had thought. When you drink was starting to mellow you, you turned to Alastor to admire the view. You’d come to enjoy that silence, the kind that only existed between people comfortable enough to know they didn’t need to entertain each other to enjoy each other’s company.

He was scanning the bar still, elbow on the table as he rested his chin there. From a distance of space or familiarity it could be seen as boredom. But up close and personal, you could see the wheels spinning behind his eyes.

“Golly, when in Rome!” Alastor hooted and grabbed you by the hand with one of his and carried his drink in the other, “Let’s go gossip. Bring your drink.”

He pulled you into a group of four people in a circle talking. They opened and let you both in, smiles warm. A clamor of excited ‘how long has it been’s, ‘how are you’s, and ‘you look well’s.

You’d expected him to ask for gossip like he’d said, but realized that’d be pretty conspicuous. Instead he waited, and when Aubrey passed by one of them rolled their eyes and he had his opportunity.

“What’s that look for?” He asked. 

Everyone got quiet and passed a glance between them. Finally a woman in a beaded dress and finger wave bob piped up.

“She reported a young boy touched her on the street.” Alastor watched Aubrey cycle through the groups as the friend spoke. “Grazed her hip with his hands, made a comment about white women as he did it.”

Alastor’s head whipped back around. “He got taken away that night.”

You gasped, hand coming to your mouth in sincere horror, “Just for touching her? Is he still in jail?” 

The woman’s lips pursed together, no one looking at you.

“Bless your heart. He didn’t touch her and he didn’t make it to the jailhouse, sugar.”

Suddenly the way everyone was looking everywhere but at each other sunk in. 

Panicked, you looked to Alastor. His expression was still, like the calm waters of a deep and foreboding bay. What horrors lie underneath? His tongue wiped across his teeth, and you reached out to take his drink from his hand. The action snapped him out of his daze for a second, expression softening a tad as he nodded a thank you.

If he shattered that glass now, people would remember. And when Aubrey went missing they may recall Alastor’s dramatic reaction. You knew his smiles intimately, the ones that were true and the ones that were illusions. The expressions of joy and the mask for his rage. The smile painted on his face now was nothing short of shallow.

You spent so many days in a bubble with Alastor, shielded by his grace or by the accepting and illegal circles you ran in that you sometimes forgot the reality of life. A dark privilege you hadn’t seen until you were the one looking naive for once. 

That’s right. The world was a bad place, of cruelty and injustice. Not just for you, or for parts of you, or for sides of you. Not just for women with smart mouths or a love of dance. No matter how safe the comfort of your friends and the dark halls you all commiserate in, no matter the like minds and mixed complexions of your peers, you were all just one cruel voice from being dragged into the night. Just a single accusation from being a whispered story in a glittering hotel bar. A headline no one would write. 

And some of you would be mourned more than others. 

You took a second, blinking rapidly to dry your eyes. 

“Apparently, she did it to get Hubert to leave his mistress’s apartment and come home.” A short man whose name you never got took a drag of his cigarette, “Worked. He’s been yapping all week about the state of New Orleans society and the importance of protecting the fairer among us.”

Alastor was quiet still, lips tight. You’d seen the photos in his home. You’d never discussed it, no need. Things can’t become normal if you’re always pointing them out. Plus, that was his piece to share. 

“Glad to see most of us here aren’t too keen to welcome her. I’d hate to have to find another bar.” Someone said, glancing around the room. “George just started making my martinis right.”

“Care to dance?” Alastor abruptly turned his entire body to you with a slick swivel on his heels.

You nodded, offering small polite goodbyes and setting your drinks back on the table before turning to him.

His open palm was outstretched and offering you a dance. You spread your hand over his and felt him hold you firmly before pulling you into him. 

He held you so close, much closer than anyone else on the dance floor. A scandalous lack of distance between you two. Quiet, Alastor’s eyes were distant. You were in front of him but he wasn’t seeing you. You let the song carry on a little longer for appearances before sighing into a smile.

“Why are we dancing when you have work to do? You have your tools.” Looking up at a man was rarely a view you enjoyed but the way his eyes slid down his nose and landed so sharply on you made it worth it. A look that said he’d devour you if he didn’t adore you so much. Your hand snaked behind his back to touch the hidden outline of this trusty little knife. He briefly wondered if this could be considered foreplay, the way he felt your hand on his lower back and running over his weapon. Much more intimate than he’d ever let anyone else be.

As your bodies swayed, the lights slid across the curve of his eyes and lit that bright honey brown color like a diamond twirling in the sun. The facets of his irises mesmerizing you. 

How terribly did you love him? 

How far would you fall for him?

“This would be a long one. You’d be waiting… could be a couple of hours. I need to be out of sight before she leaves.” A chill. Oh, you’d forgotten for a second, Alastor was a killer. He didn’t do it for ‘justice’ alone, he enjoyed what he did. Immensely. His voice had a note of giddiness and anger that didn’t mix well, but was oddly arousing. 

“Correction, I’d be dancing for hours. Drinking. Letting handsome men waste their money on me.” 

“Oh? Can they buy me a drink, too?”

You brought up your pointer finger, “You remind her of her humanity, and I’ll get a man to buy you a drink.” 

He linked his finger with yours. “I’ll need to give her special attention. She’s earned it.”

You loosely understood this wasn’t attention like you’d be given. This was attention that ran opposite affection. 

“I’m not here to be in your way, Alastor.” A quick kiss to your hand, one you hoped no one else saw. While no one here would be bothered by Brady, you still wanted to keep some semblance of confusion on what you two were to onlookers. 

His laugh was louder than you expected, a few heads turning, “Impossible. I’m always going wherever you are, dear.”

Would you never get up again?

“I’ll stay at the bar. If they close, I’ll just go to Beth’s.” Your fingers lingered in his, “Be careful. The best good deeds are done in the dark.”

A kiss to your nose. So gentle despite the topic. You could imagine it, the violent death of a woman. You could hear the sounds. Hers, his, the knife’s. A pang of guilt set in before you could remind yourself why this woman was going to die. A tiny smile settled on your face, he offered you a gentle command in return, “Understood, honey. Be safe.” 

You let him kiss your hand again and bow out of  the dance. You were doing it, it dawned on you as you watched him walk away. Truly kissing him goodbye at the door as he went off to work. The closest you’d ever gotten, atleast. 

He stopped by a group and said some quick goodbyes, apologies for leaving early, and left the hotel bar. 

You knew he had killed women before, Alastor was all for equality, but a part of you worried. Women tend to scream louder, and be heard more often, than men. A man screams and people just…keep walking. What would he do? Where would he do it?

With a sniffle, you let the jealousy of just what he would need to do to get her alone flutter away. Taking a seat back at your table, you sipped your drink and watched the others dance and chat. How odd, they could sway in such large places with big windows and bright lights with no fear of cops. Your scenes were dark, dusty, never seeing the sky. 

“He left ya?” One of the earlier women came by, someone you vaguely remember him nodding a ‘hello’ to at some point in the evening. 

Thankfully you were still quick on your feet. “Well, we came separately, of course we’d leave separately.”

A laughed, “Of course.” She leaned down, touching at your hair for a second, curiously, “Don’t hold your breath. But, it is nice he got you in here, huh? Must be a treat for you.” 

Your own laugh was just as abrupt as Alastor’s earlier, your hand coming to hide your smile. All you could muster was a nod. Yes, you stood out. Yes, you didn’t fit in with these people for many reasons. But, it wasn’t your first time in nice spaces. First time not pressed into a man who’d been made to believe he was more important the whole time, but still. 

It took two more drinks for Aubrey to leave. But there was a problem. As she was trying to bow out of the room, a man kept hooking his fingers under the loose belt of her boxy drop waist dress.

With practiced skill, you took note of where her eyes lingered on him, how her hand came to his arm but didn’t actually press him away. Not earnestly.

The pushy man saw it too, every little soft ‘no’ was a half ‘yes’. And Aubrey seemed to like that. It was almost ironic, given what she had done, how she egged on the younger man before her now by pretending she didn’t want him. His hand landed on her hip forcefully, her hand on his chest gingerly. He leaned in close, she pulled away barely.

The next act was the most classic to women of your era. The false exit.

Aubrey whispered something, he nodded eagerly and his many hands returned to himself.

She smiled at the back of everyone’s heads, as nearly no one would look her way, and she slipped out the doors.

You couldn’t stop yourself from shimmying as you slid from your booth. Barely a step away, you leaned back and grabbed the last sip in your glass. You swished it around your mouth like listerine, and swallowed it. Before you got too close, you pinched your cheeks until your eyes began to water.

You’d just found a way to make yourself useful.

“Whoopsie Daisy!” You giggled, shoulder colliding with the man’s chest as you stumbled past.

“Watch - ooh, hey,” the free hand that had come to keep you from getting closer quickly softened, curling around your waist. The same hand that’d just been on the socialite. You were sure to look up and sigh into him, your breath soaked in alcohol. “You okay, doll? Had a bit too much?”

With glassy eyes you nodded, closing them and letting your head nod lazily, “I lost my thing!” You laughed, hitting his chest.

“Your what? I happen to be a thing.” 

How quickly he forgot his target when easier to pick fruit appeared.

“No, silly!” A practiced hiccup, “my little…”

“Your little…?”

Your fingers wiggled in the direction of your hip.

“Purse!” A beaming grin. He asked if you needed help finding it. “Well, how else am I gonna get another drink!” The hand on your waist fell to your hip and slunk lower. 

“Oh well, I could help ya with that.” He leaned in, looking around first as if he had a secret, “I have a room upstairs.”

You tutted, “No no, I am a married woman!” He lifted your left hand, turning it over in a dramatic search for a ring. “Well, engaged…” you diverted your gaze. He lifted his hand to his brow then and scanned the room like a sailor to the horizon. “He’s working late.” You whined.

Why did his kind of man always want the taken woman? Did they think the chase was more meaningful then? Did they feel like they’d won some tug-of-war with an invisible, unaware opponent?

Maybe they were hardwired to hoard resources.

You let him seat you at the bar, and when he ordered you a drink you asked to know your savior’s name. William.

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Alastor was none the wiser, smoking a cigarette under the streetlamp just off to the side of the hotel awning. He didn’t smoke often before you, but he found the lure of sitting on the porch passing a pill between you both too hard to fight. And soon enough the habit grew from a drinking pastime to just… something to do with his hands.

As Aubrey appeared, waiting for her driver to retrieve the car, Alastor tossed the butt to the street and walked up on her.

“I’m quite cross with you, Aubrey.” His tone was smiling as his hand slid behind her neck and tugged her away from the safety and lights of the awning.

“Oh! Alastor, I’m actually waiting for my car.” She struggled to keep up with his pace in her heels, weakly pointing back to where the valet had stood earlier. She resisted a little, the palm on the nape of her neck silently shutting her down.

“Nonsense. We have business together.” Alastor let his hand fall to her upper arm as he yanked her into the closest side street. “I hear you’ve been a very bad girl.”

Aubrey huffed, pulling back against him once, then twice, but ultimately acquiesced when she could see his car down the street.

“Fine, you can drive me home then.” A misplaced giggle, her survival skills dulled by ego.

He tossed her roughly against the car, hand gripping her face tightly. She tried to say his name, but his hold was so firm her jaw was locked.

“You’re going to get into my car now.” Alastor’s eyes had lost their pupil, an expanse of a seemingly endless dark brown in the heavy shadows left by the lamp’s light. When he let her face go, she rolled her eyes and pulled open the back seat door.

That wasn’t what he had meant, not there, but he closed the door behind her and got into the driver’s seat. He hadn’t brought the tarp tonight, not expecting to need it, so maybe the backseat was his best option regardless.

When he pulled away, she reminded him he didn’t know her address.

“I’m not taking you home. I told you. I have a bone to pick with you.” Alastor found himself incapable of putting on a ruse for her. His patience was entirely lost in his unraveling anger.

“Oooh? A bone, you say. Well, well.” Aubrey leaned forward onto the front seat, hands snaking down his shoulders and chest so she could nip at his ear, “Finally letting me have a ride.”

He had to set his right hand in the darkness of his lap to hide the tremble, a disgusted rage manifesting in uncommon ways. 

As her fingers found the buttons of his waist coat, Alastor struggled to see the road in front of him. His vision was going white, and then red. His blood pressure was so high he was nearly blind. 

And when two hot fingers broached the small space between buttons of his dress shirt and touched the bare skin of his chest, the car came to an abrupt halt. The force threw her into the backseat. 

Alastor slammed the front seat door shut before opening the back and caging her in. “I can’t stand another second of your existence.” She crawled backward, making room for him. “I’m going to fucking kill you.” 

Aubrey settled her back against the opposite door, “Oh, the petit mort.”

His head hung low in frustration, a growled  “No, the big one.” as he raked his fingers through his hair to keep from punching his own car seat.

“So I’ve heard.” She pulled up the hem of her dress slowly.

“For fucks sake Aubrey! I’m not using double entendre!” His hands wrapped around her neck. “Must I really remind you of what wrongs you’ve committed?!”

A brief panic finally came, “Wrongs?? Excuse you.”

He could have sworn the snap in his brain had been audible to her as he lost his last bit of patience.

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“Excuse me.” You settled back into the seat, having taken a bathroom break to down some water in secret. You weren’t trying to actually end up blacked out.

“Anyway,  that's how we secured the riverside house.” William leaned into you. You tried to sip your drink and found it empty, having managed to finish it absentmindedly while he rambled on about himself earlier. As you stared at him you let your eyes lose focus and drift into plans for the morning. You’d like biscuits. Alastor had some sausage he’d picked up the other day, maybe a little gravy and some eggs. It’d be like a Sunday meal nice families ate after church. You assumed. Out of the peripheral of your daydream you saw him tap the bar twice and hold up two fingers. “Charge to 1033.” He said. With the clarity of someone who wasn’t pretending to be drunk you quickly held up three.

William shot you a confused look.

“One for my darling.” He made a show of looking around, the bartender pausing. You gave him a confirmation nod, “Three, please.”

“And is he in the room with us now, Helen? I’m beginning to think he’s imaginary.”

It seemed a fine enough name to give him.

“No! But I made a promise. Or…,” you returned the lean, head resting on his shoulder, “are three drinks a little steep for you?“ With a huff, he pulled out a pair of C notes and set them on the bar. The bartender nodded, reaching for the top shelf. You whistled at the sight. Too much money for the total seven drinks he’d ordered, if you weren’t somewhere Alastor frequented you’d have slipped them under the lip of your stockings when the man wasn’t looking. He was charging the room anyway, the large bills were just for show…

“One reviver for the miss, one brandy for the sir, and a rye whiskey neat for the beau.” The bartender set the drinks down on red napkins. The whiskey sat between you both, and after a beat you realized you hadn’t actually told him what to make for Alastor. And come to think of it, your last drink hadn’t been a reviver at all but a brandy ordered by William.

“Ya know I stood up another woman to help you,” he said it into your cheek, stealing your attention by breaking your line of thought. His arm around your shoulder curled to hold you closer, “Don’t I get a reward for that?”

His breath reeked of sickeningly sweet brandy, the taste sticking to the back of your throat. Your head tilted back so you could look at him down your nose, right hand coming to rest on his thigh.

The heat of his body was radiating through the fabric of his pants and made your stomach turn. How many hot and sweaty bodies had you had the pleasure and displeasure of touching?

A smirk painted your face, remembering seeing sweat sticking to Alastor’s forehead the last time he fucked you. What had you done for that reward? Ah right, the somehow shocking act of not withholding praise for how well planned out his greenhouse was. How impressive he was to you in so many ways. You could have lingered on that recollection, on how Alastor set down his coffee and kissed you. And how he didn’t stop until you were both left undone and flustered. But movement stirred away the pleasant memory to bring you back to an unpleasant reality.

His hand roamed down your arm, uncomfortably warm palm on your exposed skin. 

“Oh, I know you did.” You said.

William chuckled, absolutely no idea what you were talking about and not particularly giving a shit. “Did I mention I have a room here?”

“Ten thirty three.” You repeated. 

He looked genuinely shocked, “How’d you know that?” The man was absolutely mystified.

“I— you just…,” your mask slipped in the face of such abject stupidity, “Lucky guess.” William drank his brandy slowly, mentioning you should bet on the ponies together. You nodded. 

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Alastor didn’t care for strangulation. It took so much time and wasn’t particularly satisfying. No pleading, no screaming, no blood and gore. Just…. someone flailing beneath you and turning purple. Boring. 

He brought up the accusations before he began to squeeze, and her panic transformed to relief. “Oh that?” She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down, “Are you really miffed at me about that?”

“Yes, Aubrey! You condemned an innocent child to a horrid death!” His hands loosened, all of his neurons firing off to feel pain in his own heart. 

She rolled her eyes, “I wouldn’t call them children. You seem so upset, hun. Did you have a mam-?”

The rest of the word was barely squeaked out of her, he couldn’t let her finish it. He wasn’t sure what face he made. But whatever it was, it scared her. The carefree way she’d been handling the interaction finally died, and he could register actual fear in her eyes then. 

But the rage just … withered. How many children had his mother loved and doted on before her last, much kinder position? How many Aubreys had she raised. It was nothing short of an overwhelmingly violent sadness that laced his finger together around her neck and tightened, the full weight of his body coming down to crush her airways. He wanted such sentiments to be smothered out of the world like the air in her lungs. If he killed enough, could he make a dent in their influence? He could try. For her. For his mother. 

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“Ya know, I could take real good care of you. If that’s what’s stopping you from coming upstairs.” 

With a deep breath, you gulped the drink halfway down. “Your fella doesn’t need to know. I could even get you your own place, you could wait for me there when he’s late with work. Have dinner ready. Slip off my shoes like a good girl.”

“Trust me; you’ve got a better chance of her smacking you with your shoes than slipping them off like a maid.” Alastor was resting his elbow on the bar behind you, head leaning on his hand. “Hey doll. That one mine?” He pointed at the glass.

“Oh? Alastor is the fiancé?,” William gave off a snide laugh as he was interrupted, Alastor standing up and walking to come between you two, “This guy?! Everyone knows he’s a frigid bitch. You must be a dive alley-cat if you’re—,” Alastor’s fist connected with the man’s jaw, eliciting a sickening crack. He needed both hands to keep himself from falling down with William as he was knocked back out of his bar stool. Alastor’s feet slipped on the spilt brandy, causing him to seize the stool for momentary support.

Alastor took the glass of whiskey with his non-dominant hand and downed it. He cooed, “Top shelf, Georgie?” The bartender nodded. “Good choice. Picked a worthy sucker, sweetheart. Ready to peel?”

You watched William try to stand, glass stuck to his palm. He did manage to get on his knees, shouting at the staff who stood motionless and unphased behind the counter. They didn’t say anything at all, oddly, until Alastor extended his swelling hand to you.

“Have a good evening, sir.”

Alastor flashed his signature smile and guided you out of the hotel bar. You only got a few steps before quickly running back and snatching one of the 100$ bills from the counter. William would’ve taken it back from the bar anyway. What a waste!

When a waiter offered Alastor a warm and familiar look you had to wonder, did people really not know what he did in the darkness of the New Orlean’s alleys? Did a part of them not feel some kind of debt to him? Or was he just painfully friendly when socializing?

“Just to be clear,” Alastor let the doorman open the lobby door, “It’s not the accusation of sex work that compelled me to sock him. It’s the implication you’d be cheap.” He waved the valet from the car and opened the door for you, “If you chose to sell your companionship at true worth, his daddy’s money couldn’t even buy him a kiss.”

“Aww,” you smiled at him through the thin windowpane, “Would you really be so cavalier about such a job if I did?”

“Would I? Gosh that’d make retirement much quicker for me.” He slid into the driver's seat and the door shut with a sharp ting. As he took hold of the wheel he reclined to let his hand settle behind you on the backrest, and then you three were off. 

“Oh by the way, Aubrey’s in the backseat.”

You turned slowly, first coming into view were her tiny, shining silver shoes. Your eyes kept traveling; stocking covered calves and then the bottom of her dress just past her knees.

Alastor’s coat draped over her torso and shoulders caused you to flit to him, confirming his jacket was gone, and back to her. 

Her face looked like that of a sleeping passenger. 

No blood.

When the car was a few blocks from the hotel, you leaned back and lifted the jacket. Her abdomen was clean, the white of her dress pristine. At first her neck seemed clear of cuts or abrasions until you rode past a streetlamp and a beam of light revealed the slowly forming collar of bruises.

Special attention.

For a hair of a moment you began to gently cover her again, before remembering her crimes and dropping it on her unceremoniously.

“Trunk not good enough for her?”

“Got interrupted. Booked it back to you.” He shook his head and patted the seat in tandem.

What luck that just as he felt sure she was too far gone for revival, he let go over her neck and sat up in time for someone to notice him. Fishing in his jacket draped over the seat, he found his cigarette case just as—

“What exactly are you two doing?” An officer was flashing his light through the passenger side back window.

Alastor froze, Aubrey motionless between his legs and a cigarette dangling unlit between his lips. “You startled me, officer! We were just canoodling. But she’s gone and fallen asleep before the main event.”

The officer’s brass light shone down but couldn’t reach the dead woman’s face past the shadow cast by the car door and glass. “She alright?”

Alastor’s eyes drifted down to the deceased socialite, “Truth be told sir, she’s had a bit too much of the giggle water.” Fishing your lighter from his waistcoat pocket, he lit this cigarette before setting the jacket over Aubrey like a gentleman.

“Alright y'all better get lost. Tell your moll this ain’t ladylike.” The officer tapped the window with his knuckle and when she didn’t stir just left with a huff.

Alastor was quick to leave the backseat and drive off, circling around at the next block to head back to the hotel.

“Is… everything alright?” You asked, very obviously concerned.

“Peachy! I just said we were necking before she passed out drunk.“ he leaned over and kissed your cheek, “Anything exciting on your end?”

Patting his leg you beamed up at him, “Always so quick on your feet! I don’t know why I worry so much.” His face lit up and you wanted nothing more than to launch into a praise filled rant that fueled his smile. But, you moved on to the question at hand. After a moment to think, you remembered ‘the best good deeds are done in the dark’. “Nope! Just got tipsy on William’s dime. An odd woman did touch my hair…,” you recounted every second, leaving out why you chose William, to Alastor. You hadn’t meant to, and he hadn’t actually asked, the evening’s events just seemed to flow out of you. The way he always added little comments and nodded made it feel like a conversation and not just you rambling. 

When the car was pulling into the driveway, you asked Alastor if you could drive it behind the house. Puzzled, he put it in park and let you sit between his legs. You started slowly, but quickly began to accelerate. As you approached the house you turned sharply to the left, right side tires ever so slightly leaving the ground. A sharp correction to the right to straighten out. One of his hands clutched you at the waist, the other gripping the seat.

He tried to form some kind of words but they came out a jumbled and panicked mash of sounds as you barreled toward the greenhouse. 

You slammed your foot on the brakes and Aubrey flew off the back seat and hit the floor with a loud thud.

“Ha!” You slapped the wheel, “I’ve been wanting to hear that sound the whole drive!” 

He used both arms now to squeeze you appreciatively, “You’re just the bee’s knees.” Alastor nuzzled into the back of your neck, truly feeling his heart flutter. You made him skip a beat. So many days and nights not even imagining such a pairing.

The best scenario he could think up was a partner who wouldn’t ask questions, who didn’t care to know, who was maybe a little too naive but otherwise capable. Even in his wildest dreams he hadn’t dared to think someone would exist who could support him.

And not just in the killing, which was a hurdle of course, but the other parts of him. The little sacrifices you made for him without complaint. 

What did he do for you, he worried. Your body was his on the occasions he wanted but never did you ask for him. You shared the housework equally. Yes he drove you around but your skills with the car were still new. Insignificant things, like making your coffee when he awoke first and waiting for you after work. With the detective still looking for connections, he couldn’t even properly introduce you or flaunt you around to his circles.

Like a flash of lightning taking down a tree, insecurity shook him. What on earth was keeping you there? Of all the people in New Orleans, how was he any more worth your time than the next?

If anything, he was nothing short of troublesome. His hold on you twisted from thankful to desperate.

Even the lovely evening out he had promised you, he’d left you alone in a strange place. A stranger had bought you more drinks than he had. 

“Would you like to go to the woods with me tonight? To dispose of Aubrey?” His lips swiped across the fabric of your dress as he said it.

The sudden advancement into his hobby took you by surprise. You hugged his arms against you, “Really? Are you sure?”

“If you don’t want to…”

“Is that what I said?”

“Well, no….”

“Don’t put words in my mouth! I absolutely want to go!” Your arms squeezed his.

He chuckled into your shoulder and gave your hip a pat, “Let me get her packaged up. You go rest your feet and I’ll come get you when I’m ready to go.”

You watched from the kitchen, the light he hung from the greenhouse ceiling setting the entire space aglow. When he finally emerged, his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and his hair was falling into his face, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose before he could push it back into place. He waved from the porch, and when you made it out to him he was already pulling out small bundles.

“We’ll bury the pieces in separate places.” He dragged out a small trash tin with the lid already clapped down. “And this goes into the water.”

The packages were like Tommy’s, but smaller. They fit easily into the trunk, and beside them he snuggly fit the metal bucket.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The Ford was parked down a dirt road far from sight, taking a parcel at a time and a shovel, you followed him into the woods. 

You had to ask, why not just his land? Wasn’t that safer? Easier?

“Well, a skull found out here is easier to act shocked about than on my property.”

The ground was still soft, but you could imagine it was rock solid in winter. “Isn’t this dangerous? Aren’t you slowed down in the colder months?” You kept your eyes open wide, adjusting to the pitch black of the forest. The trees were too close and too full still to see the stars. But soon they’d brown and die, revealing the sky’s light. Revealing Alastor.

“Eh it’s mostly busy during mating season because the hunters come out in numbers. But in general I avoid being here in the very early morning hours.” He paused and you reached out for the shovel for your turn, “It’s not too bad overall.”

“They mate in fall. It’s almost fall now.” You widened your stance for balance and began to dig. 

“Yeeees but I’m not alone!” He chirped.

“Fine… just, don’t come out when I’m not able to join you. Just wait or, I don’t know, burn them or something.” You tried to dig fast, wanting to spare his injured hand another turn.

“Very ineffective, brings too much attention and the body never burns all the way. It’s still identifiable in many cases.” Alastor said it quickly, as he’d had nearly a lifetime to think of these things and test them. 

You huffed, “Well, fuck. Okay. Still.” You leaned over and offered your index finger, not looking at him as you did. He laughed before wiping his hand clean on his pants and hooking his with yours. 

A small scream erupted from you, startling him. Your short heel sunk into the dirt when you leaned to lock fingers. The sudden loss of balance startled you. “Sorry… flat shoes. I need flat shoes…these are gonna be the death of me.”

Alastor’s hand came to his heart, pounding in his chest, “Of us. My heart nearly stopped.”

You dug many holes, all of them quite small in radius, just wide enough to slip in what you needed to. After each was deep enough by some standard you didn’t know, he would untie the twine around the package and let the contents spill out and down into the little cylinderical pocket of dirt. 

The first package had her hands. Then next was her feet. Her arms in pieces and then later her legs. The hips, the chest and shoulders, and finally, her head. You were grateful for the darkness, not wanting to see her face now that it was no longer attached to her body. 

The brush was so thick and the woods so dense that you found it hard to distinguish the burial spots once they’d been filled in and covered up. He explained most people came out there with a purpose, not really noticing some disturbed dirt here and there. It’s not like they’re people sized.

“You’re just something else, ya know that?” You said it into the shadows and didn’t see him wince. But you somehow, accidentally, knew to clarify, “I’m always so impressed by your way of doing things. You’ve really thought it out well huh? I know I should worry less but it’s hard.”

Because of the shade you didn’t see the way his shoulders relaxed. You never made him regret your inclusion.

Alastor carried the bucket as you slowly made your way through the darkness. You could hear the sounds of bugs, though you couldn’t see any.  The water surprised you, his arm coming to stop you from walking into the bayou.

“In winter they’ll get really still, so I slow down then too. But we still have time, it’s not too cold yet for them.” He took off the lid, the smell of copper blossoming from the tin.

With practiced moves, he tossed the viscera as far as he could into the small inlet marsh of the river. 

Within seconds the water frothed and rolled with the snapping of powerful jaws.

“Gosh they’re so neat.” You said, reaching out into the darkness for his hand. You couldn’t see him looking at you as you watched the prehistoric animals dispose of his crimes.

He wanted to kiss you. To confess every little happiness you filled his formerly hollow chest with. But he held back. He knew better. He’d tried before, once. When he thought settling was better than nothing. It ended terribly. It was better to just exist beside you for as long as you’d entertain his company. If you knew, he thought, of all the futures he imagined with you, you’d just feel tied down by his hopes. You weren’t a small bird he could hold in his home. 

You promised to not get in his way. The least he could do was not cage you with his love. He wouldn’t hold you back.

“Alastor.”

“Yeah?” He said dreamily.

“I think… ” You fought the urge to scream at the sensation between your toes, “Aubrey dripped into my shoes.”

Alastor yanked the bucket away from you, the angle he haphazardly held at it with a single finger to hold your hand having caused the liquid remains to leak out.

“Ankle boots. Ankle boots, no heel.” You muttered, the shoe rinsed off in the water with a paranoid speed now squishing under your sole. The action was enough to draw attention to your shore, long and round snouts moving toward you in the night as you got rid of Aubrey. It was time to go. 

The drive home was dark and silent. The bucket and tarps rinsed with the gas can full of water he always kept in the oversized, custom built trunk. It had taken longer than you had realized, which just brought up renewed worry for his sleep schedule.

When you finally made it home and into the bedroom, he mumbled it was too late to shower. A coordinated grumble between you that you’d both just wash the sheets in the morning. Alastor sat on the end of the bed and bent down, your hand coming to his shoulder to stop him. 

Exhausted, aching, and quite confident you smelled of sweat coated dirt with the tiniest hint of dead Aubrey mixed with alive William (blood and brandy, respectively), you lowered yourself to your knees. You untied the waxed laces of the right shoe, made of a shiny brown leather, and slipped it off. 

Alastor felt his throat tighten as he had to blink to keep tears away. You always seemed to listen when he spoke. Really listened, even when he was just being playful. Another tiny sweetness piled onto the mountain you were currently burying him under. Another ounce of inadequacy tipped on his self measured scales.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Hush, I don’t have to do anything.” You said it and he laughed breathlessly knowing he’d heard it before and praying he’d hear it forever. “I want to.”

You set the left shoe beside the right. When you didn’t stand but instead stared at him patiently, Alastor undid his pants and lifted his hips to push them down. You folded them neatly beside his shoes. Feeling up his legs as if you couldn’t see them there in front of you, you found his sock garters. 

“Keep the socks, please. It’s getting chilly.” He undid his shirt and folded it on his lap. 

When he was in just his underwear and socks, you looked up at him and wondered if he knew. That this was the closest to expressing “I love you” you had ever been. The act itself perhaps far louder than any words could be.

Sitting back, he patted between his legs like he had in the car. As you sat, he undid the buttons down the back of your dress. Why were so many women’s clothing items made in a way that required two people?

In the mirror above the dresser you took in the sight. When the dress fell to your waist he kissed your shoulder and met you in the reflection.

“Quite a pretty couple, if I do say so myself.” He rested his chin where he had just kissed and smiled at you. “What did I do to deserve your attention?”

“Affection,” you corrected. “Aubrey got attention.” He nodded slightly. “I think it’s karma.” You watched his brow arch. “You’ve earned me. Whatever that means, or looks like. We were put together for a reason.”

It was the sappiest thing you’d ever said and a year ago you’d have laughed in someone’s face for saying it. If a character in a novel spewed it out in a confession you’d have closed the book. But you meant it. Every single word was part of the fact this was supposed to happen. The idea that any timeline existed where your paths never crossed gave you the shivers.

Alastor closed his eyes, exhaustion catching up quickly as comfort opened the door for it. That didn’t make any sense to him at all. Why would anyone, god or the devil, give him something good just for the sake of being a good thing. He was very plainly bad. There must be a catch. That fear he felt before, the fear of wanting something too much, reappeared. Turning its ugly head to him as if called by name. 

Why? He could feel something, someone, setting their sights on him. 

When he opened his eyes, you were there still, looking at him. A smile too sweet. He felt the compulsion to tell you to run. That if this was his karma, it would end the way he deserved. And he didn’t deserve happiness. He didn’t deserve you.

But instead he leaned down, lifted your dress, and unclamped your garters. He wanted to be selfish. He wanted to cling to what good he had now. Even knowing he couldn’t possibly get to keep it. His fingertips delighted in rolling down the delicate nylon. He watched the red stained end loosen around your toes, a mental note to burn them before he continued his undressing.

“Lift your hips, my love. I’ll get you all ready for bed.” As he pressed forward and bent into you so he could slip off the stockings he turned to look at the you in front of him, “And I’ll keep you warm.”

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆Masterlist.ೃ࿔*:･

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

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[skywalkr-nberrie]

Calling Anakin “manipulative” or “creepy” for his lines in AOTC is actually crazy to me, because George Lucas didn’t say he based their romance off the early 30’s soap opera style movies, for y’all to lose the point this hard. The inspirations he drew for Anakin and Padmé’s love story are naturally more enhanced in theatrics, are dramatically crafted, and purposefully performative. What did you expect? A post-modern style cringe love story?

Haters with these opinions are the kind of weirdos who make fun of and have 0 appreciation for classical stories like Shakespearean, Roman, and Greek tragedies. Offering up a lot of bad takes without ever truly grasping the essence of what these above mentioned stories are all about and they think they’re real smart.

Anakin saying “I’m haunted by the kiss, that you should’ve never have given me.” isn’t him blaming Padmé for kissing him or letting him kiss her. What he’s saying is that he can’t ever come back from repressing his emotions and feelings about her because now he’s had a taste of what it feels like to BE WITH HER. He’s confessing his undying love for her, and his intentions isn’t the manipulate her or make her feel “guilty” for “leading him on”. And if it translated that way to you, than I’d argue, that that’s more concerning. Btw, Padmé herself was in awe of when Anakin said this to her.

Not to mention that Anakin DREW BACK from pursuing Padmé, because he understood that she wasn’t going to oblige whether it would’ve been because she didn’t want too out of duty or if it was something else. Anakin doesn’t bring it up again until Padmé herself does. Basically admitting that she can’t live without him anymore, and she’s been dying a little everyday pretending like she simply go back to her duties and forget him.

And calling Anakin “immature” for his feelings and the way he talks to Padmé is also a severely incorrect way to consume their love story and not because Padmé completely is swooned by Anakin’s words, but because the narrative itself makes it clear that Anakin is very self aware of what his feelings are and his words come naturally to him. He’s not speaking out of immature, irrational, and brainless hormonal nonsense. He’s calm, collected, and simply expressing his yearning and longing for the girl he’s loved for 10 years. Never at any point are we supposed to think of him as “immature” especially not in that moment either. Padmé even makes note of it in the AOTC novel, that there’s “nothing of a child left in him” and that’s he’s now, completely a man. (That’s no hint that Anakin was behaving “imMaTuReLy”)

[galedekarios]

more gale & tara epilogue stuff

tara's epilogue conversation is so extremely devastating if gale sacrificed himself. since i can't bring myself to play it, i thought i'd look at it in the files and share what i find here.

tara can be found at camp and this is how the conversation with the player begins:

Tara the Tressym: Oh, hello, darling. I was hoping to see you. Withers informed me about this little get-together and I thought I'd show my whiskers.devnote Tara the Tressym: I can almost feel Gale here. Among his friends - in you. Some part of him remains, doesn't it? devnote: Gale has died so she's very sad and nostalgic.

this devnote is repeated for almost every line for tara in this convo.

from here, the player has various options to reply. i'll be going through them in order.

the first is one where the player points out the magically conjured image of himself that gale left behind in case of his permanent death:

Player: Well, his magical ghost is still here, if that's what you mean. Tara the Tressym: That thing's no more than a shadow of the real man. A nonsense. Though it captures some of his more insufferable qualities...

the second option is the player saying that they are feeling something similar, a presence that reminds them of gale:

Player: It does, Tara. I can feel his presence too. Tara the Tressym: A crackling in the air, isn't it? That flair of magic and mischief.

despite the tragedy of it all, i do love tara describing gale's presence as 'that flair of magic and mischief'. it's so very sweet and sad, especially remembering just long she's known him.

perhaps here she remembers the boy who accidentally set the rose bush on fire and cried, just as elminster does. or perhaps the boy who summoned a magma mephit, causing chaos, but also making a lifelong friend.

the third option is to tell tara that you miss gale, too, and this honestly made me tear up:

Player: I miss him too, Tara. Tara the Tressym: That's good. We should miss him. He was such a lovely fellow. Proud as a peacock, but... my little love. Tara the Tressym: Oh, what I wouldn't give to snuggle up on his lap one more time. Just once would do. Player: Would a fuss from me make you feel better?

"He was such a lovely fellow. Proud as a peacock, but... my little love."

PROUD AS A PEACOCK BUT... MY LITTLE LOVE

M Y L I T T L E L O V E

this is obviously completely fine so i'll continue with the fourth option:

Player: You can snuggle up in my lap later, if you like. Tara the Tressym: Oh, I couldn't possibly... unless... well, perhaps it's not a terrible idea. Gale would be quite pleased to know we've made friends, wouldn't he?

it's clear that tara needs some comfort. despite her stiff upper lip approach to most news devastating to her and the thin veneer of control she puts on here.

the fifth option is expressing that you know how she feels:

Player: I know how you feel. Tara the Tressym: Ah, to lose the one you love the most. What a terrible thing.

the sixth option is rather callous and tara's response to it once again heartbreaking:

Player: Alas, you can't. Tara the Tressym: No. Not in this life, at least.

the last option again shows tara's true grief at what happened:

Player: He's gone. We have to accept that. Tara the Tressym: I suppose we do. But I certainly wish we didn't.

most of these different options lead to the end of the conversation with tara, where she invites the player to visit her and morena in waterdeep:

Tara the Tressym: Perhaps you'd be willing to come meet Gale's mother, some time? She misses him so - and I know it would do her heart a world of good to discuss her son with someone who knew him as he was.

again, the player has various choices to either accept or refuse her invitation. i won't go through them all and you can read for yourself in the screenshot i provided. but i do want to look at these two options here:

Tara the Tressym: Perhaps you'd be willing to come meet Gale's mother, some time? She misses him so - and I know it would do her heart a world of good to discuss her son with someone who knew him as he was. Player: I'd love to, but I'm leaving Faerûn after tonight. Tara the Tressym: Well if you ever come back do look us up in Waterdeep. Surname 'Dekarios'. I'd enjoy the chance to reminisce about the good man we knew.

i'm once more reminded of that one line in elminster's letter and i feel so sad for morena:

Does he live within his mother’s ageing heart, weeping for those roses? 

2.

Player: I'll consider it. Tara the Tressym: See that you do. We'd love to have you. Things have been rather quiet without himself cluttering up the place.

which made me think about gale's line that his tower has never been so free of clutter ever since he had to deal with his condition.

anyhow, i hope this was interesting to some of you!

[dyns33]

Rafiq alruwh

I'm not sure yet if this will be a Bane x reader oneshot or not.

I like it like that, but I could find ideas for part 2. My only problem being that I still need to finish others Tom Hardy's characters story, while wanting to write Feyd Rautha stories.

As much as Y/N listened to these stories over and over again, she couldn't imagine the feeling everyone would describe.

The moment your skin touched your soulmate's skin, and suddenly everything became clear, better. A feeling of joy and the burning need to stay by this person's side forever.

It was a rare phenomenon that scientists could not explain. It was completely impossible to know when this would happen, or if it would happen, because fate seemed cruel. Most people either didn't have soulmates or didn't have the chance to meet them in their lifetime. The world was too big and time too short.

There were still skeptics, who claimed that it was all nonsense, lies, invented by people blinded by love or who wanted to give themselves a certain gender. Only those who ended up meeting the person changed their mind, the others remaining too jealous to accept the truth, considering that it was only a romantic utopia.

Y/N wanted to believe in it. She dreamed of meeting her soulmate and experiencing this special moment.

Her parents were not meant to be together. It was visible.

In her entourage, she had an uncle who had had this experience, a few neighbors, a friend, and all had said the same thing.

What they had in common was that they were all good people. Maybe that was one of the reasons.

“You might have had to choose another type of profession then.”

"Mom…"

“I’m just saying that cop is not the most popular job in the world.”

"And I would say that choosing to be a non-corrupt police officer in Gotham is almost like being a saint."

"You'll end up getting killed, long before you meet your soulmate. I'll never understand why you wanted to be a cop, especially in this town."

There came a day when her mother's fears almost became a reality. The day when terrorists took the entire city hostage with a bomb, preventing everyone from entering and leaving.

It was probably not what she had thought when she talked about dying, but for several months, hidden with her colleagues, Y/N thought about her soulmate, trying to imagine this meeting that would probably never happen.

Staying mainly with Blake and Gordon, she tried to hide her pain, but it did not escape Miranda Tate, who took her hand with a gentle smile and asked what was tormenting her.

“We’re going to die here.” Y/N whispered. "I mean, I'm not afraid of that, that's the risk of the job. But… I didn't think it would be like this now. I wish I had met my soulmate before."

"Your rafiq alruwh. I didn't think many people cared about it here."

"My what ?"

"That's how my father called soulmates. I grew up with a lot of stories about it, because he and my mother were related. I prayed a lot to be that for one of my friends, but no. Our destinies are linked, but not like that.”

"Sorry."

"Even if I would have liked him to be mine, I wish him happiness and that he meets his other half one day. A being worthy of him, of his love and his protection. He deserves to be happy. You too, you seem kind. Maybe you shouldn't have been here."

Her words were strange, but Y/N didn’t tell the others. It wouldn't have changed anything anyway. Even though she had discovered that Miranda Tate had the detonator, that she was the real leader of the terrorists, the streets remained controlled by the militias.

As always, they were saved by the Batman. She had never really known what to think of the vigilante, protected by Gordon and hated by everyone else. He clearly wanted to help Gotham, but his methods remained illegal, and not necessarily effective in the long term.

His death was a tragedy, but not necessarily the end of a symbol. Hope was still there, even stronger, and the Gotham police were determined to ensure everyone's safety.

Y/N felt this determination too.

Still, she froze as she inspected the sewers with Blake and Ramirez. They too had a moment of hesitation, as their lamps illuminated a body. A huge body, sitting against the wall, face hidden by this frightening mask.

There had been a search for Bane and his men after the explosion. Witnesses said the Batman fought him, and won, but they found nothing.

Obviously, the terrorist had managed to drag himself here to die.

"What do we do ?" Ramirez asked shyly. “Should we put a bullet in his head ?”

"What ? Why do you want to do this ?"

"To make sure he's dead. I've seen a lot of movies, man, I know the mistakes to avoid."

She didn't approve of the speech, but Y/N agreed, it was necessary to check it out.

Feeling almost stupid, she moved forward slowly, her hand reaching towards Bane to see if he felt a pulse.

She didn't expect the large hand that quickly grabbed her neck before she could touch him.

Fear paralyzed her body, and yet there was something else. An indescribable, incredible feeling, which resembled happiness but more intense, which was absurd in this situation.

Y/N felt so lost that she didn't realize the hand was relaxing, just resting against her skin instead of squeezing and snapping her neck like it easily could have done.

"Habibi…" was the word spoken with difficulty by Bane, who stared at her with an indecipherable expression.

“Let her go right now, you bastard !”

Maybe he was as confused as her, or maybe he was too weak, but the terrorist didn't avoid Ramirez's punch, while Blake grabbed Y/N to pull her as far away as possible.

She stood still, not understanding what was happening, as Ramirez called for reinforcements, proud of having been able to knock out the giant, even though he knew as well as anyone that he would have had no chance. if his mask hadn't been damaged and he wasn't half dead. It was not possible.

Bane couldn't be her soulmate, Y/N refused to believe it. A man like him had no soul, not after everything he had done, and above all why would he be destined for her ? She didn't feel like she had committed a crime that deserved such punishment.

She was probably never going to see him again anyway.

If he survived to Blackgate, he would be locked there forever. Even if she had permission, she had no intention of visiting him.

But the feeling remained there, strong, impossible to ignore, demanding more. An incomprehensible need to be close to the one who had touched her, so that he would touch her again.

Y/N resisted. She gave her report to Commissioner Gordon, forgetting a few small details, and indicating that she did not wish to follow this case, leaving Bane's case to better agents than her.

This seemed to surprise him, as he considered her one of his best people, but he accepted.

However, it was impossible not to think of her soulmate, since the whole town was only talking about him and his arrest. The television was on loop every day, and her colleagues thought they were doing the right thing by keeping her informed of progress.

"They say his face is horrible. I think there are photos in the file."

"I'd love to see that ! I can't imagine that fucker at all without his weird mask. Do you think he has a normal voice without that thing ?"

“I can go get it so we check.”

Ramirez's gaze met hers as he stood, and without her needing to speak, he knew it was best for him to sit back down and change the subject.

Y/N didn’t see the photos. She absolutely didn't want to.

After several weeks, she asked to take a vacation, claiming to still be traumatized by what had happened to her, in addition to the near destruction of Gotham. She needed some time to rest.

Turning off all the screens and her phone, she tried meditation to clear her mind, so she could get some sleep and forget that her soulmate was a crazy, half-dead terrorist who would soon be judged.

This miserable attempt being a failure, she turned her phone back on shortly after midnight, only to be bombarded with calls and messages, coming from several colleagues, Blake, and Gordon.

"What is happening ?" she asked, calling the Commissioner back.

"Damn, I almost sent men to check on you, you weren't responding ! Where are you ? Are you okay ?"

“I’m at home, why ?”

"Don't panic. Blake will come get you."

“Gordon, what’s going on ?”

"He hasn't said anything since his arrest, keeping very quiet, and then yesterday Bane spoke. He asked to see you, giving your name. The other agents are categorical, it's impossible that he knows ot, no one told him. The agent simply replied that you were not on the investigation, and even on vacation… Damn, he…"

“Gordon, what ?”

"He escaped, Y/N. We don't know how. No one knows where he is, or what he's going to do. But since he talked about you, I don't want to take any risks. Don't move, John will come right away."

She could have told him that she knew very well why Bane had spoken about her, and that it was undoubtedly necessary for her to leave without delay, but fear held her back.

Even if it wasn't her fault, what would the commissioner think when he learned of her connection to the fugitive ? He was a good man, but all men had their limits, and she would be the first to be wary of someone designated as Bane's soulmate.

After hanging up, she jumped out of bed to grab her gun and shoes, ready to wait for Blake to arrive in her living room.

Y/N froze in the middle of the hallway, seeing the huge figure standing between her and the front door.

His face was covered by a scarf, his posture a little less proud than in the videos she had seen of him during his city hostage situation, he appeared to be in pain, but it was obvious that if she tried to pass, he would retain her without the slightest difficulty.

“Habibi.” he whispered, and indeed his voice was different without his mask, more human. "What a joy to see you again. More beautiful than I remember or on pictures. Will you come with us without resistance ? I don't want to hurt you."

"Hands in the air." she replied, pointing her gun at him, ignoring the urge to hug him. “Don’t move, my colleagues are coming.”

"I admire your sense of duty and honor, Habibi. But I will not return to prison, ever again. And I will not leave you either. I thought of you every day. Is your neck healed ? I need to repair my wrongs to you.”

“I said, put your hands in the air.”

“So you leave us no choice, Habibi.” he sighed, looking behind her.

We. He said we, and someone gave him her name. Y/N reacted too late, one man grabbing her gun, and the other not holding her shoulder, injecting something into her neck with a syringe.

In an instant, she found herself on the ground, her vision blurring, but her body not panicking, as it was invaded by an incredible sensation. Bane had reached out to hug her, his eyes smiling as he ran a hand over her cheek.

"It's okay. I'm taking you home, rafiq alruwh."

All her life, Y/N had waited for this moment, this feeling, this sentence. She told herself that the stories we said to children were really stupid, as her eyes closed.

[bengiyo]

Wandee Goodday Ep 3 Stray Thoughts

Last week, Wandee wasn't feeling great after he was forced to call out Ter for trying to gaslight him about his feelings. Yoryak happened to see that and later rescued Wandee from Rain's (LITA) kidnapper and taking him home. Yoryak is managing his own sting at being rejected by Taem, but learned from her perspective to help Wandee. Our leads began their FWB arrangement and got to have fun with costumes (and some help from Kao) and rimming jokes. They set some rules that I expect Wandee to violate immediately. Cher and Oyei continued to be a great team.

Finally, after ten years of this, we finally acknowledge the most reliable act that two gay men can engage in with each other. They were having fun and joking with it! My Stand In, have several seats.

Curious about Yoryak's parents. Seems like there's a tragedy there.

Love that all the friends clocked the necklace on both ends and immediately called it out. Yoryak got roasted by his brother and not-in-law and I laughed so hard.

Kao does not believe the lies Wandee is telling himself.

Why are we spending time on hetero nonsense?

Not these two dancing around how much they're into each other.

I really love the team that Oyei and Cher have become before we met them. I love that Cher is helping Oyei balance these burdens he's taken on and is able to navigate his pride.

I think it's really important that the show gave us time with Wandee doing total care for a sick child and his mom, giving both of them what they needed in a serious situation.

Truly, someone please explain to these. Headed that Ter ain't gonna fuck them either!

Kao! Lie better! It really be your own hoes letting you down.

I'm interested in this boxing-based homophobia Yak has to manage and I wonder if Oyei being with Cher is the reason we haven't seen their dad.

I really love the way Oyei respects the physical limits of his boxers while being real with them about the obstacles they're facing and why they're pushing.

The fact that Yoryak hasn't taken the necklace back even though he's frustrated with Wandee says a lot. The show is using that detail well.

See, this is good writing. We used the seriousness of Oyei and Cher's relationship and their real worries about the gym to make this play from Wandee land properly. They also know that Wandee is the guy he's seeing so they're probably less concerned since they can supervise.

I'm so amped about this fight. I had hoped we'd have an excuse for Yoryak and Oyei to fight. We even get Cher holding his phone in the gayest way possible.

Oyei said he was not letting Cher go home and kicked his brother's ass.

Look at Wandee playing these fucking games. I am obsessed.

I love the no kiss rule and how badly Yoryak wants to break it. In another show I might be feeling things about the closet, but the fact that Yak has wanted to kiss for two episodes makes me trust the show.

I appreciate that despite how desperate he is, Wandee stopped when he reached a hard no.

Wandee completely misunderstood that Yoryak is a simp. All he had to do was be genuinely pathetic and he folded instantly. That's worked in literally episode.

I really hope Wandee appreciates that Yoryak is coming out to help him.

Thinking about that pasta they made in I Only Want to See You.

"You already experienced a bigger bite."

Okay, I love them ending on some soft affection before they fuck off screen.

Cannot overstate how important it is to me that we ended the last episode on Wandee telling Yoryak he needed to pay more attention to his dick and then opening on an enthusiastic 69. This episode was excellent, and I loved how well all of the moments worked with the major issue of the episode. I really love when episodic media feels episodic and I am eating good with this show. I love that for three episodes these two progress any time Wandee is sober and honest with Yoryak.

[hyloblates-blog-blog]

making a poll to settle a debate

reblog to make this reach further, if you'd be so kind. im genuinely interested to see the communities take on this

propaganda under the cut

option 1:

the way its phrased here feels like its 1:1, to me. in a way they're like ghosts, or zombies. they're this shambling mound of craft energy, taking the form of their souls grief.

option 2 (these are not my beliefs, this is my friends point):

1) if sadnesses were made based on the death of an individual person, wouldnt almost every sadness be called "regicide" or something? since the king is directly responsible for most of their deaths?

2) nothing in odile's inspect there actually means that it's one to one. either she's talking about this sadness in particular, and the "remnants of people defeated by the king" means that it's multiple people, or she's talking about sadnesses in general and that dialogue gives no evidence either way.

3) it feels weird to me for a single person's final moments to create something as vague as an "anxiete".

4) sadnesses are more interesting narratively if they represent more general societal ills.

5) we get to see what it's like when a single person turns into a sadness and its WAY different. mal du pays is super fucking weird and acts completely differently to every other sadness. bigfrin is like. arguably a sadness. and since it was made from one guy its like way different. its a one guy sadness so it's wildly different from other sadnesses. bigfrin/mal du pays both retain a certain almost if not all of their consiousness. (note: there's no official word on whether or not mal du pays is a sadness, and any weirdness of MDP/bigfrin can be chalked up to wishcraft nonsense or adrienne liking it when things are allowed to happen in a story.)

[hamliet]

Less of a question but I was never an avid manga reader till 2019 and mha was the first manga I kept track of weekly, and I read Tokyo ghoul after it ended, and seeing everyone be dissatisfied with how Tokyo ghoul ended after keeping up weekly is something I’m reminded of after seeing the latest chapter of mha. So this is what it feels like to witness 6 years of a character you hold in high regard be undermined(to put it lightly). I’m rather sad, but I can’t help but feel fondness for shigaraki even if the way he ended wasn’t satisfying, how do u feel about how mha has gone?

Yeah it does feel very reminiscent of Tokyo Ghoul in that they just went "ah yes, killing the right people is actually how we solve world issues." Which I find morally reprehensible, but also genuinely bad writing because the story as a whole doesn't support this message.

@linkspooky explained in her meta yesterday why Deku has completely failed as a character, and why the manga has failed thematically as a story. I'm just gonna say I completely agree with Link.

To be fair, I'm not sure Shigaraki is dead dead, but either way, it's bad writing and it doesn't conclude his arc with any sort of satisfactory element. Like, why would Shigaraki see Deku as different than anyone else who tried to punch him? That's nonsensical and written from the POV of an audience, not from Shigaraki's POV. It's like in Star Wars when Rey calls herself "Rey Skywalker" when she knew Luke for 3 days and none of the people she was actually close to (Leia, Han, Ben) were Skywalkers. That's writing for the audience, with their perspective, ignoring the logic of your story. It defies believability because the character does not have that perspective. It's "forced" because the audience can see the hand of the author.

If Shigaraki is dead dead... Not gonna Star Wars this one again, but since I also hated the ending of The Rise of Skywalker, I must make a comparison. The idea that Deku may have saved Shigaraki's heart but couldn't save his body (which to be honest, nothing in the actual chapter supports, but if he stays dead might be the argument) is still bad writing. Why? Because to Shigaraki didn't even make the decision himself. He didn't sacrifice anything. How can his heart be saved if he had nothing to do with it? Saving an object is easy as pie. Saving a person is different, and that's what the whole story has been about. Like, in TROS, Kylo Ren gave his life for Rey! Was it stupid? Yes! But at least his "saved heart" did something. Shigaraki's saved heart did what exactly?

So then, is the message that Deku failed? Then why isn't it framed as a failure? Why was BNHA never set up to be a grimdark tragedy? If he failed, then shouldn't he have a miserable ending? Unless it's "heroes always become bad guys and life is unfair," but then shouldn't Deku be framed critically?

Basically, Horikoshi can't come back writing-wise from this in BNHA, and it's sad to see.

Horikoshi's biggest flaw throughout the entire story was that he kept flip-flopping on what he wanted to say, and made the characters more about his trying to please every single fan than about being, well, characters to explore important questions he has that are worthwhile. And you can do this while still having a "cool" factor!

Instead the characters tell us one thing while cocooning Deku in the sweet bliss that no one ever has on this earth--being 100% right all the time. And it's sad, because BNHA had so much potential as a story to challenge its audience and entertain too.

I thought even if it flopped in some aspects it'd at least get this right. It's disappointing.

Anyways every day that goes by I want to send Isayama and his editors flowers for actually writing a thematically coherent ending, even if some aspects were dropped or messy along the way.

[blueiight]

can i ask your thoughts on the fandom’s heavy focus on louis as an object of desire? it sometimes feels to me like people are more interested in other characters reacting to louis than they are in louis himself. i know the “helen of troy” stuff is a joke but it genuinely seems like he’s often rendered oddly passive in his desirability, like we’re looking at him through the eyes of the other characters even though it’s his story (to be clear: in the fandom, not the actual show). or am i being uncharitable? either way, you always have interesting things to say about fandom reception.

i think the focus of louis as an object of desire arose largely in response to a lot of racially-charged nonsense about show louis, namely, where a loud minority of fans tried to deny the abuse and horror of season 1 and frame louis as the primary antagonist/abuser of his own story. which in of itself had the potential to go somewhere, especially considering the feminized role louis occupies in parts of season 1. unfortunately its spiraled off into its own dead end at this point to where now people, a year and a half removed from the release of s1, can box louis's character arc into this tale of getting all the hot boys to look her way. when this is a horror and tragedy series. romance is part of that, but is a piece of the full picture. classic romance is very much horror tbh but thats just me

if we're discussing the show strictly, majority of louis's relationships are antagonistic. even with his lovers, they love him as much as they seek to control him. 'his love is a small box that he keeps you in', trailer louis saying 'i knew who i was without those pieces [of myself?]' . so on and so forth. the first three episodes of season 1 are about louis's struggle to maintain a link with his mortal community, in the midst of increasing racist tensions against the city leaders, all as he struggles to come to terms with his existence as a vampire and how his relationship to lestat fits in relation to all these pieces of himself. doubly so, there is also the nature of the second interview in present time, and the sort of antagonism between daniel + louis as louis eventually pushes daniel into burning the old tape. the latter half of season 1, episodes 4-7 is squarely about the triad of lestat, louis, and claudia, how lestat increasingly tightens his hold over them both, claudia breaking them free of it, and louis's response to such. doubly so, daniel becomes more hostile the less he knows, and the more louis's composed 'master of his instincts' personage collapses to show the broken man thats underneath. armand comes in at the end bc the interview has reached a breaking point once more [as it did in the 1970s]. i know, im looking too hard into the meme, but so much of where louis errs, where his memory falters, where history is completely revised, has to do with the question of claudia. even book interview foundationally was about this grief, though not nearly with the level of depth+ gravity the show has added to the story.

where focusing on louis as an 'object of desire' most impedes analysis has to do with claudia as well, bc if u see louis as that solely, then what is claudia to u if not a 'child interfering in [louis's] romantic affairs'? why are people already seeking to write claudia off as a wayward child unduly 'taking out her anger on louis', when it was louis at the end of season 1 who strangled her against the wall and refused to let her burn lestat? when its louis in the trailer thats throwing claudia's words from season 1 back at her, evading her questions in the cafe? when claudia is having to dress as a baby doll and advertise with a sandwich board for a theater + a coven-master that all want her dead?

i think this is by nature of the fact that iwtv is canonly gay and isnt afraid of showing that, and modern fandom is mainly interested in romance. claudia's relationship to louis is secondary, if not tertiary, to all 'camps' of this tiny tiny fandom bc she is clearly established in s1 as not being a viable romantic option for louis, despite claudia's perspective and her story taking up the second half of the first season, and will continue to be important in the second season. the 'helen of troy' fixation on his desirability in relation to romantically viable vampires [or even men] seems to be another means by which fans can ignore this part of the story, just as the mutual abuse nonsense about louis being clarence thomas the third self hating black man who stole lestat's lunchables and is 'just as bad as the rest' drowned out and continues to drown out any other conversation for the past year and a half. it is very difficult to have conversations on this character precisely bc of this state of fandom, where many people seek to crack the whip over a fictional character for not being mother teresa and having a complex response to trauma, then instead of discussing that, some seek to fixate on the fact that mother teresa can be sexy, actually. when thats not the point. why is modern louis so full of grief and all but suicidal in dubai, if not for the fact that claudia is permanently dead, he still lives, he regrets something, and wants to find the truth under it all? the jokes are cute and all, but lets put our thinking caps on.

[violent-viscera]

I only went through some of your well-put posts so far. But it's very refreshing to see a fellow fan of Vi and Jinx's sisterly relationship who isn't into 'Jinx is a silly chaotic poor gremlin who absolutely did NOTHING WRONG!!!! She's totally excused because she's sick!!', or 'Vi wasn't a good sister for Jinx, she contributed into creating Jinx as a monster who she is now!! Silco was a better family for her because he fully accepted her unlike Vi'.

Also now that season 2 trailers have come out and even though we don't have a full context yet, 'fuck Jinx, she doesn't deserve Vi's love and Vi's gonna choose Caitlyn over her. Hope she dies!!'. Like, there's nothing in between 😭

Feels like Vi & Jinx fans like me can't catch a break these days. So, thanks for your sisters-supporting blog and posts. Hopefully we get some wholesome moments of them this season despite possibly upcoming heartbreaking scenes. Hope this ask isn't so random, haha.

Okay first of all, I am so sorry LOL I haven’t really been active lately and I also haven’t checked my asks in forever so that’s my bad—sorry, anon 😭

Also, I am so glad someone feels the same way I do!

I honestly feel like nuances, moral grey area, pragmatism, and media literacy is ignored in this fandom? I was a little disappointed because this show is about ALL those things and yet the fans ignore that no character is completely amoral or moral. And quite honestly, even human beings aren’t like that. The whole reason this show is so interesting is because it gathers a well-rounded perspective into how politics, impoverishment, and circumstances can create different kinds of people; trauma can propel people into action or inaction.

I was really hoping the community would be a little more realistic and fair towards both sisters but I was super bummed to see the fanatic Jinx fans that completely disregard her murders, crimes, and bloodshed which often accompanies a violent hatred of Vi. And although it is a FAR smaller majority, diehard Vi fans don’t seem to like Jinx either. But in reality, it’s the absolute tragedy of their relationship which is the most interesting facet of the show in my opinion.

I have also mentioned this in earlier posts too, but I have a lot of romance fatigue in media as well so I think maybe that’s why I am so locked in and invested in this sisterly bond. I am such a sucker for familial backstories so the Vi-Jinx/Powder story is my bread and butter.

Anyway, sorry, I’ve rambled a lot but I really appreciate this input and I’m glad my nonsense musings have resonated with someone!

It’s not random at all and I love ranting about my hyperfixations so thank you again!

[txttletale]

I was a member of a trotskyist organization for about a year, before I left due to life circumstances. I was a left-liberal before, and this group radicalized me. they were staunchly anti-ml, anti-anarchist, and i have been considering the org as perhaps not quite so good, especially since i find myself agreeing with all that you have to say. if it contributes to having a nice time on the computer, i would like to hear your criticisms of trotskyism and/or modern trotskyist orgs?

alright so i have a few different critiques of trotskyism and trotskyists--both theoretical and practical. the primary theoretical critique i have based on trotsky's own writings is that the idea of 'permanent revolution' is completely idealistic nonsense. it rests on incorrect assertions that marx & engels made about the global nature of socialist revolution--assertions that were already visibly incorrect when trotsky was pushing the theory of permanent revolution, not just with the benefit of hindsight. ironically, a lot of the things about the USSR that trotskyists love to criticise the most (the process of collectivization, socialist adventurist interventions) are things that trotsky was the fiercest advocate of all for!

i also think in practice a lot of trotskyite organizations in the imperial core--having defined themselves in huge part by their opposition to the USSR--have historically served as useful stooges for imperialist interests. whether they like it or not, the more energy they dedicate to their public and vocal criticisms (however correct, mind!) of socialist states, the more amenable and compatible and non-threatening their positions become to imperialist hegemony. this is (imo) even sillier in the present day, after the tragic¹ dissolution of the USSR; trotskyite tendencies are positioning themselves against something which no longer functionally exists as a global political force. relitigating the Evils of Stalinism (as a matter of political line and not as a productive conversation about what modern socialist movements can learn from the failures of the USSR) seventy years after the fact is a political project founded on shadowboxing.

finally, in my personal experience, i have found that trotskyist orgs are much more sectarian and unwilling to work or communicate cross-tendency than anarchist or ML orgs. again--this is partially because a lot of 'trotskyism', especially in the modern day, has less to do with anything that trotsky wrote or did and more to do with performative rejection of the USSR (which, i cannot stress enough, no longer exists!). but like, i've seen more ML-anarchist cooperation in actual organizing on the ground than i've seen trotskyist cooperation with either of those tendencies. a lot of the major ones i've had any experience with also tend to have longstanding and entrenched organizational issues.

tldr: permanent revolution is a silly idea, trotskyist orgs have tended to align with imperialist foreign policy, modern trotskyist orgs tend to be hypersectarian newspaper sale platforms with entrenched leadership issues

¹ i'm still planning to make a full post about this at some point but you do not have to be a late Soviet apologist or a marxist-leninist or even a socialist to recognise that the collapse of the USSR and the resulting period of shock therapy caused mass amounts of human suffering and tragedy btw.

[virtualcarrot]

Ok, I need to get this off my chest because it's a double standard in terms of character analysis that has been bugging me.

The general zeitgeist in the Naruto fandom (afaik) is:

Obito was a misunderstood and wounded tragic figure who caused mass destruction out of understandable trauma

Hiruzen was a despicable neglectful ruler who let Konoha's orphans fend for themselves and ordered the gratuitous slaughter of a whole clan

One caused the definitive death of hundreds of thousands of people in the search of an ideal

The other caused an unspecified but lesser amount of deaths in hope of a greater good

Both are definitely questionable.

Hiruzen is a former teen soldier burnt out by war, which made him weak-willed and unwilling to take moral stances out of fear of the risks incurred. His compromising lead to Hyuga Hizashi's sacrifice, and there were probably better ways of dealing with the coup the Uchiha were planning than killing them all (but make no mistake there definitely was a coup, the Uchiha massacre wasn't undertaken for the lolz). He's also left Danzo and Orochimaru running around doing their nonsense, which, really my dude? Really? Come on.

So yeah, not your garden variety nice old grandpa after all.

For his part, Obito was a child in great pain groomed by a completely unhinged demigod of a man into an adult of great resentment. Between the Kyubi attack, the Uchiha massacre, the Akatsuki's actions and the Ninja War, he caused numerous deaths and destruction. And I mean numerous. The death toll of the shinobi war is something I really don't see discussed enough, which is probably why it gets so easily swept aside in the face of his own personal tragedy.

And it baffles me, the hostility with which people will talk about Hiruzen in their very serious metas and his place in the Uchiha massacre like it's some form of hate-prompted slaughter he orchestrated and not a (bloody and questionable) reaction to an opposing political force trying to take over Konoha. While comparatively being so apologetic of Obito's actions who very much participated to that same massacre.

It's a strange thing, to criticize the shinobi system and yet refuse to acknowledge that this very system has a hold on everyone, not just singled out faves.

I don't particularly like Hiruzen. As a fanfic writer, he has his place and uses to me because of his own ties to the characters I'm interested in writing about. But he's not likeable to me.

I don't really like Obito either, but I'll also admit part of that dislike would be more neutral if he wasn't key player in my most hated arc of Naruto, and if fandom was more normal about him, so that's on me.

I just think it's kind of a shame to make one character some sort of scapegoat, and another a tragic antihero failed by the system, and deny the connections between them all, and the fact they were all, ultimately, failed by that system. We lose nuance there, which is sad because nuance is where analysis flourishes.

(And also this is how you get people calling the Uchiha massacre a genocide and my dudes I am trying very hard not to fandom wank, but you guys are terrible for my blood pressure)

[kov-nyn]

I was thinking about Clone Wars modern AU nonsense and how it's hard to incorporate too many clone characters without either leaning into the idea that they're just a huge, close-knit family who all look remarkably alike, or just pretending they're a bunch of unrelated characters and ignoring the fact that they all look practically identical. Like, as if you completely recast a TV show with Star Wars characters and 90% of them were clones.

That's when a thought struck me: CLONE THEATER.

Say the clones learned about movies and plays and stuff, but it's difficult for them to get access to media because of Bullshit Rules. So they carefully hide and share what little bits of it they can get their hands on until eventually they decide "Hey, why don't we make our own fucking plays and movies and shit?"

There's downtime during hyperspace travel, and these boys don't like to sit idly. They write and cast and perform stories themselves to entertain and occupy themselves. Sometimes they film them with helmet cams and different battalions trade their films with each other.

Production is quality is bottom of the barrel, they have so little material to build sets or do costumes (sometimes the actors just have a piece of flimsi with their character's name taped to their chest but WHATEVER, IT GETS THE JOB DONE) but they make do. Some of the acting and writing is engaging enough that it doesn't even matter.

The content ranges from comedy to tragedy. One company in particular has been doing an increasingly ridiculous episodic soap opera since nearly the start of the war. All kinds of settings and characters, just... they're all played by clones.

[thekingofwinterblog]

If we allready talking bout Naruto:

Thoughts on the infamous Itachi retcon? Think it was planned by the time Itachi was shown to be crying? Or that by the Valley of the End flashback Itachi was "a good guy* or still a more interesting villian that snapped in the most horible way that was human deep down even after all that

It was certainly not the plan back when the entire thing was first shown i can tell you that.

There are only two things pre timeskip, where there was suggested to be anything more than what itachi claimed it to be, and it's 1. that ANBU jacket and outfit he's wearing, and 2. that middle panel on the page above, where Itachi looks just slightly perturbed by Sasuke's question, judging by his lips.

I can believe that Kishimoto had some twist in mind, where it was revealed that elements inside the ANBU put Itachi up to this, and that morphed into Danzo's involvement.

I do not believe for a second, that Itachi was planned as any form of good person. Itachi murdered his entire family, men, women, children except for his brother. He butchered babes in their cribs. He was a monster, who regardless of wheter this was entierly his own idea, or he was offered a chance to do what he'd been planing or considering for a while, he made the choice to take it.

Not only is the entire thing a gigantic pile of nonsensical retcons, all for the purpose of making Itachi look better, but it's a sloppy one at that.

This is how Itachi killed his parents according to the retcon.

It was quick, clean stab in the back, and they were facing the same way, on their knees.

This is how they were killed in the original flashback of this scene.

there was clearly a struggle here, with blood all over the floor, and with his parents bodies splayed out in such a way that it suggests his dad was trying to protect his wife.

Unless Itachi speciffically posed them like that, it's impossible for their bodies to have gotten to this position naturally from how he killed them.

The fact is that Kishimoto didnt know where to go with Sasuke once he killed Itachi... So when he realised that, he decided to retcon his entire backstory to let him go into an entierly different direction, rather than exploring Sasuke in a post Itachi world.

And in the process, he completely rewrote Itachi's personality and character, and instead presented him as the second coming of chritst, as a messiah like figure who could do no wrong, and had only the best intentions.

He wasn't the only one who got this treatment in Naruto's later years either.

Gaara's backstory, as it was originally portrayed was a very tragic tale, that encompassed what the Naruto world was actually about.

This is the world of the Shinobi, a world full of tragedies, and personal sacrifices, hate, love, and the broken children it left in it's wake.

the story of Naruto as it was originally presented, and shown before the pain saga ended at one of the worst turning points in manga history, was the story of the broken children this world left behind. Naruto, Gaara, Sasuke, Pain, Lee, Kakashi, Obito, Zabusa, Hinata, Neji, and on and on and on it went.

This moment, where Gaara's uncle, the one person he thought loved him lays out the truth, is a powerful, tragic moment that showcases the reality of treating children like superpowered nukes.

It destroyed this entire family. It destroyed gaara's mother by taking her life, destroyed his uncle by forcing him to try to love a child he never could, and it destroyed his entire family outside of it, by making the relationship between gaara and his siblings into one fear and hate.

It's very, very poignant. It would be a real shame if it was completely retconned, and his uncle actually only said these things on order from his dad, completely removing the entire point of the scene.

and That is exactly what happened.

I could go on, but the big, big problem with later naruto, is that when confronted with the question of how Naruto would change this brutal, cruel world, rather than have him come up with a real answer, the very fabric of the setting changed.

The 5 hidden villages were united against a cartoonishly evil villain, who used a cartoonish army of cloned henchmen and ressurected zombies. The fact that the problem was always the ninja system itself as it existed, and not the existence of the 5 superpowers and their direct animosity with each other was never adressed, and villains and black and grey figures were suddenly given the white brush, and would make moral heelturns as worst excemplified by Itachi and Orochimaru.

Addmitingly a lot of everything related to the Itachi Retcons started a bit earlier than Pain ressurecting everyone(thus destroying the entire point of the arc, and setting the stage for cheap non deaths from here on), but that only goes to show that while that was the decisive turning point, it began a bit earlier than that.

[sapphire-weapon]

Clive, hush. Not only is it appropriate to give you the title of Mythos, but it’s one that you should’ve reclaimed and taken for yourself. In fact, I don’t know why Ultima even gave you that title. It’s kind of like naming a kid “Roger Stabbington” and then being surprised when he says “ok” and stabs people.

FFXVI had a lot of storytelling problems, but one of the issues that stands out the most is the refusal to explain the whole Mythos/Logos thing. There’s ATL entries about them, sure, but they’re kind of the most barebones, reductive explanations as to why those particular words/titles were chosen for Clive.

It’s time for me to put my “I was raised in an obnoxiously Greek family” hat back on once again and -- just as I did with the Hades II trailer -- break down all of the dumb ancient Greek nonsense being thrown at us in a video game.

“Mythos” isn’t actually a word that’s meant to be used as a title. The word “mythos” in and of itself refers to one of two things, depending on how it’s being used:

1. the compilation of folklore around a particular subject. For example, there’s the very famous myth of Hades and Persephone’s marriage, but there’s a whole mythos around the explanation of why seasons exist, and Demeter’s mourning of the loss of her daughter is only part of that mythos.

2. the plot of an ancient Greek tragedy -- just in general. The mythos of the story should have some sort of reversal (either the story starts off with the protagonist in a good place and ends with them in a bad one, or vice versa), and the intention should be to evoke fear or pity from the audience. Aristotle believed that the most tragic of stories were those involving violence between friends and/or family (and who does that sound like?) -- and, the worse the tragedy, the stronger the mythos.

So, to use the word “mythos” as a title implies that the person holding this title carries with them the legends and stories born from the hearts of mankind -- the “reason” behind mankind’s existence -- and then, through great tragedy, will become a legend in and of themselves.

Yeah, that kinda sounds like Clive, doesn’t it?

Ultima’s a fuckin idiot moron for naming him that and then expecting him to become anything else.

Another fun fact about the word “mythos” and how it relates to Greek tragedies, though:

Greek tragedies were historically performed in worship of Dionysus, who was the god of pleasure and indulgence. So, for Clive to be the human embodiment of Mythos, that means that his very existence serves the purpose of exalting carnal pleasure.

Clive Rosfield is actually, literally just personified sex appeal. He, himself is not a walking libido, per se -- but he’s meant to inspire that in everyone around him.

And he kind of does, considering how many characters in-game want to polish his knob.

Anyway. We’re getting off track I WANT HIM TO GIVE ME SADDLE SORES THAT LAST AT LEAST THREE DAYS

The word “logos” is also not meant to be a title -- and, to be completely honest, I don’t feel like it works the way that the devs wanted it to work. Like, it’s fine. It’s serviceable. But it doesn’t exactly fit what Clive becomes the way that Mythos does.

A more modern interpretation of what the word “logos” means would probably be The Discourse(TM). Logos is the use of logic and reason to explain the nature of the world and mankind’s role in it. Aristotle basically thought of logos as being the thing that sets humans apart from animals -- it’s our sense of self and our ability to think objectively enough to create an actual moral compass.

So, basically, by calling Clive “Logos” Ultima’s just saying he’s attained free will and learned to think rationally on his own -- but that’s also a very basic bitch way of thinking about logos as a concept.

And it’s not as clean of a fit for him as Mythos is, considering that it wasn’t exactly Clive’s sense of self that got him to where he was (he spends like 85% of the game wondering what his purpose is), nor did his attainment of power have anything to do with rational, logical thinking. In fact, the game even goes out of its way to say that Clive is being held up by the faith of those who believe in him, which, I mean --

sure, if you also take into account the whole “Jesus Christ is thought of as being logos incarnate” thing, but like. Then that pulls away from the whole ancient Greek philosophy thing happening and goes into a different metaphor entirely, and everything just gets really muddy.

There are some scholars who believe that the concepts of mythos and logos aren’t mutually exclusive -- and, in fact, that logos actually grew out of mythos. The idea was that people started looking at the myths that they were using and started to apply logic and reason to them in order to get a more nuanced view of the world. But like...

In XVI, mankind started with rational thought when they realized that God (the God that they knew existed and were not just making up as myths) had abandoned them, and then they joined together as a community to create their own image for the world through their use of mythos.

So, I really think the game got it backwards. Clive wasn’t Mythos who became Logos. He was Logos who became Mythos.

But like. Gold star for trying.

I’M JUST SAYING THAT CLIVE HAVING THE TITLE OF “MYTHOS” IS REALLY FUCKING HOT AND EVERY TIME SOMEONE CALLS HIM THAT MY PULSE QUICKENS BECAUSE HE IS LITERALLY SHOULDERING THE HOPES AND DREAMS OF MANKIND AS THE EMBODIMENT OF THE POWER OF HUMAN CREATIVITY IN SERVICE TO A SEX RITUAL

[thetruthwilloutsworld]

🚨🚨🚨 The Telegraph newspaper review. It's behind a paywall so I've copied and pasted it - contains Spoilers 🚨🚨🚨

Eleanor Tomlinson and Alfred Enoch star in this sexy thriller set in an alternate-reality Yorkshire that looks more like LA than Leeds.

The Couple Next Door (Channel 4) is a sexy thriller and, if we’re honest, this isn’t Britain’s forte. Put it this way: a pivotal scene in which our two main characters lock eyes in a moment of simmering lust occurs while they’re putting the bins out. 

In an attempt to be less British – and this is a co-production with US network Starz, so it needs to be – the six-part, boxsetted drama has been given a glossy, international look. Hilariously, it claims to be set in Leeds, and you will believe that if you’ve never been to Leeds and are prepared to accept that it looks like LA’s San Fernando Valley, where the weather is great all the time (apart from the scene with the bins. Because rain is sexy). 

It’s enjoyable nonsense. Evie and Pete, played by Eleanor Tomlinson and Alfred Enoch, are a young couple who move into a new home in Truman Show suburbia and are immediately love-bombed by Becka (Jessica De Gouw), a hot yoga instructor who lives across the road with Danny, an equally hot traffic cop who rides a motorbike (because motorbikes are sexy). Danny wears tight, white T-shirts that show off his He-Man physique – he’s played by Outlander’s Sam Heughan – and Becka just wears her underwear when guests pop round. 

To be fair, the guests probably expect that sort of get-up, because Danny and Becka are swingers. Not that The Couple Next Door uses the term, because it’s striving to be far classier than that. Becka and Danny have the hots for Evie, and she – despite suffering a horrendous tragedy and being raised in a Christian cult based in what looks like the village from Emmerdale – is soon turned on to the whole wife-swapping idea. 

Pete, who is fatally nice, is less enthusiastic (Enoch is the only actor here who makes his character behave like a normal person). While all this is going on, a creepy neighbour played by Hugh Dennis is stalking Becka, and Danny starts moonlighting for a local criminal kingpin. The drama ramps up. Evie, who appears at the outset to be a sensible, sweet-natured type, goes fully bonkers by around episode four. 

Every five minutes there’s a complete failure of logic, either in terms of plot or production. Why would a crime boss trying to transport goods under the radar send them out in a car flanked by two police outriders? Why does the show go to the trouble of filming its countryside scenes in Yorkshire but not bother to disguise the architecture in any of the urban shots (it’s Belgium, apparently)? I found the whole thing ridiculous. So ridiculous that I happily binged the lot in two days.

[ijustreallylikecaptainamericaok]

Actually, while I'm here:

Old E/G complaints under the cut.

Thing is, I made my overall peace with Steve's ending a long time ago. It wasn't my ideal by any means (since a big part of what I dig about St*ggy is the tragedy of it all, etc., etc.), but it wasn't my worst case scenario either (like, y'know, his death or one of fandom's more than vaguely ableist ideas.)

All things considered, I can live with it. It's fine.

(Though, I also must admit that fandom's ridiculously extreme reaction did hasten that whole process for me. Anyway...)

But there is one aspect that does still bother me and (like certain parts of the L-o-t-R adaptations) likely always will. Which is that, like a lot of E/G, the credit for it goes to T*ny, of all people. Based on what? One sliver of a moment in A/O/U? Get the fuck out. That's an even more tenuous connection than the one they tried to pull in CW by trying to use Z0la's slideshow from T/W/S as proof St*ve knew what happened to the St*rks. And on top of that, they have St*ve say that shit to Sam. SAM - the guy who'd been trying to get St*ve to prioritize himself from the second they fucking met. Just fuck right off. Not to mention how in the movie it's Nat*sha who tells St*ve to get off his ass. But, no, lets continue trying to gas up a dynamic M*rvel completely bungled and do so at the expense of two dynamics they actually succeeded with. Ridiculous. It's bordering on V!nce McMah0n type of nonsense, I swear.