#he’s so unapologetically murderous and defiant

[negativespace06]

as metal breaks and bends

[baeshijima]

mmm thoughts of private executioner!blade, who is high priestess!kafka's bodyguard. well, more like her guard dog, as many fearfully seem to think.

he is aloof and gruff and rough around the edges, his name capturing it perfectly. when in the eyes of the public he either keeps to himself or stands ready by kafka's side, but when out he lurks in the shadows ready and waiting to carry out her death orders.

you, yourself, haven't had very many pleasant encounters with him... if you can even call them that. that being said, you haven't had many pleasant encounters with anyone. notorious for your... less than pleasant disposition, for a lack of better words, you have more people who'd rather see you run through than those you can call a friend.

in a dog-eat-dog world, you had no choice but to protect yourself. that, however, ultimately became your demise.

"oh? so you're the one sent to kill me. can't say i'm all that surprised."

standing before you is the feared executioner. his sword is tucked inside the sheath attached to his hip, that ever-present dark swirl of an aura stifling the air. he doesn't say anything, instead opting to silently stare down at your slumped and worn-out form. you find that his gaze doesn't bother you; rather, it's oddly comforting knowing someone will see you in your last moments.

"i've never asked you for a favour before, so this will be my first and last request for you." in all honesty, you're not sure where this chattiness stems from. considering you're currently in a holding cell under the crime of attempted murder towards kafka (a poisoned wine you were most definitely framed for, though you can't say you were surprised) and are awaiting for your turn to be under the guillotine for your public execution, you probably should be a little desperate towards the private executioner in front of you.

and yet, your mind is nothing if not peaceful.

with a huff, you relay your request, "can you make sure it's quick? painless, preferably, but i'd rather you just get it over and done with."

silence blankets the cold chambers. moisture accumulated along the cobble ceiling drip in a steady rhythm, like a clock ticking away the seconds. it's unnerving, almost, how there is not a single sound other than your impending countdown.

"why?" comes his low mutter, effectively causing a ripple within the stagnant air. you almost think you misheard him, but his following words cease the thought, "why won't you ask me for help?"

had it not been for the abrupt shuffle and clanging against the metal bars, you would have never looked up to see him in your last moments.

his scarred hands gripping the metal until his knuckles turn a ghastly white and blood dripping from his palms is what greets your sight. as your gaze slowly trails up, you almost let loose a laugh of disbelief; who would have thought blade, the infamous guard dog of the high priestess, could make such a desperate expression? one looking as though his whole world crumbled before him, in which he can do nothing but sit and watch.

(you will never know of the anger and desperation which coursed through his veins the moment he heard of your predicament. had it been anyone else, he wouldn't have cared. but you're not anyone else; you're you — unapologetically, wholeheartedly. it didn't take him long to hunt down those behind it, cutting them down without thought and putting an end to their miserable lives. he rushed as soon as he could when kafka gave him the order, no thoughts other than you, you, you, occupying his mind.

you will never know of the anguish which overcame him when he found you in such a state, your once healthy complexion and defiant gaze reduced to nothing but a tiredness which had always sat quietly behind your disposition. he's almost positive the muscle which unwillingly keeps him alive tore at the seams from your request, the acceptance in which you displayed causing his mind to go astray. even as he damn-near begs you to rely on him for help — to run away with him to some place no one knows of you and start anew there — you merely smile, resigned and peaceful.

you will never know of how much blade is willing to put on the line for you, for you never made it to see the complete and utter carnage he wrecked in your name.)

[mybloodyvalentyne]

CRUCIFIED -- (Jason Todd x Vampire!reader) prol. 1/3

MASTERLIST

A/N: When I tell you this story is my baby...I mean it. My fanfiction opus. And I can finally offer you the first little taste of this bloody tale. The prologue comes in three parts, and I’ll be posting one each day for the next three days. This story is partly inspired by The Batman vs Dracula trilogy as well as DC vs Vampires and may contain spoilers for such. I hope you enjoy <3

Words: 721

Warnings: mentions of bodily injury, mention of needles

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄: 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐔𝐍 

Wayne Manor, Outer Gotham 12:49 AM

Defeat was not a word which liked to exist in the vocabulary of the Wayne family. It was like a curse that not even the most defiant child dare speak, for its mere utterance would fold ten times back on itself into an origami of self-fulfilling prophecy. Like a spell that, when cast by slip of tongue, conjured the ugly beast to live. Tonight, though, that malevolent presence hung thick over the corridors of Bruce Wayne's ancestral home. These seldom quiet hours had fallen into an uncharacteristic hush.

Sprawled out on a tufted aubergine sofa, lying supine and board-straight like a corpse, the man himself. Bruce Wayne. The big bad bat. His broad chest heaved up, then down, in steady rhythm, the low and consistent crackling of the fireplace providing a comforting ambience on an otherwise unpleasant evening. Entering the room was the loyal butler, ever a stoic day player in the sordid life of his employer, his steadying presence like a lone buoy in the churning tide of Bruce's world.

"Take these, master Bruce."

The older man passed him a napkin enclosing three painkillers, followed by a glass of water.

The younger man sat up with a wince, neatly-taped bandages that patched up his lower right abdomen rippling as he did so, the crimson seepage from which seemed barely contained by the thin layers of gauze.

"Thank you, Alfred."

It had been a taxing night for every member of the Wayne family. Yet another unsolved slaying, yet another culprit evading their grasp. If it had yet to do so before, Gotham had now truly slipped the surly bonds of justice fallen into its own dark age-- crime of every kind was on the rise, murder sitting king atop them all. Bodies strewn about the alleys and aqueducts were not an uncommon sight in the grey city these days. Most citizens were afraid to venture out of their homes, feeling justice had failed them. Their heroes had failed them.

In the mahogany-paneled walls of Wayne manor, this failure echoed like Sunday service in a church cathedral. Up on the third floor, down one of the many drawling hallways, behind each door was a different wound, a different suffering; each unique to the individual to which it belonged. In one room, the frustrated panting of one Dick Grayson, externalizing his rage on 100lbs of sand suspended from a hook in the corner in his room. In another, Jason Todd sat on the edge of his bed next to a bowl of bloody cotton, wincing as he tentatively pierced his own flesh with a sewing needle. A few doors down, only the hiss of water hitting porcelain tile could be heard as Stephanie Brown sat motionless on the floor of her shower, a mess of flaxen hair clinging to her chest and shoulders. And at the end of the corridor, where a sitting room opened to a terrace with tall french doors, Cassandra Cain sat perched like a gargoyle on the balcony's edge, staring pensively into the night as though it would speak to her the answer to the question on her mind. Had she been anyone else, she would not have picked up on the feather-light footsteps behind her.

"Cassandra." Damian Al Ghul-Wayne, the son of the bat, the heir to both the cowl and the manor, interrupted Cass' introspective silence unapologetically.

"You are troubled," he said. This was not a question.

"Yes," she replied.

Damian did not pry, but instead climbed up onto the railing as well, perching in a similar manner. The two sat in silence for several minutes. He followed her gaze into the vastness of the night, Gotham city's skyline rising over the trees like the silhouette of a great beast's severed jaw, monstrous steel fangs stretching into the nothingness in their unforgivingly jagged shapes.

"You feel it too," Cass said. She did not look at him, but she knew she was right. A gentle night breeze rustled the stray locks of dark hair that just barely grazed the smooth ridge of her jaw-- it was near frigid, far too cold for the month of July. She could feel the wind change directions. A storm was beginning to roll in on the horizon.

"Something's coming."

Damian scowled. He knew she did not mean the storm.

"Something.." he said.

[thekidultlife]

#3 Dom/Sub | 30 Nights with Lee Jihoon

30 Nights with Lee Jihoon

Once a week. Almost thrice a month.

Sometimes even more.

It was Lee Jihoon’s idea.

As assassins working on opposing sides, life is always on the edge. Deceit, death and violence are invariably a lifestyle; things that never fail to tail behind you as sowers of chaos. Thus, it is necessary for things to be quick, temporary and detached, in case something unexpected happens. In matters of carnal needs, the same rules apply.

The arrangement was simple and straightforward. When the time and place has been agreed upon months prior via discrete channels, you or Jihoon would sneak into the venue of choice either as guest or staff a few days ahead of schedule. Meanwhile, the other would sneak into the hotel through a different manner and finally meet up in the room you have decided upon. Every rendezvous would be done in a distinct method in order to lose anyone who would attempt to look.

Tonight’s tryst, much like every other, was expertly done.

Posing as a socialite guest for the fundraising gala at the hotel’s expansive function room, it was easy for you to get in and get out. On the other hand, Jihoon had entered the hotel as a businessman on a trip a few days ago and it would be his last night staying at the hotel.

“Hm. This place is way nicer than the last,” you remarked, picking up your bag inside a heavy mahogany cabinet which was deposited there by you a week before.

You could tell it was a presidential suite with its own lobby space filled with minimalist furniture, a larger than life bathroom which had a pool for a bathtub and a luxurious king sized bed which Jihoon was currently sitting on, busy unloading the weapons in his person. It looked like a room straight from an architect magazine.

“Found this place during a mission a long time ago. Thought it’ll be easier to infiltrate with the amount of events they hold here,” he replied, chucking out a final pistol from his coat.

You hummed in acknowledgement as you finished sweeping the whole place of any hidden cameras and listening devices.

“Oh, and the dress stays on, by the way,” he easily remarked, regarding you with cold eyes and a mocking smirk. “It’s my turn tonight.”

Wearing a sleek silken black dress that was loosely hanging on your shoulders by thin straps, it teasingly reveals a bit of cleavage and a peek of your thighs. You calmly agreed as you stood in your place, waiting for his turn to move. Without breaking eye contact, Jihoon slowly moved towards you with hands in his pockets. The game had long started without any preamble.

"Did you miss me, Y/N?" He asked as soon as he was in front of you, his intense eyes meeting yours.

"I missed your dick," you replied bluntly, earning a small chuckle from him.

"Come on now," Jihoon admonished you as he fished out a small pocket knife, admiring the reflective surface of the metal. "I'm trying to be romantic here."

You sighed and rolled your eyes. "This relationship is hardly romantic."

Arching an elegant brow, Jihoon began to circle around you, regarding you from head to toe.

"I'm pretty sure it's easy for us to pretend it is tonight, don't you think?" Placing the blunt side of the knife on your bare back, he slowly dragged it down your skin to where the dress began to flow again.

You flinched at the cold metal as he lightly traces it on your skin in patterns of whatever. Now fully completing his circle, the both of you are once again face to face; a cold fire burning within your evocative gazes. As he carefully caressed your neck with the tip of the blade, Jihoon made a small smile devoid of any warmth.

"As heartless murderers, we often lust for things we can’t have," he says dripping with smugness, tipping your chin up with the knife. “And you and I both understand that unsatisfied lust could prove disastrous in our line of work.”

He meandered the knife down your collarbones, deliberately creating lines as if he was imagining it piercing through your skin. You sucked in a breath, unable to say anything with how hard your heart was pounding against your chest. Despite your silence and seemingly apathetic attitude, you were loving it. The twisted thrill of being at each other's throats sent an unbelievable high through your veins, the same way you chased after the thrill of hunting and to be hunted.

Yet it still wasn’t enough.

"Let's see, what should we do first?" He moved the blade on the strap of the dress, lifting it up as it pulled taut. "Should I cut up this dress to strip you naked?"

No. This wasn’t enough at all.

“I don’t think so.”

You suddenly grabbed his arm, twisting it as the knife hurled towards the floor. Yet Jihoon was fast enough to react and swung his free arm towards you. Forced to dodge, your hold on him weakened and he was able to get himself free. However, that proved to be a fatal mistake as Jihoon retaliated back and seized your wrist. He pulled you forcefully towards him, and using gravity and his own weight, he pushed you back, hitting the wall in a loud, painful thud.

“You…” Jihoon was panting, his jaw rigid with adrenaline and controlled fury. “And here I was wondering why you haven’t made a move yet. What a woman you are.”

All of that happened in just a span of a few seconds. As trained assassins, it was necessary to be quick and exacting. Every action had a purpose and no energy was wasted, as little mistakes could spell a botched mission.

You flicked your head to remove the hair that was covering your face as you smirked at him, your chest heaving from all the action.

“But you love it. You love it when I fight back. You love it when you have to drag me to the bed screaming. You like this kind of thing,” you continued to provoke him. It usually brings out more of that intensity in his eyes, that kind of animalistic behavior from his stoic and aloof disposition.

“And you don’t?” Jihoon chuckled darkly, his little canines showing as he closed in on you. “We’re cut from the same cloth, princess. You love this as much as I do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

He ground his knee to the apex of your thighs, making you inhale sharply. “You like this, don’t you? You like it when I’m rough with you, manhandle you like the little slut you are.”

Hanging on only your bravado, you glared at him. “...fuck you…”

Jihoon simply smirked at your petulance, tightening his grip on your arms while you struggled to break free from his grasps. “Say what you want, darling. Soon enough you’ll be screaming my name as I fuck your cunt until you can no longer cum. You’ll be begging me to take you again and again and cum inside you until it drips down your thighs. You want me to fuck you, hard and rough. You like that don't you, my little slut?"

His voice was low and hushed yet you could feel the anger seep through his words, through the harshness of his tone. You failed to answer as you felt his knee push against your core once again, now harder this time, making you bite a moan.

"...make me…"

You were panting, your arms lay limp on his grasps yet you simply refused to submit. Pride and thrill kept you burning, wanting him to burn along with you; wanting to break that mask he wore. You wanted to see an unadulterated, unrestrained Lee Jihoon; the one who bares his real emotions even if those emotions were anger and lust.

Defiant to the end, you managed to catch his gaze, glaring at him with half lidded eyes and parted lips. Nonetheless, it gave a similar effect as you felt him tense up, almost wanting to devour you. Grinning at you maliciously, his look was feral and dark.

"This is what I like about you, Y/N."

Without warning, Jihoon pushed his lips against yours in an agonizing and bruising kiss. You gasped at how rough he was yet this was what you were looking for, the rush you chase after. Hard and unapologetic, he would bite and suck on your lips as if he was trying hard to draw blood, and you would push back like you always do, ravishing his until they were red and swollen.

I'm so in love with you. I love, I love, I love you.

You both knew you were never good at expressing what emotions were brewing inside of your hearts. So you fought and fought, hoping that the other would finally get it. You both prayed that maybe through every insult, every slap, every stubborn indignation to never declare defeat, the other would finally understand what you meant. It was twisted, toxic and cruel, but that's how it was.

I can never have you.

He let go of your other wrist, opting to rather place his hand on your neck as he applied a slight pressure. He knew you loved it, as you easily allowed him to play with your tongue. Jihoon was loving it as well, dominating you was a great reward, in and of itself.

Brushing your dress aside with his leg, he slipped in until his knee found your gradually dampening panties again and pushed against it. You made a garbled noise while Jihoon enjoyed ravishing your tongue.

You were slowly heading to subspace, you knew that, yet of course, as usual, you wouldn't back down without a fight.

In a moment's impulse, you bit his lip hard enough to bleed. Jihoon immediately pulled away, glaring at you with eyes ready to kill. He wiped away the blood with his thumb and sucked it clean as he hardened his clench on your throat.

With a sarcastic chuckle, Jihoon leaned against you, gazing at you with eyes burning with anger and desire before speaking.

"...you little brat…"

As soon as he was done talking, Jihoon held your arms tightly and dragged you towards the bed. You staggered, unable to walk because of the ache between your thighs, and simply allowed Jihoon to toss you to the mattress haphazardly.

Jaws clenched, Jihoon pinned you to the bed with his legs as he loosened his tie, seizing both your wrists to tie you up nice and good. You tried to struggle yet it was pointless: Jihoon was too strong and you never wanted to escape anyway, you just wanted to provoke him.

"There you go, princess! Isn't this what you wanted, you fucking slut? Doing this on purpose… do you want to be punished that badly?" He finally spoke again, his words filled with sarcasm as he noticed your expression of complete arousal.

As much as he wanted to be composed, Jihoon knew that he was as horny as you were, feeling his pants tighten up as he gazed upon your form tied up and helpless. He was getting antsy, his blood was pumping fast and it was your fault that he had slipped control.

Grabbing the long forgotten knife on the floor, he made a quick work of your dress, cutting it up into pieces as you cried in protest. It's not like he cared if it was Gucci or something. Now, you were left on your black lace lingerie which Jihoon always appreciated on you more than any dress.

"Let's continue, shall we?" He told you, yet his voice lacked the teasing elegance it once had. Now you could feel the deep seated irritation and the punishment you had instigated.

"You seem to like my leg so much," he placed it once again against your wet clothed pussy, making you mewl. "Why don't you grind yourself against it?"

You moaned in protest, sobbing as you felt him push against your now sensitive clit; daring you to relieve yourself in the most embarrassing and humiliating manner. Yet you wanted it, you were tempted to.

"Come on now, darling. Isn't this what you wanted me to do? Or would you like me to punish you instead?" Jihoon exclaimed with a smirk, watching you squirm under his knee.

Unable to hold it anymore, you slowly rubbed yourself against it, moving your hips steadily as you made a face of utter pleasure. You could see him through half-lidded eyes as he tried his best to calm down even though he was absolutely turned on as well.

"Look at you, Y/N," he teased in a sing-song voice as he grinned. "You look like a fucking slut, enjoying my knee like that. You look so fucking desperate. Does it feel that good?"

"...Jihoon…" you mewled, opening your legs even more, as you pleaded for more. You were getting closer as you felt the pleasure build up, your hole clenching for nothing. You wanted him to fill you up more than anything.

Yet he only pushed on your pussy harder, making you scream. "Answer my question. Does it feel good, princess?"

Gritting your teeth, you tried to suppress a shudder, arching your back.

"Y-yes, yes! ….it feels so…good!" You cried in submission, yet you continued to rub yourself on him. Any time now and you'll be coming…just a bit more…more…

Satisfied, Jihoon made a small smile and removed his knee from you as you protested in sweet, sweet sobs from the loss of friction.

"...no, n-no…Jihoon, please…!" You were now desperate, pulling against the tie you were bound with.

With eyes full of contempt yet with a content smile, Jihoon walked away and went to the nightstand beside the bed. Opening one drawer, he returned with something in his hands. You took a breath when you finally realized it was a bright pink dildo.

Without a word, he returned to his place from before, giving you a look that screamed he was planning something. Your heart was beating so loudly that it was the only thing that you could hear. Pushing aside your panties, he rubbed the toy on your slit, coating it with your own slippery juices. Every time it would push against your sensitive bud, you could only moan and cry out Jihoon's name.

He was smiling sweetly at you as if he wasn't torturing you with a dildo. Adoring your writhing figure on the sheets, Jihoon wanted nothing but to pin you down and thrust in you as harshly as he could. But he knew, with eyes glinting of mischief, that greater things come with patience.

Without warning, Jihoon suddenly inserted the dildo inside you in one rough push as you screamed in pleasure, arching your back as you pulled on your restraints. You were overrun by intense spasms as you felt your orgasm wash over you, your chest heaving in full breaths.

"...fuck…Jihoon, J-Jihoon…"

You could only mutter his name as you tremble at the remnants of your climax.

"Oh, did I make you cum?" He asked, pulling and pushing the toy inside of you, enjoying the wet sounds it made while you were crying out how sensitive you were. "You do know well that you can't just cum like that, don't you princess?"

Not waiting for a reply, Jihoon simply smirked as he crawled towards you, taking a hold of your chin as he made you face him.

"Isn't this what you want? For me to punish you for being such a fucking brat? Don't you just love this, darling?" He whispered to you, his lips just a few inches away. "I'm a generous person, so I'll give you more than you asked for."

As he swiped his thumb on your lips, he once again gave you a bruising kiss, his tongue forcing your lips open and entering with such passion. Jihoon grabbed a handful of your hair as he raised your head, drowning away your moans with his deep kisses.

Distracted by his lips, you hardly noticed Jihoon reach out for his pocket and switched the dildo on, vibrating in you as you choked out a cry. Pulling away, he reveled at the pained yet pleasured face you made as pools of tears began to form. You were far too sensitive, yet you knew there was no way you were allowed to cum. Like what Jihoon had said, this is exactly what you had brought upon yourself.

"How about that, princess?" He chuckled, pulling your hair to force you to look at him.

With eyes glazed and lips parted, you had no choice but to gaze at him as your face contorted in pleasure. There was nothing more embarrassing as he watched you with a shit-eating grin on his lips, yet there was nothing you could do as the vibrations intensified.

"Don't you look so pretty, Y/N?" He mockingly cooed at you, his hand wrapped around your neck. "That fucked out face really suits you."

"J-Ji…please, please…nghh—! I...w-want you…" you muttered through moans and pants, yet he only scoffed.

"Come on now, princess. Are you already at your limit?" He moved the hand on your neck and pushed your head up. You couldn't see him but you know he was gloating. "After that show of yours, I'm sure you can handle a bit more."

Not waiting for a reply, Jihoon dipped down your neck and began to leave dark bruises on your skin as much as he could. You knew, after being with this man for such a long time, that he would leave visible marks, not caring if anyone would see. He was possessive that way, and you loved it no other way.

Making his way down, Jihoon easily removed your bra away and tossed it somewhere across the room. You immediately arched your back as you felt his tongue on your nipples, sucking, teasing, biting while you were reduced to a screaming mess. He can easily identify your sweet spots, memorizing it as easily on the first night. He knew you had sensitive breasts and he took no time to fondle and squeeze them.

At this point, you were at the brink of another orgasm, the dildo providing no comfort as it once again vibrated in your cunt. You had long been begging Jihoon, yet he had easily reminded you that this was a punishment by pushing the dildo deeper inside you.

"Do you want my cock instead, princess?" He taunted, pulling and pushing the dildo in and out of you, making a wet sound that echoed across the room. "I could give it to you if you ask nicely."

You could only groan as you felt his fingers brush against your clit, the dildo vibrating violently in you. You wasted no time to whimper pleas.

"P-please...mmnn...J-jihoon...I want it…I w-want it s-so much…"

He smirked. "Want what, darling?"

Taking every single inch of your strength not to cum, you replied with tears in your eyes.

"I w-want your cock…Jihoon…please, p-please! Nghh! I want in me…!"

Humming, Jihoon casually straddled you across your torso, his legs pinning you down as he gave a small smirk. He began to unbuckle his belt, gazing down at you who had more or less an inkling of what he was about to do.

"Since you've been a good girl and all," Jihoon began, slipping the belt off. "I'll give you a special treat before I fuck the shit out of you."

Unzipping his pants, Jihoon freed his now hard cock from its restraints. You could only nervously gulp as he took a fistful of your hair, making you sit up. With a grin, he pressed your face against his crotch, looking down on you.

"You know how to suck dick, right princess? With a low drawl, he asked; his contained lust and irritation obvious once again.

You looked up, nodding tentatively. He looked so immaculate at that angle, his smile almost soft, but you knew better than to let your guard down. Taking all of him in slowly, you accommodated his length in your mouth, careful not to scrape your teeth against it. Jihoon was big and it was difficult for you not to choke on his length without being careful, yet it seemed like Jihoon had other ideas up his sleeve.

With a tight grip on your hair, he easily forced himself down your throat, making you gag in the process. This was nothing new but it took you by surprise every time he did it.

"Your mouth feels so good around me, princess," he groaned out, caressing your filled cheeks as he thrusted in harshly. "Makes me want to come in that pretty little mouth of yours."

You gazed back at him, head bobbing, as you felt his hard cock twitch between your lips. You felt so full with both his dick in your mouth and a dildo still inside your pussy. Feeling your juices coat your thighs sticky, you clenched tightly at the toy as you felt his tip brush your throat. If this was your first time, you would've thrown up at the beginning yet being used to this, you knew how to handle him and how to enjoy yourself.  As he met your eyes, arousal shot down your stomach in a flash. You were instantly reminded why you always returned to him, why all of this was so addicting. You loved the look in his deep brown eyes--dilated, feral and aroused.

"Princess…ahh…that's right," Jihoon moaned breathless, tightly gripping your hair as you quickened your pace. "I'm going to come soon…you better take all of it in, okay?"

Humming your agreement, you unintentionally sent vibrations down his shaft, making him growl. In a few strokes, Jihoon came inside your mouth in a loud groan as you struggled to swallow all of it. Much like the first time, he came a lot and some had spilled down your chin.

Loosening his grip on you, Jihoon pulled out, his mind still lightheaded from post-orgasm. As he watched you lick yourself clean of his cum while still being tied up, with a flashy pink toy still in you, a new surge of arousal came to him. This was definitely not over.

Cupping your chin, he bent down to kiss you once again. This time it was deeper and more sensual as if a dam had opened up in him. You easily welcomed his kiss, moving against his lips sloppily. As if something had possessed him, Jihoon hurriedly took off the coat and the dress shirt he was still wearing as he pushed you down the bed once again.

Jihoon, as he opened your legs, took a good look at your ruined panties and your obviously and painfully wet pussy with a huge smirk on his lips.

"What a sight to see," he remarked as he slipped your underwear off. "You've only sucked my dick and you're this wet?"

Finding your voice again, you retorted back. "...like I said…I love your dick--!!"

Without allowing you to finish, Jihoon pushed down your sensitive clit harshly with his thumb, effectively making you shut up and moan.

"Being cheeky now, aren't we princess?" He arched his brow at you. "You're still not allowed to cum, by the way."

Pushing the dildo as deep as he could and then pulling it all out, Jihoon took pride at how he can easily have you mewling and panting. You had protested at the sudden absence of the toy inside of you, pleading Jihoon to just fill you up already. Tutting at your impatience, he simply knelt down and showered kisses to your inner thigh.

"That's what you get for being such a brat, princess. You don't get to cum unless I say so," he whispered to your skin, sucking one love bite on your thigh.

In a beat, Jihoon spread you open, his tongue on your clit instantly. You screamed, your hands gently pulling on his hair. Feeling his tongue licking up your slit, you had to close your eyes from the pleasure you were assaulted with.

"Oh…god…J-Jihoon, Ji...hoon! P-please!"

As if he had heard nothing, he only continued to eat you out like a hungry man; pushing his tongue in and out of you. More than that however, Jihoon spontaneously inserted a finger inside and began to finger your pussy. While you were busy trying to stave off the growing arousal at the pits of your stomach, one finger became two and then three. Jihoon was thoroughly enjoying you; sucking your clit as he pushed his digits inside of you; just curling at the right angle to reach your g-spot. He always loved how much you had become pliable with his tongue.

Washed with oversensitivity, you were already screaming at him that you couldn’t take it anymore. You could feel the tension in you stretch, just waiting for a trigger to snap. With how he worked you with his tongue, there was no way you wouldn't come undone.

"Jihoon…I can't…p-please, please…let m-me come…" you begged in between soft moan and sobs.

Eyes brimming with mischief, Jihoon gazed at you from between your legs. He pulled out his fingers from inside of you and sat up, almost chuckling at how you were becoming so livid at his push and pull actions.

"Don't look at me like that, princess," he cooed at you, pushing his fingers wet with your juices between your lips. "I'll give you your reward now."

Stroking his now hard dick with the fingers he had in your mouth, Jihoon smirked at you. Despite in your hazy and overstimulated mind, you felt your heart race as you paid close attention to him. You loved how his toned body moved, how he looked so sexy topless with only his tight black pants on. You loved how he would always coat himself with your fluids, teasing your clit with the tip of his dick.

Lost and mesmerized, you were caught off guard when he plunged into you, bottoming up in one stroke. You opened your mouth in ecstasy, unable to scream any longer with how hoarse your voice was. Jihoon's pace was always fast and rough, thrusting into you with certainty and brute strength. He had his hands holding your hips as you arched your back, your breasts moving as he pounded into you.

"J-Ji...hoon!" You cried out his name as he scraped against your g-spot, pulling on your restraints with how much you wanted to touch him.

"Ughh…princess…you're so fucking tight…" he grunted, sweat dripping down his muscular chest.

Grabbing your leg, he then placed it over his shoulder to reach you even deeper. Pushing into you who was muttering his name over and over again, Jihoon was in a frenzy. He reveled at your cute little whines, your cunt that was so wet and clenching on him so tightly. This was fucking heaven.

"Do you like my cock, princess?" He asked you as he pressed down your clit, waking you up from your pleasure-filled trance.

Watching yourself take all of his length in, you couldn't help bit squeeze on him tighter, making him growl at you.

"Y-yes, yessss….ngghh, y-your cock's  s-so…good, J-Jihoon…" you replied, eyes sultry. "S-so….good, mnnhh…please f-fill me up with your cum…!"

"You want my cum…princess?" Jihoon pounded harder, more erratic. "You want me…nnh…to cum inside you until it drips down your thighs…?"

Jihoon was getting breathy as you felt his dick twitch inside of you. You were in the same situation as well, teetering at the edge of a hard climax.

"Haaa….y-yes! F-fill me up! Fill me up with your cum, Jihoon! I want…I w-want it inside me!"

Jihoon groaned, rubbing your clit relentlessly. "Ughh…fuck…f-fuck, I'm coming! Princess, you better come with me…"

Thrusting in you as deeply as he could, Jihoon immediately sent you spiraling down your climax. Soundless screams ruptured in you as you felt yourself snap, falling into spasms of pleasure. Feeling your climax, Jihoon immediately followed right after with a loud groan, cumming as ropes of warmth filled you.

Breathless, Jihoon bent down to you, lips capturing yours in a heated kiss. His tongue effortlessly molding with yours as he cupped your cheeks, enjoying the way you moaned on his lips.

Still sensitive, you whined when Jihoon pulled out, as globs of cum immediately dripped down your hole. Staring at it for a while, something had clicked inside Jihoon's head. You thought he was about to tap out just like every other night, yet when he turned you around on your hands and knees, you knew it was hardly over.

"W-wait… Jihoon, I'm still--!!"

Not waiting for you to finish at all, he scooped some of his cum that had poured out and immediately thrusted in once again, stretching you out, making you cry out at the suddenness and the sensitivity.

"What…? You think we're done here?" He told you, his hands once again on your hair as he pulled your head back to whisper to your ear.

You wondered how he still had enough energy left, yet all your thoughts had just left you when he continued to pound relentlessly, his cock churning the cum inside of you.

"Ji…hoon…anhhh…I'm already…s-so full…of you…"

Closing your eyes to feel all of him, you could sense another orgasm building up. Jihoon was still so rough and unforgiving in all of his thrusts, and you could do nothing but moan and feel good at every stroke of his cock.

Still marking your back with splotches of deep dark bruises, Jihoon held you down as he took a bite of your shoulder which had you tighten around him like a vice.

"Ah, f-fuck princess…" he grunted, pulling your hips to his roughly.

Only the sound of skin slapping together and your loud mewls and growls could be heard inside the room. Jihoon had every intention from the beginning to mark you up as his inside and out. Even if it meant there would be more rounds than this. He was starting to become more possessive of you, and it was getting more complicated in his books, yet that only made the sex better.

"Jihoon…J-Jihoon, please…I'm g-gonna cum…ughh…please, inside me…cum inside me again…!" you begged, your head now on a pillow, drooling your words out.

Gritting his teeth to control himself, Jihoon pushed himself harder into you, brushing against your g-spot.

"Ah, fuck it, princess…!" He growled, "I'm gonna cum inside you…I'll fill you up so much until you're fucking pregnant…ahhh shit…!"

"Yes! D-do it…! Fill me up...K-knock me up please…J-Jihoon…!"

His rhythm had once again become erratic and his thrusts deep. With a finger rubbing your clit, you clenched and unclenched around his cock as you felt your orgasm just a few strokes away. As he pushed against your sensitive area, you once again felt ecstasy down to your very bones. You were still trembling and spasming with your orgasm when you felt him paint your insides with his cum, now overflowing your hole and spill down the sheets. Another wave of pleasure fell on you as you felt his warmth inside you, loving how full you were.

With a final kiss, Jihoon pulled out of you and untied your wrists. They were of course, red and irritated yet it was something for you to wear in the next few hours. Finally laying down beside you, Jihoon cupped your cheek and placed a chaste kiss on your forehead.

"Let's cleanup later…" was what you heard when you yourself fell as sleep.

The next thing you felt when you woke up was a soreness between your legs and back, and Lee Jihoon, who was still only in his pants, wiping your body clean with a damp towel.

"Morning. Water's over there, if you're thirsty," he casually said, pointing at the bedside table.

Crawling towards it, you took the glass of water for a small sip. This was one of the calmer nights, and you appreciated it when it happens. Most of the time either you or Jihoon would just disappear without telling, and admitting it or not, it had pained you for a bit.

Once again on the bed lying under the covers, you observed him as he cleaned himself up. He noticed your stares however and glanced back at you.

“What?” he asked, now hopping into the bed next to you. That usually indicated a few more rounds until the dawn of morning.

“Nothing, really. I’m just thinking,” you replied, allowing his arm around your waist. You could be a bit lenient with him.

He arched a brow at you. “I have my own thoughts as well,” he remarked, nuzzling on your hair. “The way you begged me to get you pregnant…”

He smirked at this, much to your chagrin (and embarrassment). “It was as if you were planning to tie me down. Which, I believe, isn’t something too farfetched for you to do.”

You smirked, closing your eyes. “Who knows? But I would definitely do anything to bring you down, even if it means going down with you,” replying, you casually held his hand, “Besides, men like you need to be tied up once in a while.”

Jihoon hummed. “Is that something I need to look forward to next time?”

“You have to figure that one out yourself.”

-Hyeri 

A/N: It’s truly been a while since I wrote smut. I hope this was ok ;;w;;

[aleximedicusa]

welcome to why lewis’ moral stance is not very good and he should get off his high horse! under a cut because dear god this got long.

so, i do want to preface this by saying that the core of lewis’ stance has merit. he is right that adequate medical education requires access to dissection. we have evidence of that. wax casts and drawn diagrams just aren’t sufficient to learn the human body well enough to treat it, as a physician and especially as a surgeon, and any society that inhibits proper access to dissection will be causing severe detriment to society, and especially to the poorer classes. rich people can afford to pay for doctors who might have been able to travel abroad to get a better education; poor people just have to make do with the doctor down the street, and if the doctor down the street barely knows where your spleen is, that’s an issue. lewis is very justified in believing all of this. 

however. 

what this leads him to think and feel on the matter of bodysnatching is a lot less defensible. his anger with the legal systems in place has led to him having a really defiant stance: if they’re not going to provide the bodies, well, then anatomists are just going to have to get them, and illegal means for doing so are fair game. and he takes that further in thinking that the public has no right to get mad at them for how they get bodies. he thinks they should be angry at the government for not changing the laws, not at the anatomists. they’re just doing what they need to do, so why is everyone having riots at the houses of anatomists when they’re implicated in graverobbing? don’t they know it’s for society’s own good? 

and that, in turn, leads to him defiantly refusing to feel guilty about what he’s doing. and hey, lewis, that’s bad! he’s right that it’s not fair, and even dangerous, for the system to refuse to provide necessary materials for medical education, but that doesn’t mean that he should be let off the hook. he is treating the bodies of real people like they’ve got as much moral weight as a saw or a scalpel. he straight up does not care that what he’s doing is really horrible for the families of the deceased. there are some really heartbreaking stories of people finding the bodies of their loved ones half-dissected. i can think of one, specifically, where a guy found his sister’s head significantly mutilated in the dissecting room of a surgeon after finding out that her corpse had been exhumed and sold. there were mass cases where people found out about graverobbery in a certain cemetery and they frantically went to dig up the coffins of their loved ones to make sure they weren’t empty. and... a lot of them were. take a second to imagine how fucking traumatising that must have been for them. 

and that’s made worse by the fact that a lot of the public just really didn’t understand what surgeons did with the bodies. they didn’t understand that dissection was a necessity for basic medical knowledge. there were sensationalised rumours of surgeons making candles out of human fat, feeding organs to dogs, kicking bodies down stairs, etc. the general public seemed to view anatomists like drunken buffoons just hacking up bodies for a laugh. were there cases of anatomists mistreating the bodies? yeah, absolutely. but dissection was still a necessary part of the study of medicine. cooper points out that a lot of really intelligent, hard-working candidates were failing their exams to obtain their licenses because they just... didn’t know enough about the body. not because they didn’t study hard enough, but because they couldn’t familiarise themselves with the human body to the extent necessary for competency, and that familiarity can only come from dissection. but the public didn’t know that.

so is it really any wonder that everyone hated the anatomists so much? if you know that bodies are being stolen for anatomists to use, and you think that those bodies are just being hacked up for fun because you have no idea why dissection is an important part of medical education, then of course you’re going to be extra mad! that’s not to say that they wouldn’t be angry even if they fully understood (or to say that they’d be wrong for that anger), but the common belief that bodies were being dug up simply for anatomists to carve up for no real benefit exacerbated that anger a lot. 

and lewis doesn’t respect that. he doesn’t respect that even though the medical community is exploiting bodies against the wishes of the dead their families for genuine benefit to society, they are still exploiting bodies against the wishes of the dead and their families. if you tell him he’s being immoral, he’ll turn it right around on you and say that you can’t blame him for it because he’s just doing what the system is making him do. you will not be able to get through to him and make him understand that what he’s doing is wrong. even if he believes it’s a necessity and even if he believes that the system is the root of the cause, he’s still doing horrible things without accepting responsibility. 

there’s also the matter of how that turns into hypocrisy once the burke and hare case breaks. for those who haven’t read my posts about him, the novel has another character named connor morrison, who is an assistant to dr. knox and a friend of lewis’ (friend is a generous term, but... eh, it’s complicated). if you don’t know what the burke and hare case is, i did a quick rundown on it, so feel free to have a peek here. now, when the case breaks, everyone’s horrified, but lewis gets pretty angry at connor for giving the medical community a bad name by paying for murdered bodies. and connor points out that lewis... doesn’t really have a leg to stand on. every anatomist working at this time knows you don’t ask questions. why the fuck would you? you’re not an idiot. you know that the shady men coming to your back door at midnight with a body in a sack didn’t just pop down to b&q to get it. why would you ask about the details when you know the answer is that they got it illegally? you pay them and move on. that’s the way things are done. and now lewis is blaming him for not looking closer? not to mention, lewis is judging him for the morality of the bodies he used, when lewis is also exploiting bodies obtained immorally while explicitly refusing to feel guilty about that? connor was in the wrong for what he did, absolutely, but lewis isn’t in the right. 

and i get where he’s coming from, at least in part. being an anatomist kind of requires a certain amount of clinical detachment. if he got too bogged up in the identity of the bodies and the potential impact of what he’s doing, he probably couldn’t keep being a surgeon. but there are absolutely ways that he could acknowledge that what he’s doing is wrong. he could acknowledge his own guilt. he could acknowledge that the public have a right to feel the way they do. but he doesn’t. his stance is arrogant, callous, condescending, unapologetic, and sanctimonious. 

lewis is right that the law needs to be reformed and that the state of dissection needs to change. he’s right to push for that. but there’s a hell of a lot he isn’t right about. 

[honestsycrets]

A Dog No Longer II: Getting Even

❛ pairing | dark!hvitserk x reader

❛ word count | 2k

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | after berserking and killing reader’s husband, hvitserk seeks out his revenge upon the reader for years of humiliation. heed warnings.

❛  warnings | graphic non-con, wife stealing, referenced murder, revenge, angry hvitserk, hate fuck, anal.

❛  sy’s notes | this one is pretty graphic and so i plead you not to read it if any of those above are triggers. @grungyblonde i done it.

He won.

His prize, you. (Y/N), Berserker’s Bane. You were meant to slay men just like him. With the ruckus Hvitserk’s nephews were making in your throne room, you fist his tunic between tight fingers. Your jaw works together, ignoring the harsh slap of his palm against your ass that made it jiggle just so. The thought of punishment passes by your mind and raises to the forefront when he tosses you upon the bed you once shared with Eirkr.

He didn’t come to beat you. In that case, he would have just fought you. He came here to show you that Hvitserk was as much a Ragnarssons as the others you passed by. Namely, because the other Ragnarssons would have put up a fight if you ran off with their child. The jokester, you once mused, would not care.

It unnerved you more than you cared to admit when Hvitserk reached to the back belt that usually carried a simplistic knife, withdrawing a bound twist of rope. At least before, you were in control of everything. Now your husband lay dead in the room just outside, needing to be buried for a funeral in seven day’s time-- but here you were. Laying on the bed like some-- some disgusting gift that his murderer would dig into. Your eyes meet. His green ones keep your gaze, unwinding the rope with no word from his dark, honeyed voice.

You lurch first.

Hvitserk follows after, throwing you grasping your hips short of falling off the bed. He hikes you back onto it into place, twisting the luxurious fabric of your dress. Your stomach coils, winding up like a spring of disgust. Rebounding you unsheathe the small knife that was so typically hidden within your sleeve. Pressure upon your midback brings you cause to pause.

“Let go of the knife. Our son is outside.” He grates out. “And I’ve won you-- whoever he was, I don’t care. You are mine, now.”

Your growl, a loud scream escaping your lips against the sheets below you. It was a fair fight that your husband lost. You look over your shoulder to him with disdainful concern for his strong arms pinning your back down. What was a shieldmaiden but someone brazen? You sweep your arm back, finding the hand not lain across your back jerks your wrist painfully behind you. A pop causes you to groan, crumpling your hold on the knife.

“Believe me when I say I’ll kill you.” You vow. Hvitserk takes the very dagger you wielded seconds ago, jerking it through the heavy fabric of your dress along your spine. The fight melts off of your body.

“You’ll fall in love with me before that.” Hvitserk retorts, quickly and swiftly shifting you to rip the offensive fabric down from your body. He binds your arms forearms to forearms, twisting and spinning the rope so tight that there is no room to breathe between the itch and strain of the rope. He turns you around upon the bed, creating a noose that he might tug upon your throat.

“Like this?” You hiss annoyed far beyond the soothing of any countenance he might bring you. “I am not your thrall!”

“You are my wife.”

“But not yet.” Hvitserk drags the rope tight along your neck, curling his other finger to force you to crawl kneeling toward him to rid yourself of the choking sensation that you would quite honestly prefer.

“--and a wife has a duty to please her husband.”

Hvitserk stands, the tension on the rope going slack. He loosens his pants with a pull of the ties as you maintain a defiant gaze up at him. A strange flip from the days in which you used to tie Hvitserk’s hands above his head and ride him for his seed.

“I am not your wife yet.”

“But I’m the father of your child. Or are you going to deny that too?”

No.

Any arrogance you have is stifled in that moment. Hvitserk pulls the rope taut around his fist. His other hand caresses his erect cock, jerking himself in one smooth motion. His thick cock leaks a bit at the tip, years he’d gone without you-- he would give you a humiliating slap to the cheek with his cock.

“Open.”

Fuck him.

“Open, I said.” He smells of blood-- something that has stained the outside of his armour, but past that scent, you recall his own. Your stomach churns as the velvety soft head pushes against your plush lips and so stubbornly you spread them apart. A muffled grunt, ragged and harsh, lurches from your lips. He knocks the back of your throat. With the rope burning marks into your powdery soft skin, you’re sure you’ll die. Death by Ragnarsson dick, what a fate.

Just when it becomes too much, Hvitserk jerks himself back, urging you to use your tongue to pleasure underneath his shaft before he would do it all over again. He’s repetitive in his pattern. The only motion that holds him off from forcing down your throat is a sloppy tongue, and even then, his patience wavers.

“What’s wrong, hm? Am I too much?” Hvitserk chortles. “I heard a rumor that you--” A hard thrust leaves him bottoming out, a nest of his curling pubic hair flush against your nose. Powerless to jerk back your throat tightens, eliciting a loud groan. “--said I was small. Am I small now?”

He draws back, a long drippy line of saliva connecting your lips to the head of his cock. You heavy a long breath, expelling air as quickly as you take it in.

“No I didn’t--”

He fists the root of his dick, slapping you lightly on the other cheek with his dick. You gasp tremulous in nature.

“No?” He laughs heartily, the only warning before he would jerk you back upon the bed, forcing you upon all fours. “All that slandering for nothing, huh? You’re gagging like a Saxon slut! Are you sure aren’t the inexperienced one?”

With your hands bound behind your back, your only option was to chew your cheek in wait for whatever it was Hvitserk had coming next. Hvitserk takes an aching amount of time in pleasure of watching your nerves fry. He pays no attention to your pussy this time, drawing his fingers along the crease of your ass.

“I’ve been waiting for this, (Y/N).” Hvitserk says, a bite in his voice. Cool oil, scented probably with something from his raids, drips over your crease, dribbling down your lips. You roll your lower lip in, assuming that yeah-- he was just going to take your pussy then and there and that was all to be done about it.

“Good for you. Hurry up.” You snarl out, catching at Hvitserk’s sudden flex of his wrist. His finger prods your entrance, tugging you open.

“I’ve never had your ass before.” A sudden, splicing hot pressure burns your unused hole when Hvitserk’s index and middle finger shove forward unceremoniously. He crooks his fingers under a hot squeal bouncing from one wall to another.

“FUCK YOU!”

He tugs, widening and turning his fingers in your ass with a jovial laugh. You’re like any of the women of Jorvik. Those in the Mediterranean--   you did something unforgivable. You deceived him. Fuck, you took his firstborn from him! For that, you would be sorely sorry. Sore you already were.

“W...wait!” Your hips shift. Hvitserk’s other palm slaps your well-oiled ass, dropping his thumb down to massage over your lips. He plunges his fingers deep again.

“Wait what?” Hvitserk muses.

“That!” You stammer. “I don’t...”

“I forgot, dick princess. You probably don’t even need this shit, huh?” Hvitserk withdraws his fingers, shoving your shoulders forward onto the bed. You shriek, knowing what’s next. Hvitserk shifts over your ass, the hairs of his thighs tickling your smooth cared for legs. The remnants of Hvitserk’s glossy, oil vile spill from his cock onto your ass for lubricant that he deems you probably don’t deserve. But what was he but a good husband? His hand leaves your shoulders to support himself and spread one of your cheeks as well, lining up perfectly.

“Don’t!” Your cheek grinds into the furs. “I’ve never--”

“Yeah?” Hvitserk leads you on when you falter.

“--had it there.”

He smiles. “Yeah, now I’m not stopping.”

At least this way-- he would have the first of something. Your words have gone straight down to his dick, causing him to throb. He breathes out a throaty moan popping his head inside of your ass. The first inch feels searing and yet its nothing compared to the entirety of every inch of Hvitserk’s twitching cock. You force your mind to drift, as much as it didn’t want to. Not with Hvitserk taking up a bruising pace, slapping his balls against the curve of your ass with each thrust.

“Oh fuh-- fuck you!”

You sure were, he thinks. Hvitserk knows it won't take long. You aren’t lying when you say that he was the first in your ass. Your walls seem to devour him in, tight and unapologetic. Below him you make stifled cries, sobbing into the furs under your cheek. Had to go and make him feel like an asshole alright.

“Tell me you want me in your pussy and I’ll stop.” Hvitserk leans over you, gripping your shoulders now. You collapse under the pressure of his crushing body, shaking your head over. You still had your pride! Or, what was left of it.

“No!”

Hvitserk shrugs off any concern. Oh, he’d have you begging one day for his big dick. If not today, tomorrow. Or many tomorrows from now. It made no difference to him. For now, he would hold himself off from cumming just for the sake of splitting you open around his dick and to make you gape with his size. He slams in deep, just for the sake of feeling your entire body quiver against his fat cock. Small? Not anymore. You quake and to his complete awe, sob something so low that he doesn’t quite make sense of it.

“What was that?” Hvitserk shifts to your ear, pricking you with his curling facial hair. You snivel, something low but now, audible. I want y-- you in me.

“In where?” Hvitserk leads, drawing out for one purposeful thrust. His balls tighten, shit, he has to wrap this up.

“In my pu-- pussy!” You sob out, tightening your sphincter tightly around him. Hvitserk draws his hips back, pulling himself free of your burning ass. Before you relinquish a gasp, Hvitserk alternates down. Then with one smooth thrust, he slams deep inside of your pussy. His hips jerk, and soon enough he spills his seed purposefully deep.

“Hvitserk! Don’t you fucking dare cum th--”

“You didn’t expect it to go to waste, did you?” Hvitserk says past several forced gasps of air. He lays there a few moments while his cock softens. Then, standing up, he looks toward a basin of water left by thralls prior to his arrival. Hvitserk kicks off his pants, lazily using the bit of cloth to clean his cock with a disgusted click of his tongue.

“Are we even now?” You whisper against the furs. Hvitserk glances over his shoulder to where you lay, disheveled. He forces himself to calm down, picking up the basin and bringing it to the bed where you lay. He dampens the cloth and brings it to your ass in what you could have called affection if you had not known better.

“Not until you love me.”

“Not happening.” You glance over your shoulders to him, oozing his seed over your legs. Hvitserk reaches for the dagger, cutting every lace that ties your arms together. The second he reclines flat on his feet, you ball up your fist.

“The day you do that again, I will end you, Ragnarsson.” He sees it before it actually connects with his cheek, sending him colliding back on his ass. He massages the building bruise on his cheek, tilting his head in acceptance rather than exploding full force. He reflects if you mean the anal-- or the force in which he took you. Either way, you were fully in your right to beat him.

You loosen the rope around your throat, thrusting it on the ground. Hvitserk watches as you take the cloth to clean his seed from your pussy. He shrugs then nods, raising his eyes to the bright tattoo of a dragon across your scarred back.

“I deserved that.”

“You deserve a lot more than that.”

[didanawisgi]

Toting the Gat: Black Women and Gun Culture

​“For the Black female, the solution is not to become less aggressive, not to lay down the gun, but to learn how to set the sights correctly, aim accurately, squeeze rather than jerk and be overcome by the damage.”

                                                           --Angela Davis

​The first gun I recall seeing was in my grandmother’s house in Tennessee. My father was checking out her .38 BB gun; however, he was having difficulty cocking it. Granny shook her head, walked right over to her son-in-law, and carefully took the weapon from his hands. “It’s like this, Greg,” she instructed, and then cocked it with a finesse that impressed my then 12 year old self. When my mother asked her if she still kept guns in the house, she responded unapologetically, “Of course we do. This is Tennessee, honey. We still got Klan around here.” Years earlier, it was Otha Collins, my father’s mother, who would bestow upon him his first pistol: she also owned a sawed off double barrel shotgun in her Chicago home. Granny Ruth and Granny Otha, both born and raised in Mississippi, were women of the South—resilient, no-nonsense, and, like many other Black women of their time, owned guns for the utilization of self-defense.

​There is a complex history between Black women and gun ownership in America; such history is inextricably linked with questions concerning agency and whether or not Black women have the right to defend themselves against toxic masculinity and white supremacist actions of the state. It is reported that Black women who are murdered by men are almost always killed with a gun, and most likely be someone that they know, particularly in domestic violence disputes. In 2015, 15 Black women were killed by the police, a counter-narrative made possible by the organizing efforts of Black queer women in the Black Lives Matter movement. As there is a history of abuses against Black women inter-personally and by the state, it is important to state that Black women have always been resilient against violence—and the obtainment of weaponry, from Emancipation to hip-hop, was a symbolic gesture of bodily autonomy and dedication to survival.

​It is white men who are historically celebrated in the American imagination as brave and charismatic gun-slingers. Westerners portray white men as heroic purveyors of new territory, with a shot gun in hand. The glaring differences of how white male gun ownership is perceived in comparison to those who are Black reflects deep-seated racism, stemming back to the era of slavery. “Django, Shaft, and a few other Black action figures notwithstanding, most glamorized gunmen are white. For Americans, the notion of Black people carrying guns conjures fear rather than admiration or nostalgia,” says writer Charles Cobbs. Due to the history of slavery, Black folks with firearms (and Black women in particular) were seen as especially dangerous, capable of inciting masse uprisings during enslavement and upsetting the power dynamics of Jim Crow.

In the South, it wasn’t uncommon for a number of Black women to easily obtain weapons, as “the South’s powerful gun culture and weak gun control laws enabled Black people to acquire and keep weapons and ammunition with relative ease.”  “It was common knowledge in Sunflower County, Mississippi, that Lou Ella Townsend, the mother of famed civil rights leader Fannie Lou Hamer, could be dangerous if pushed too hard,” Cobbs continues. “Walking out into the cotton fields to work, Mrs. Townsend would put a pan on her head and carry a bucket in each hand. One of them was always covered by a cloth and in that bucket there was always a 9mm Luger pistol. Once, when a plantation overseer hit her youngest son in the face, she warned him not to do it again. Laughing, perhaps as much in disbelief that she could or would do anything to stop him, the overseer grabbed Townsend, spun her around, and raised him arm to strike her. She caught his arm and forced him to the ground. When she let him up, he fled; he never bothered her children again.” Older Black women didn’t hesitate to use firepower as an aid in exercising their rights. Cobbs adds that, “A story Stokely Carmichael liked to tell was of bringing an elderly woman to vote in Lowndes Country, Alabama: ‘She had to be 80 years old and going to vote for the first time in her life. . . . That ol’ lady came up to us, went into her bag, and produced this enormous, rusty Civil War-looking old pistol. ‘Best you hol’ this for me, son. I’ma go cast my vote now.’”

​If Black women’s possessions of weaponry made whites uncomfortable in Reconstruction and the Civil Rights eras, it downright frightened them in the Black power period.  No longer were activists keeping it low-key that they exercised their right to self-defense against state terrorism. While there were many phallocentric theories by men of the Black Power movement concerning weapons, it was personally gendered for women in the Black Panther Party and the Black Liberation Army.  “By wielding guns, revolutionary women of the 1960s and 1970s claimed full citizenship,” writes Laura Browder. “And yet, they sought to change, and in some cases worked actively to dismantle, the nation. The gun came to be both a badge of citizenship and a symbol for dismantling an oppressive state.” In the 1970s, as Blaxploitation cinema emerged, Pam Grier, Tamara Dobson (Cleopatra Jones), and Jeannie Bell followed the example of Black Panther women in film by playing autonomous, radical lead characters who could aim, shoot, and fire at their assailants.

A number of Black women in hip-hop culture also frequently weaved gun talk into their lyrics, as a stance against gender imbalance in the genre and a defiant act against sexism. Lil’ Kim in “All about the Benjamins”: “And I kick shit like a nigga do/Pull the trigger too/Fuck you”, and Foxy Brown’s verse “Might breeze through Prada, Chloe, or Tiff’s/ Other than that, it’s just me and my 6”, were most notable in spitting bars that alluded to an embrace of self-preservation. Perhaps most poignant is Eve, whose record, “Love is Blind” chronicles the killing of an abusive male partner who is responsible for her friend’s death:

“And before you had a chance to get up

You heard my gun cock

Prayin' to me now, I ain't God but I'll pretend

I ain't start your life but nigga I'ma bring it to an end

And I did, clear shots and no regrets, never

Cops comin' lock me under the jail

Nigga whatever my bitch, fuck it my sister

You could never figure out even if I let you live

What our love was all about.”

​While there is a rich history of Black women utilizing weapons for self-defense, such acts of self-agency are increasingly met with push back by the state. In 2010, Marissa Alexander, a mother of three in Florida, fired a warning shot into a wall to ward off her abusive ex-husband, who had a history of being abusive, threatening to kill her. Two years later, she was sentenced to 20 years in prison on a murder charge. The court’s refusal to evoke the “Stand Your Ground” law in Alexander’s case sends the message that Black women are not supposed to fight for their survival, and to do so means that they will surely be punished. “If you do everything to get on the right side of the law, and the law does not apply to you, where do you go from there?” Alexander stated.

​While it has been a year since Alexander’s release (due to a retrial), her case is not unusual. Eisha Love, a Black transgender woman, was criminalized for defending herself against transphobic attacks and booked on aggravated assault, despite her assailants taunting her into an altercation in 2014. Cherelle Baldwin, another Black mother, was convicted of murder after she was attacked by her ex-boyfriend in her home in 2013. Baldwin tried to flee from her home, but her boyfriend came after her, and attempted to choke her with a belt. When she tried to escape the car, it rolled over her leg, and ended up crushing her ex-boyfriend. While the state is unable to provide for the safety of Black women, they also penalize them for enacting any type of method for survival. (Left: Marissa Alexander)

Understanding the history of guns in America from the perspective of Black women is crucial in understanding what liberation for our community will look like in the future. While firearms do not completely eradicate the threat of white supremacy and misogynoir, they are indisputably a traditional act of defiance for Black women, whom society refuses to grant autonomy. The embrace of firearms by women in the Black community demonstrate a brilliant sense of resilience. By actively working to dismantle the prison system, challenging the penalizing codes of the court systems, and working to end white supremacy and toxic masculinity, only then can the power of the gun in the name of self-defense be fully utilized.

​

Sources:

Amber, Jeannine. “In Her Own Words: Marissa Alexander Tells Her Story”. ESSENCE. 3/04/2015. Accessed 01/25/2016.

Browder, Laura. Her Best Shot: Women and Guns. North Carolina: University of North Carolina Press, 2006.

Cobbs, Charles. This Non-Violent Stuff’ll Get You Killed: How Guns Made the Civil Rights Movement. New York: Basic Books, 2014.

Henderson, Tanasha. “Black Domestic Violence Survivors are Criminalized from All Directions”. Truthout. 06/04/2015. Accessed 01/25/2016.

“Black Women Murdered by Men are Most Often Killed with a Gun, Almost Always by Someone They Know, According to New VPC Study Released Each Year for Domestic Violence Awareness Month”. Violence Policy Center. 09/19/2012. Accessed 1/24/2016.

Vincent, Rose Addison.  “State of Emergency for Transgender Women of Color”. Huffington Post.  09/16/2014. Accessed 01/25/2016.

[blackkudos]

Nikki Giovanni

Yolande Cornelia (Nikki) Giovanni, Jr. (born June 7, 1943) is an American poet, writer, commentator, activist, and educator. One of the world's most well-known African-American poets, her work includes poetry anthologies, poetry recordings, and nonfiction essays, and covers topics ranging from race and social issues to children's literature. She has won numerous awards, including the Langston Hughes Medal, the NAACP Image Award. She has been nominated for a Grammy Award, for her album The Nikki Giovanni Poetry Collection. Additionally, she has recently been named as one of Oprah Winfrey’s 25 "Living Legends" (29).

Giovanni gained initial fame in the late 1960s as one of the foremost authors of the Black Arts Movement. Influenced by the Civil Rights Movement and Black Power Movement of the period, her early work provides a strong, militant African-American perspective, leading one writer to dub her the "Poet of the Black Revolution." During the 1970s, she began writing children's literature, and co-founded a publishing company, NikTom Ltd to provide an outlet for other African-American women writers. Over subsequent decades, her works discussed social issues, human relationships, and hip-hop. Poems such as "Knoxville, Tennessee," and "Nikki-Rosa" have been frequently re-published in anthologies and other collections.

Giovanni has taught at Queens College, Rutgers, and Ohio State, and is currently a University Distinguished Professor at Virginia Tech. Following the Virginia Tech shooting in 2007, she delivered a chant-poem at a memorial for the shooting victims.

Life and work

Nikki Giovanni was born in Knoxville, Tennessee, to Yolande Cornelia, Sr. and Jones "Gus" Giovanni. She grew up in Lincoln Heights, a suburb of Cincinnati, Ohio, though she returned to Knoxville to live with her grandparents in 1958, and attended the city's Austin High School. In 1960, she began her studies at her grandfather's alma mater, Fisk University in Nashville, Tennessee. She had a difficult time adjusting to college life and was subsequently expelled. However, she realized that she needed an education, drove back to Nashville, spoke with the Dean of Women, and was readmitted. In 1967, she graduated with honors with a B.A. in History. Afterwards she went on to attend graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania and Columbia University.

In 1969, Giovanni began teaching at Livingston College of Rutgers University. In 1970 she began making regular appearances on the television program Soul!, an entertainment/variety/talk show which promoted black art and culture and allowed political expression. Soul! hosted important guests like Muhammad Ali, Jesse Jackson, Harry Belafonte, Sidney Poitier, Gladys Knight, Miriam Makeba, and Stevie Wonder. (In addition to being a "regular" on the show, Giovanni for several years helped design and produce episodes.) She also gave birth to her only son, Thomas Watson Giovanni. Since 1987, she has taught writing and literature at Virginia Tech, where she is a University Distinguished Professor. She has received the NAACP Image Award several times, received twenty honorary doctorates and various other awards, including the Rosa Parks and the Langston Hughes Award for Distinguished Contributions to Arts and Letters. She also holds the key to several different cities, including Dallas, Miami, New York City, and Los Angeles. She is a member of the Order of the Eastern Star (PHA), she has received the Life Membership and Scroll from the National Council of Negro Women, and is an Honorary Member of Delta Sigma Theta sorority.

She has also been honored for her life and career by the History Makers along with being the first person to receive the Rosa L. Parks Women of Courage Award. In 2015 Giovanni was named one of the Library of Virginia's "Virginia Women in History" for her contributions to poetry, education, and society.

Virginia Tech shooting

Seung-Hui Cho, the mass murderer who killed 32 people in the April 16, 2007 Virginia Tech shooting, was a student in one of Giovanni's poetry classes. Describing him as "mean" and "menacing", she approached the department chair to have Cho taken out of her class, and said she was willing to resign rather than continue teaching him. She stated that, upon hearing of the shooting, she immediately suspected that Cho might be the shooter.

Giovanni was asked by Virginia Tech president Charles Steger to give a convocation speech at the April 17 memorial service for the shooting victims (she was asked by Steger at 5pm on the day of the shootings, giving her less than 24 hours to prepare the speech). She expressed that she usually feels very comfortable delivering speeches, but worried that her emotion would get the best of her. On April 17, 2007, at the Virginia Tech Convocation commemorating the April 16 Virginia Tech massacre, Giovanni closed the ceremony with a chant poem, intoning:

Her speech also sought to express the idea that really terrible things happen to good people: "I would call it, in terms of writing, in terms of poetry, it's a laundry list. Because all you're doing is: This is who we are, and this is what we think, and this is what we feel, and this is why - you know?... I just wanted to admit, you know, that we didn't deserve this, and nobody does. And so I wanted to link our tragedy, in every sense, you know - we're no different from anything else that has hurt...."

She thought that ending with a thrice-repeated "We will prevail" would be anticlimactic, and she wanted to connect back with the beginning, for balance. So, shortly before going onstage, she added a closing: "We are Virginia Tech." Her performance produced a sense of unity and received a fifty-four second standing ovation from the over-capacity audience in Cassell Coliseum, including then-President George W. Bush.

Writing

The Civil Rights Movement and Black Power movements inspired her early poetry that was collected in Black Feeling, Black Talk (1967),which sold over ten thousand copies in its first year, Black Judgement (1968), selling six thousand copies in three months,and Re: Creation (1970). All three of these early works aided in establishing Giovanni as a new voice for African Americans.(30) In "After Mecca”: Women Poets and the Black Arts Movement, Cheryl Clarke cites Giovanni as a woman poet who became a significant part of the Civil Rights and Black Power Movement. Giovanni is commonly praised as one of the best African-American poets emerging from the 1960s Black Power and Black Arts Movements. Her early poetry that was collected in the late 1960s and early 1970s are seen as radical as and more militant than her later work. Her poems are described as being "politically, spiritually, and socially aware". Evie Shockley describes Giovanni as "epitomizing the defiant, unapologetically political, unabashedly Afrocentric, BAM ethos". Her work is described as conveying "urgency in expressing the need for Black awareness, unity, [and] solidarity." Giovanni herself takes great pride in being a "Black American, a daughter, mother, and a Professor of English". (29) She has since written more than two dozen books, including volumes of poetry, illustrated children's books, and three collections of essays. Her work is said to speak to all ages and she strives to make her work easily accessible and understood by both adults and children. (29) Her writing has been heavily inspired by African-American activists and artists. Issues of race, gender, sexuality, and the African-American family also have influenced her work. Her book Love Poems (1997) was written in memory of Tupac Shakur, and she has stated that she would "rather be with the thugs than the people who are complaining about them." Additionally, in 2007 she wrote a children’s picture book titled Rosa, which centers on the life of Civil Rights leader Rosa Parks. In addition to this book reaching number three on the New York Best Seller list, it also received the Caldecott Honors Award along with its illustrator Brian Collier, receiving the Coretta Scott King award. (29)

Giovanni is often interviewed regarding themes pertaining to her poetry such as gender and race. In an interview entitled "I am Black, Female, Polite", Peter Bailey questions her regarding the role of gender and race in the poetry she writes. The interview looks specifically at the critically acclaimed poem, "Nikki-Rosa", and questions whether it is reflective of her own childhood experiences as well as the experiences in her community. In the interview, Giovanni stresses that she did not like constantly reading the trope of the black family as a tragedy and that "Nikki-Rosa" demonstrates the experiences that she witnessed in her communities. Specifically the poem deals with black folk culture, and touches on such issues as alcoholism and domestic violence, and such issues as not having an indoor bathroom. (30)

Giovanni's poetry in the late 1960s and early 1970s addressed black womanhood and black manhood amongst other themes. In a book she co-wrote with James Baldwin entitled A Dialogue, the two authors speak blatantly about the status of the black male in the household. Baldwin challenges Giovanni's opinion on the representation of black women as the “breadwinners” in the household. Baldwin states, “A man is not a woman. And whether he’s wrong or right.... Look, if we’re living in the same house and you’re my wife or my woman, I have to be responsible for that house.". Conversely, Giovanni recognizes the black man’s strength, whether or not he is "responsible" for the home or economically advantaged. The interview makes it clear that regardless of who is "responsible" for the home, the black woman and black man should be dependent on one another. Such themes appeared throughout her early poetry which focused on race and gender dynamics in the black community.

Giovanni tours nationwide and frequently speaks out against hate-motivated violence. At a 1999 Martin Luther King Day event, she recalled the 1998 murders of James Byrd, Jr. and Matthew Shepard: "What's the difference between dragging a black man behind a truck in Jasper, Texas, and beating a white boy to death in Wyoming because he's gay?"

Those Who Ride the Night Winds (1983) acknowledged black figures. Giovanni collected her essays in the 1988 volume Sacred Cows ... and Other Edibles. Her more recent works include Acolytes, a collection of 80 new poems, and On My Journey Now. Acolytes is her first published volume since her 2003 Collected Poems. The work is a celebration of love and recollection directed at friends and loved ones and it recalls memories of nature, theater, and the glories of children. However, Giovanni's fiery persona still remains a constant undercurrent in Acolytes, as some of the most serious verse links her own life struggles (being a black woman and a cancer survivor) to the wider frame of African-American history and the continual fight for equality.

Giovanni's collection Bicycles: Love Poems (2009) is a companion work to her 1997 Love Poems. They touch on the deaths of both her mother and her sister, as well as the massacre on the Virginia Tech campus. “Tragedy and trauma are the wheels” of the bicycle. The first poem ("Blacksburg Under Siege: 21 August 2006") and the last poem ("We Are Virginia Tech") reflect this. Giovanni chose the title of the collection as a metaphor for love itself, "because love requires trust and balance."

In Chasing Utopia: A Hybrid (2013), Giovanni describes falling off of a bike and her mother saying, "Come here, Nikki and I will pick you up." She has explained that it was comforting to hear her mother say this, and that "it took me the longest to realize – no, she made me get up myself." Chasing Utopia continues as a hybrid (poetry and prose) work about food as a metaphor and as a connection to the memory of her mother, sister, and grandmother. The theme of the work is love relationships.

In 2004, Giovanni was nominated for the Grammy Award for Best Spoken Word Album at the 46th Annual Grammy Awards for her album The Nikki Giovanni Poetry Collection. This was a collection of poems that she read against the backdrop of gospel music.(29) She also featured on the track "Ego Trip by Nikki Giovanni" on Blackalicious's 2000 album Nia. In November 2008, a song cycle of her poems, Sounds That Shatter the Staleness in Lives by Adam Hill, was premiered as part of the Soundscapes Chamber Music Series in Taos, New Mexico.

She was commissioned by National Public Radio's All Things Considered��to create an inaugural poem for President Barack Obama. Giovanni read poetry at the Lincoln Memorial as a part of the bi-centennial celebration of Lincoln's birth on February 12, 2009.

Wikipedia

[soulcs]

Ghosting

The castle is haunted, everyone whispers. There’s a shade that lurks in every corner, things go missing from locked rooms, and doors open and close whenever they please. Yes, the castle is haunted.

Rudy would applaud them for their observation skills, if not for the fact that he’s been there for years.

Of course, within the last few years the so-called haunting had picked up. Maybe if people were paying attention they would have noticed that the uptick corresponded with Rudy’s sixteenth birthday, but who in a castle would notice a simple serving boy?

They say it’s the ghost of a witch that was killed around a decade before, the witch who bespelled the castle’s heir and upon being found out attacked the Lord himself. It’s not - wrong per se. But it certainly isn’t right either.

But to explain would be to cast back in time, to go back to before the castle was ever haunted. To look back upon the witch, who was not just a witch at all. She had been the Court Mage with all the respect that position demanded of her, not a simple hedgewitch like the nobles would have you believe.

It was a story of love, but more of story of betrayal than anything else.

One of Rudy’s oldest memories is watching his mother die. He was probably four or five, clutching at the dress of a serving girl as Elisheva stood at the center of the room with a defiant expression on her face.

The Lord of the castle was furious, rage darkening his previously handsome face. Elisheva had been unapologetic, equally furious. A clash of titans.

El wasn’t nobility. She wasn’t the Lord of the castle. But she was the castle’s mage - a position that had been handed down through generation upon generation of their family. The castle was owned by the Lord, but it belonged to the bloodline of Elisheva. It had always given her a sort of power no one else possessed, allowed her to get away with more than anyone else.

Rudy remembers his mother gesturing wildly, remembers the Lord’s eldest child being escorted from the room in tears as Elisheva tried to follow and was stopped by guards. He remembers the look on the Lord’s face as he sent two men at his mother, and the way she dispatched them with ease and lunged for the Lord.

He remembers the thwip-thunk of arrows and blood on the ground, but not well. The serving girl he had been hiding behind had swept him up into her arms, shielding him from the sight.

It was fortunate that the Lord didn’t pay any attention to those he considered beneath him, even including the private life of the court mage. No one had ever claimed that he was intelligent. But regardless, he was unaware of Rudy’s existence and had likely always assumed him to be the child of one of the castle staff. Which he was. Technically.

After his mother’s death (execution), Rudy was essentially adopted by the remainder of the castle staff. His mother had always been kind, showing new maids and serving girls the shortcuts and tricks with a wink and a smile. The staff had loved her, and it was the least they could do to repay her kindness by looking after her orphaned son.

So Rudy grew up learning the various trades of the castle. He scrubbed and cleaned with the maids, chopped and peeled vegetables in the kitchen, mucked out the stables and brushed down horses - he worked and he worked hard.

And the castle loved him.

Rudy’s family had been the caretakers of the castle for generation upon generation. Blood and sweat and tears poured into its very foundations - and it left a mark. Anything that was used for too long by a magic user was liable to become - strange. It was usually something small, like a contrary broom that swept up messes by itself, or a fireplace that refused to light unless someone said please. Little things that gave them personality.

The castle was too large to get that certain kind of strangeness - or it should have been. Something as big as a home took a lifetime to experience enough magic to gain quirks - but with generations of the same family. Well.

All Rudy knew is that doors were never locked to him, and sneaking around was easy. The creaky stool in the kitchen never whispered a sound when he was using it to sneak an extra pie. Eavesdropping was easy regardless of how thick a door was supposed to be. He never got lost looking for a room, and sometimes when he thought he was running late he would get somewhere early instead.

The castle loved him, even though his own magic hadn’t awoken. It loved him like his mother had loved him, like her father had loved her, and countless generations before that. Rudy wasn’t magic yet, but that didn’t stop him from doing things he shouldn’t have been able to do. After all, he might not have magic, but the castle was practically drenched in it.

Rudy spent his entire childhood ignored by nobles and doted on by the castle staff in equal measures, and he never felt lacking for it.

Rudy vanished for two weeks when he was sixteen.

They say that the first magic a young magic user experiences taints them. It colors every inch of them - it’s the reason for elemental mages and why there are sea witches and earth crones and illusion warlocks. It’s why there are specialties that run in certain families.The first magic someone touches is something that they live with all their lives.

Magic isn’t rare but it’s definitely different in terms of potential. There was a reason that Rudy’s mother was court mage, and not the cook who freshened ingredients with a touch, or the gardener whose flowers always bloomed beautifully, or the serving girl who could pull off impossibly beautiful hairstyles in half the time it took anyone else. There was magic in so many things, and people often forgot that.

Magic came from necessity. The thing was - Rudy had been positively drenched in magic - the castle was magic.

Elisheva’s magic had been tied in house and home. It was a magic of domain, which made it easier to take care of the castle. She had always known without fail if there was intruder. The castle had whispered the gossip to her and let her know when things needed repair, and Elisheva had taken care of it in return.

Magic often run in family lines because of exposure - so it shouldn’t have been a surprise when a lot of Rudy’s magic was also tied into the castle. It probably also shouldn’t have surprised anyone that Rudy’s magic was also tied into hiding. Rudy had been a ghost in the castle for long, long before there were rumors.

He looked a lot like his mother, after all.

It took Rudy two weeks to figure out how to be again. How to step out from between the here and there. Two weeks of actually being a ghost and unable to reach out and even talk to anyone.The castle still loved him - it loved him even more now that he could talk back to it. Could trail his fingers along the walls and listen to it complaining about the rude noble in the west wing who kicked the walls when frustrated. Could open doors with a gesture of his fingers and bring in soothing drafts from outside. Could understand it.

He could also disappear into the shadows now. He could melt into the walls like they weren’t there and hear the call of unused trapdoors hidden beneath ornate rugs. Rudy could see more than he’d ever before and it was terrifying.

The first thing he did, after going around and comforting those that had missed him, was ask the castle for a favor. The castle had spent so long looking out for its favored son that it was in complete agreement.

Rudy asked the castle to get rid of the Lord.

The castle might have been a little overeager. After all, the Lord owned it but Elisheva had loved it and it had loved her. And the Lord had killed the castle’s mage and it had been so angry. But with no direction from a mage, it had only resented him and could take no action.

The next day the Lord returned from a hunt, and the castle doors would not open to him. No matter what he tried. The castle easily permitted all but the Lord in its walls, but if someone tried to open the door for him it would swing shut with a bang. The Lord was left outside the castle, cursing terribly.

Rudy sat above on a windowsill. The widow there didn’t actually open - but the castle let him get away with a lot. Especially now. He called down to the Lord, waving jauntily with a smile. “Hello down there!”

The Lord was understandably confused and furious. “Who are you?” He spat at Rudy.

“I am Rudy, son of Elisheva.” Rudy told him easily, watching the blood drain from the Lord’s face.

“Have you come for vengeance?” The Lord asked Rudy, trembling slightly. Rudy almost felt pity for the man, but then he remembered a face twisted in a snarl and his mother’s body full of arrows, and suddenly he didn’t care for the comfort of the Lord anymore.

Still. Rudy was very tired, so he answered honestly. “No. You are free to leave this place unhindered. But the castle will not accept a murderer as its Lord. You shall have to send someone else.”

The Lord turned red in the face - “This is my castle!”

Rudy brandished a letter in one hand, and then vanished between one breath and the next making the audience that had gathered gasp. He twisted out of the shadows behind a messenger boy, offering the letter and ignoring the sputtering Lord. “Please, take this message to the King. The castle will accept another lord or lady - but it will never accept another of his line in its walls.”

“You’ve made sure of this?” The messenger boy asked, face made of stone.

Rudy shrugged in response, “The castle has hated him since he killed my mother - but it has not had a conduit to communicate before now.”

“Turn sixteen then?” The messenger boy asked with a rueful smile, reaching out to take the letter.

Rudy laughed, nodding, and then was twisting back into the shadows to narrowly miss the sword aimed at his torso from one of the Lord’s retainers. He reappeared with a pop back in the window.

Rudy’s laughter was gone, even as the messenger boy swung up on the horse to leave. His face was dark as he stared down his nose at the Lord, looking at him like he had looked at all the castle staff - like something not even worthy of his notice.

“I,” Rudy began, voice like thunder, “am not my mother, Lord of Nowhere. You may have killed her, but you will not kill me. At the very least, I am not in love with your daughter. You will find no mercy here, not now, not ever.”

He stood up gracefully, or as gracefully as a lanky sixteen-year-old could. He sneered down at the crowd outside the castle, smoothing a hand against its outer wall. The castle would not let them in, he trusted that. So with a twist of his hand he once again vanished, retreating back into the castle feeling cold and spent.

A new Lord arrived a month later, with a missive from the King himself. He had not been aware of the circumstances surrounding Elisheva’s death, and apologized for not investigating.

Rudy knew that he only got an apology instead of an army at his door because he was a powerful mage, even at only 16. Those with powerful magic, magic that could shape and change things - they were not common enough for the King not to seek to appease him.

The new Lord and Lady arrived, and Rudy did not meet them. He spent more time than not hovering between the here and there, ghosting around the castle on silent steps. They knew he was there. Everyone knew he was there - but Rudy had spent his childhood being invisible and he didn’t really want to give that up.

The Lord and Lady came with their young daughter. The castle liked the child, who ran through its halls with reckless abandon and said “sorry” when they crashed into the walls.

The castle was haunted, as everyone said. The ones who knew exactly who the castle was haunted by kept a tight lid on things. The castle was Rudy’s family after all - and they loved him.

[siryouarebeingmocked]

> The NRA strategists on the call sounded shaken and panicked as they pondered their next step into what would become an era of routine and horrific mass school shootings.

Now, call me crazy, but I think the NPR’s editorializing a tad.

>The Columbine shooting in Littleton, Colo., was at the time the deadliest school shooting since the late 1960s, threatening to provide a tragic backdrop to the NRA's previously scheduled annual convention in Denver. Billboards advertising a "World Class Guns & Gear Expo" already peppered the city. Meanwhile, hate mail began arriving at the NRA's offices.

Ah, yes, using a shooting where the shooters obtained their guns illegally to...attack people who support safe, legal, gun ownership.

Just like today, people don’t even wait for the facts before blaming guns and the NRa on spinal reflex.

>And inside, then-NRA President Charlton Heston delivered the defiant message that its leaders had planned out in their private calls — a message very similar to the group's position on mass shootings today: The national media is not to be trusted, and any conversation about guns and the NRA after mass shootings is an untoward politicization of the issue.

>"Why us? Because their story needs a villain. They want us to play the heavy in their drama of packaged grief, to provide riveting programming to run between commercials for cars and cat food," Heston said at the time to applause. "The dirty secret of this day and age is that political gain and media ratings all too often bloom on fresh graves."

Gee, I can’t imagine why a left-wing, pro-gun control source might disagree with this.

>Over the next two decades, this unapologetic message would come to define the NRA's tone in the wake of mass shootings at American schools. After 32 people were killed at Virginia Tech in 2007: "This is a time for people to grieve, to mourn, and to heal. This is not a time for political discussions or public policy debates." After the 2012 shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School: "The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun." 

Just like Columbine, the Sandy Hook shooter got his guns illegally. Except instead of straw purchases, he murdered his mom and took her guns.

It’s ironic they mention VTech - the deadliest school shooting in US history - when it’s usually ignored in favor of Sandy Hook. Because the shooter used handguns, was a mentally ill Asian man, and was at a college. 

Not as much emotional appeal, and it doesn’t fit the stereotypes.

>And after the 2018 shooting at a high school in Parkland, Fla., the NRA's spokesperson said bluntly, "Many in legacy media love mass shootings."

I think he’s right. They’re good ratings. Which is the actual context of their spokeswoman’s remarks. 

She also complained about how the FBI didn’t stop the shooting despite reports, which many gun control advocates ignored. Funny how they say they want to keep guns out of ‘the wrong hands’ but go quiet when the system fails to do so.

A reminder that much of our contemporary gun rights discourse is nothing more than industry PR - damage control to avoid liability for our absurd and unconscionable number of annual mass shootings, which we seem all but powerless to prevent.

[bussanbaby]

This is a rewrite of the jail scene from 2x12, for all of us that are bitter with how it went. Hope this brings you all at least a sliver of peace. 

After Alec comes back from Magnus’, he feels so agitated and uneasy, that even the fact that he banished Azazel back to Hell with a single arrow doesn’t help his mood, his pride pushed fully aside in favor of racing thoughts. He reports mechanically to the Clave, leaving out certain details that stick to his mind and ignite his suspicious nature.

 On one hand, he can understand Magnus’ strange behavior because of their somewhat failed summoning, but at the same time, even when tired or angry or even hurt, Magnus has never been this clipped and terse with him. It’s not the fact that he refuses to help Alec when he calls, because that has happened in the past and for good reasons, but not being given any explanation beyond being busy is unlike his boyfriend, usually attentive and understanding towards everyone he harbors some kind of affection for. Everything from cryptic words to Magnus not responding to his touch, leaves Alec feeling wrong and thrown off-kilter.

  He stomps into the camera room outside of Valentine’s holding cell and with crossed arms, he watches the footage, blinking when a shoe hits the lens, jostling it.

  “I know you’re listening! Please, I’m not Valentine, I’m Magnus Bane!” He hears the man call, sound muffled over the speakers. Anger blooms heavy inside his guts at the very notion that this maniacal murderer could even say the name, what’s more pose as Magnus, when clearly, clearly it’s Valentine-goddamn-Morgenstern; a delusional racist hell-bent on destroying the Downworld. Alec feels sick thinking about it, feels resentment beneath his skin itching to be let out, to pay back in violent justice for everything this man, this monster, has ever done.

  Without thinking, his feet carry him over in large strides and he yanks the cell door open, pushing Valentine up against the wall. “That’s enough!”

  This has to be a trick, a practical joke – Valentine speaks, says Alexander, which stings, because it reminds him of Magnus once again, of the soft cadence of his voice, eerily similar to what he just heard.  Nothing makes sense; when he was shackling Valentine up before the summoning, he looked into his eyes – mad and defiant and unapologetic to the last moments, but here, here Alec sees fear and desperation, a hint of tears catching on the hollowed out light from above. He presses his forearm against Valentine’s chest to keep him contained and feels a rabbiting heart beating heavily against his ribcage. Fingers grip tightly at his arms and Alec wants to shake them off, but he’s caught up in the disjointed conversation.

  “I’m Magnus. Azazel switched us with a curse, unum ad unum.” Valentine’s voice trembles as he talks with a wild kind of urgency, eyes fixed on Alec’s, too soft for a Morgernstern. Alec feels doused with doubt, cold tendrils of it coiling in his stomach. It doesn’t seem real, but now Alec can’t get the thought out of his head, like a song stuck playing on repeat.

  “You gave me that omamori charm, that I carry with me every day. It was after our night in Tokyo-“  Memories flood Alec’s mind – when he snuck off to buy the omamori, because he wanted Magnus to have something from him, to remind him that Alec loves him and cares for his well-being, when they kissed and Magnus’ hands were warm and steady at the small of his back, when kisses slowly turned into something far more intimate.

  It doesn’t make sense, Alec thinks, as the world fades into background noise, only his fighter’s instinct keeping who he thinks is Valentine from grappling him into a vulnerable position.

  “Stop. Stop!” He yells and the echo is the only sound left until their breathing fills the empty space. How could Valentine know details from his and Magnus’ life together, those moments captured in time with such accuracy? The doubt settles heavier, claws its way up to Alec’s throat and threatens to cut off the air. He can feel his hand trembling, while he holds Valentine at a distance. He shouldn’t trust anything that comes out of his mouth, because if Alec knows anything about him, it’s that he’s a villainous, lying snake ready to sink teeth into anyone that moves too close.

  Yet, maybe it’s true, Alec thinks. Maybe this is Magnus, trapped inside of his mortal enemy and with nobody except Alec to believe him. Maybe it’s just an elaborate plan to get out of here and continue the rampage of destruction and if so, Alec’s head would end up on a stick in front of the Inquisitor before five minutes pass.

  Self-doubt was always a close companion of Alec’s, ever since he started trying to fit himself into the mold of an emotionless leader; logic and proof and hard facts, not emotions or intuition. Alec can’t help but struggle with his judgement, something pained pressing against his ribs.

  “How do you know these things?”

  “Because it’s me, Alexander. The day of Valentine’s massacre , you told me that you loved me.” Alec stares unblinkingly at the panicked tremors of Valentine’s lower lip until his eyes start to burn and he presses them shut, that awful fear coming back to him, a memory of not knowing whether Magnus was still breathing after the Soul Sword was activated.

  He turns away, scrubbing both hands over his face in frustration. All of this feels like a sick fever-induced nightmare and Alec can’t help but pace in front of the glass like a trapped animal. He quickly tries to list all of the pros and cons, tries to put his thoughts into logical patterns.

  Could this be a lie? Always. Alec doesn’t doubt that, because Valentine could be 5 steps ahead of everyone and planning to use Alec’s weakpoints against him in case things go awry, maybe with a help of some spell they didn’t know about or maybe just through the sheer power of manipulation – after what happened to Jace, anything is possible.

  At the same time, he could be telling the truth; this could be Magnus counting on him for help, calling out for the person he loves. This could be Magnus – terrified and left alone in an empty cell with everyone thinking he’s Valentine. There’s a chance love of Alec’s life could be trapped in a body that doesn’t belong to him, hopeless and helpless without his magic.

  Alec can’t bear that possibility.

  He pulls his phone out of his pocket, almost drops it with trembling fingers and hits the green phone icon next to ‘Magnus’. Seconds stretch out while he’s waiting and then there’s the click of a picked up call. Before he can get any word in, there’s Magnus’ voice snapping at him.

  “Alec, do you not understand what the words ‘I’m busy’ mean? I-“

  He swallows at the tinge of distorted anger directed at him, but pushes past it. He looks over at maybe-Valentine, who’s watching Alec with hope written all over his face. “I have one question and then I’ll leave you alone.”

  “What is it then?”

  Alec’s brain quickly jumps from one personal detail to another, searching for something that only the real Magnus would know.

  “Do you remember what you answered me, when I told you that relationships take effort?” He asks, his heart right in his throat as silence falls on the other side, followed by an annoyed scoff.

  “Why would I remember all of our conversations?”

  It’s enough proof for Alec.

  “Sorry for bothering you then. Bye.” He forces himself to keep up the ruse, disconnects and holds the phone tightly, before turning to face Magnus in Valentine’s body, who’s shaking involuntarily with relief, eyes still focused on Alec, but wet, round tears dripping down scarred skin that’s just not right.

  There’s a shadow of a smile when he speaks.

  “I’m all for effort.”

  Alec breathes out, the doubt gone.

[toushindai]

some thoughts on the order of Red's songs

I’m just a Steam Sale baby still piecing headcanons together, like under no circumstances should you ask me anything about the Country yet (let alone the nature of Cloudbank), but here are my thoughts on Red’s music. This started as a theoretical outline of the order in which her songs may have come out and then turned into some pretty extensive character analysis so uh, that’s what’s what.

“Signals” was her first song, the one that got her “discovered.” It has a comparatively sparse, acoustic feel because she produced it on her own. It’s also kind of a downer song, written at a time when she was feeling very raw and not particularly hopeful. The theme of “being one” (which features more heavily into “We All Become”) is how Red expresses a frustration with the city: a sense that the nature of Cloudbank encourages assimilative agreement rather than individual expression.

“The Spine” and “She Shines” came out around the same time as each other, maybe on the same album, hence similarities in some of the metaphors. However, they express very different moods and very different ideas that have been on Red’s mind. “The Spine” is a Mental Health Song, bridging between “Signals” and some of her later songs in both mood and musical style. In this song, she feels the city’s changes as a physical exhaustion mirroring her own depression, even though she can also see some of its beauty.

This open ambivalence is exactly what made “She Shines” so contentious. Fans who picked up on what they believed to be political messages in “Signals” and “Spine” (though Red would have said that they were her own emotions instead of political messages) felt betrayed by this comparatively uncomplicated love song to the city of Cloudbank. Some even suspected her, or someone working behind her, of writing deliberate propoganda in favor of the current state of affairs. This was a misunderstanding; the song was sincere on Red’s part, a look at what makes the city beautiful (in spite of its flaws). However, suspicions of propoganda became anger and unrest, leading to the riot at one of her shows and her temporary retreat from the limelight.

At this time, she had already met Boxer and began to build a friendship with him. He helped her get out of the venue unscathed during the riot, and his friendship also becomes a pillar of support in her low mental periods.

By the time she makes her return to the spotlight with “We All Become,” Boxer has become her semi-official bodyguard in case of further riots. Their relationship has also shifted into a romantic one, though perhaps in an unspoken way and decidedly still in secret.

“We All Become” is very directly about her retreat from and subsequent return to the stage. See especially the contrast between “Think I’ll go where it suits me/ Moving out to the Country” in the first verse and “Lying down never struck me/ as something fun” in the second. It’s also very deliberate about the messages it sends. Whereas “Signals” and “The Spine” were melancholy, “We All Become” is passionate, almost angry in tone, and gives the listeners commands about what to do about the state of the city. Now they’re not particularly rebellious commands–the song doesn’t scream “seize the means of production” so much as it insists on maintaining one’s individuality in the face of Cloudbank’s homogenizing democracy, by escaping it somehow. Or, if necessary, by externalizing the pain that would otherwise be hidden through what can only be taken as self-injury imagery in the latter half of the second verse.

Essentially, after her song caused a riot, Red felt responsible and believed that she was not conscious enough of the messages she was sending; her (perhaps sudden?) fame meant that even if she wrote a song purely to express her own complicated heart, it would mean something to others as well–perhaps things she didn’t intend. She considers retirement (“moving out to the Country”) but instead returns to speak up. And yet the courses of action she suggests are explicitly to leave. So…? I’m not sure how exactly that fits into things, other than serving as evidence that Red has always seen departure from the system as a legitimate form of resistance. Which is certainly held up by the end of the game, isn’t it.

After her triumphant return with the decidedly political “We All Become,” “In Circles” and “Paper Boats” are very personal in comparison. These two songs are not particularly about Cloudbank in any way I can find; however, they do suggest the complicated relationship with responsibility that Red learned over her hiatus. In “In Circles,” for instance, it is not only that she does not return Sybil’s affections; she can’t save Sybil, a declaration that is mournful, guilty, and defiant all at once. Red sees that she may be expected to act for Sybil’s sake, and she wants to do something–but what is asked if her is beyond what she is willing to do. The understanding that it’s not enough torments her but does not change her mind, even as she casts herself as unmerciful in the song.

Which brings us to “Paper Boats.” A love song. Her most recent song, I think, bordering on a public declaration of her relationship with Boxer. It’s certainly close enough to one to gall Sybil, who to make things worse just been turned down via song. So maybe it’s not so surprising that she blames Boxer for disrupting her chance to gain Red’s affections. (Cool motive, still murder.)

But even this song reveals a complicated relationship with agency and personal responsibility. Red describes herself both as someone pulled in by the inescapable forces of love and fate and as the one who pursues. “You can run, but you can’t hide” is not usually a phrase associated with a mutual relationship, and yet we see from the very first moments of the game that Red and Boxer’s love is very mutual. So why this phrase? I think it’s Red reclaiming some of the agency she relinquished when she acknowledged the unintended effects her songs could have on people. She is reclaiming her selfishness–actions for her own sake. It can be seen as aggressive, so she uses language that casts her as the aggressor–but wryly, perhaps, because the truth is she knows that her feelings are returned. So instead of the regret we hear in “In Circles,” “Paper Boats” is triumphant and sweet–a willing collaboration with the tides of love instead of something she has to fight against or answer in some externally assigned way.

…That got long and I feel like it deserves some kind of concluding paragraph. I think Red’s story is in many ways one of agency, and the conflict of trying to maintain agency when one is expected to exist for others, in whole or in part. As a public figure, and then as the only person who can do something about stopping the Process’ assault on the city, Red is forced to contend with that conflict despite her obviously strong personality. She is expected to behave a certain way; if she does not, her actions may cause people to get hurt. Which she doesn’t want–but how long can she mute her own desires for the sake of protecting others? Her songs reveal various attempts to wrestle with and answer these questions over time, and in the end, she chooses her unapologetic selfishness and her own happiness, and that, I think, is a kind of triumph.

[emilybrowningfans]

Emily interviewed for The Last Magazine

“My muse is not a horse and I am in no horse race and if indeed she was, still I would not harness her to this tumbrel…” It is the end of a four-day press run in New York for the new Starz series American Gods and Emily Browning is reciting to her castmates, the show’s developers—Michael Green and Brian Fuller—and the story’s original creator, English author Neil Gaiman, the infamous rejection letter penned “to all those at MTV” by fellow Australian and rock music’s ‘Prince of Darkness’ Nick Cave. “It’s incredible—he was nominated for an MTV Award for Murder Ballads and he wrote MTV a letter saying, ‘Thanks but no thanks,’ and essentially that art is not a competition,” says Browning over coffee the following morning.

As Browning recalls it, her dinnertime recitation of Cave’s letter emerged from news that episodes of American Gods would be screened in front of a panel to determine whether the series might qualify for Emmy consideration. “I was telling them how scary that is to me and I ended up reading them the letter that Nick Cave wrote,” she explains.

In the hours before Browning journeys back to her adopted home of Los Angeles, the young star appears understated and authentic, her dry, self-deprecating humor ringing true to the country she called home for some twenty-plus years, the country where at just eight years old she got her start in the television movie The Echo of Thunder and where over the following five years, she would hold her own alongside Billy Connolly in the comedy The Man Who Sued God, Heath Ledger and Orlando Bloom in the retelling of the life of the infamous Australian bushranger Ned Kelly, and Julianna Marguiles in the Australian-filmed, American-released horror flick Ghost Ship. But her big break came in 2004 in the shape of A Series of Unfortunate Events, which saw Browning share screen time with Hollywood heavyweights Jim Carrey, Jude Law, Meryl Streep, and Connolly for the second time.

Yet despite her two decades in front of the camera racking up an impressive list of IMDB credits spanning myriad genres including everything from crime dramas (Legend, in which Browning plays Tom Hardy’s wife) to musicals (the British drama God Help the Girl, for which she took the lead), the young star speaks frankly and openly about the fears that go hand-in-hand with a burgeoning acting career.

There is the wavering skepticism surrounding award ceremonies—”If our show won awards that would be really exciting and wonderful, and yet I’ve always had a weird feeling about awards. I really don’t understand how every year there is one person from each category who is the best person at the art that they do”—but equally, if not more so, Browning’s uneasiness stems from a lingering and very real apprehension towards the ostensibly public nature of fame itself. “I have a feeling that if this show is big, it won’t be long before there are stories about me being an asshole because I wouldn’t take a photo with someone—but it is so often because it makes me panic and I don’t know how to respond,” she says. “I’m such a socially inept person in general that I’m like, How am I going to deal with it?” she concedes with a laugh.

Needless to say, with the series’ premiere last night—and a substantial pre-existing fan base by virtue of Gaiman’s award-winning novel of the same name about a clutch of Old Gods pulled from ancient mythology who confront New American Gods who represent some of the more complicated aspects of our modern society like Media and the stock market—Browning’s fear may soon become a reality. It’s a gamble the 28-year-old actress says she is willing to take in support of the series and her character, the enigmatic and pivotal Laura Moon, for whom Browning developed a profound appreciation. “I fell in love with Laura immediately,” she explains. “I had never read a character like her before who is not built to be likable, which is wonderful and really freeing.”

In many ways, Browning’s gritty portrayal of the “unapologetically crass and complicated and flawed” Laura inadvertently opens up an important conversation about what it means to be a woman in today’s Hollywood. “We’ve been having this discussion about strong, female characters and I think that a lot of people misinterpret that to mean girls who kick ass and independent women who don’t need a man, but really the strength is about characters being written in a complex and interesting way,” Browning says. “That’s what I mean when I say I want to play strong characters, I mean characters that are written well and fleshed out well. I want to play horrible people and lovely people and weak people and stupid people. I think that’s what it’s about—we just want as much range available to us as men have had forever.”

Furthermore, the series comes at a time of unprecedented change and trepidation harnessing both the current political and social landscapes, which in effect has instigated an expansive and perhaps long overdue conversation around what it means to be “American.” Throughout the eight-episode first season, questions surrounding faith, sexuality, sacrifice, loyalty, belief, and love are a guts-and-all affair, the camera’s focus holding steady during scenes that in the industry by and large are deemed too provocative to be shown in their entirety. Take for instance the gay love scene between characters Salim and Jinn, two Muslim men, which Browning cites as a favorite moment. “If you ever see a gay love scene, so often there’s a moment early on when the camera decides to look away, and I like the fact that we don’t look away from it,” she says, “and that it’s tender and awkward and emotional and lovely, and it’s also a really hot scene. I think that there’s not enough of that.”

Additionally, the series addresses such contentious issues as America’s obsession with guns and gun control, along with the ongoing immigration debate. “I definitely don’t want it to sound like the show is liberal preachiness in any way because I don’t believe that it is,” Browning explains. “I don’t think that we’re prescribing any set of beliefs. I really think that if there is a message, the message is that all faith is relevant and whatever it is that you believe in, you should be able to believe in that thing no matter what it is. The show is naturally, effortlessly diverse, which is how I think it should be. It makes me really proud to be a part of it, especially right now.”

Indeed, for someone who has “never really had a plan,” relying instead on sheer gut instinct when it comes to the projects she has pursued, Browning’s trajectory to date cuts a singular path that above all champions multiplicity over certainty. “I’m not the kind of person that wants to work nonstop—I want something special,” she says. Something like Golden Exits, for instance, which premiered at Sundance and cast Browning alongside Jason Schwartzman, Chloë Sevigny, and Mary-Louise Parker in the artfully defiant independent feature from writer-director Alex Ross Perry. “I’ve been playing a few awful characters lately, it’s great,” says Browning of her Golden Exits character, Naomi, an Australian girl whose arrival in Brooklyn sets off a train of events that, in true Perry style, depict the more cantankerous side of human behavior. “Alex thinks that that character is me,” says Browning with a laugh. “We’ve essentially talked about the fact that the character is the worst possible version of me. I mean there were a few times when I had to say to him, ‘This isn’t me, though, I’m not this horrible, I don’t actually treat men this way.’ But a lot of that character came out of stories that we shared with one another about people that we knew respectively and about ourselves, so I knew her very well from the beginning.”

As for now, Browning is taking some well-earned time to catch her breath after a grueling six months of four AM starts on set for American Gods. “I’m just having a moment to gather inspiration and ideas, and to just gather my energy before season two as well.” And of the future, no matter the course her career may take, Browning resolves to never lose her pure, unconstrained love of the craft—despite the anxiety it instills time and time again. “I still absolutely have the feeling of being a huge fan of performers and of movies,” she says. “I don’t ever want to lose that. I don’t ever want to be jaded, because I think then you’re screwed.”

American Gods continues on Sundays on Starz.

[sunlitroom]

Did a post a while ago on glasses in Hitchcock here and thought it might be fun to look at glasses and the tropes they call up in Gotham.

Ed’s probably the first character who springs to mind when you think of glasses.  In season one, his glasses represent three aspects of his personality: his ‘geeky’ social awkwardness; his analytical intelligence and eye for detail, and his ability to be clinical and detached.

It’s interesting that when we see Ed’s mirror self, he isn’t wearing glasses.  This reinforces the image of Ed in glasses as the butt of jokes, the geeky kid.  MirrorEd is frustrated by Ed’s lack of agression and his many social failures and embodies all the confidence that Ed, at this point, cannot manifest (he presumably doesn’t lack it: if his mirror self has it - it’s just buried).  His hair is more stylish, his posture is better, his voice is deeper, and - noticeably - the glasses are gone.

When Ed ‘reconciles’ both sides of himself, his glasses are retained - he needs them, after all - but they shift in what they represent.  They serve as part of a disguise now - and what better disguise for a cold-blooded killer than old Ed’s persona: clumsy, bespectacled, socially inept?

However, they also serve as a reminder for us of the sharp and deadly nature of Ed’s intelligence.  He directs piercing glances all over the place when he’s assessing threats, looking for a way to hurt an enemy, or searching for an advantage for himself.  We see light glint off his glasses, presenting a barrier between his true self and any observer.  The clinical detachment he presumably had to have as a medical examiner is now a dominant part of his personality.  The glasses are now a tool in his arsenal.

Kristin wears glasses too, one of the visual motifs which tie her to Ed, along with her 50s-inspired clothing. 

In Kristin’s case, the glasses underline the vaguely librarian-ish job she has and tag her as a certain category of female character.  She’s not the kind of glamorous love-interest they’d ever match up with Jim - attractive as she is - but she’s appealing to Ed.

Kristin’s glasses also flag her intelligence.  Working in the archives requires an eye for detail and organisation.  They signal her intelligence in other ways, too.  She’s instinctively wary of Ed for a long time, and easily spots the clue he couldn’t help writing into Doherty’s goodbye letter. 

Finally, they point to practicality and reason.  Kristin acts fast when she learns that Ed murdered Doherty, and tries to leave the apartment as quickly as possible - not swayed by any of Ed’s protestations.

Later - we see Kristin’s glasses in Ed’s apartment.  He claims that he’s held on to them for sentimental reasons, although considered alongside Doherty’s badge, they look more queasily like a serial killer’s trophy.

Kristin’s glasses, or an identical pair, make another appearance further down the line, this time on Isabella’s face, making Ed panic, reminded of his murderous impulses (and reminding us that Ed, more than any other character, perhaps, is presented as genuinely unwell). 

Isabella realises that Kristin’s glasses have made Ed fear that he might not be able to control himself, and that he might hurt her.  She uses the glasses as the key piece in a semi-reenactment of Kristin’s murder in an attempt to exorcise Ed’s demons and prove to him that (a) he won’t hurt her, and (b) demonstrate to the audience that she accepts Ed in his entirety (as opposed to Kristin, who rejected Ed’s dark side in a similar scene) and give her eventual death some pathos.

Glasses aren’t quite so important for the remaining characters here, but they serve to underline the uses to which they’re put:

Harvey’s glasses remind us that he’s actually more intelligent and cool-headed than he likes to pretend, frequently acting more like a detective while Jim runs round half-cocked. 

Jeri’s glasses likewise point to intelligence and cool-headedness.  Nothing fazes her, not a gun at her head or the threat of violence from Jim.

Oswald’s only worn glasses once: these sunglasses, an attempt to conceal his identitywhen acting as an informant.  Typically for Oswald, they actually draw more attention to him.  Oswald’s constantly masking the entirety of his identity and intentions by taking on some other guise - Gertrud’s good boy, Maroni’s golden goose, Fish’s boy, Falcone’s spy - but there’s a defiant and unapologetic core to him that has no desire to remain hidden or blend in, and tells itself in the odd cuts and rich colours in his clothes; his teased, elaborate hair; his old-fashioned manners.  We see it here in his sunglasses.  Oswald has no interest in concealment.

Hugo and Ethel’s glasses symbolise their intelligence, but also a frightening and extreme level of clinical detachment which allows them to coldly abuse patients in their care.  The coloured lenses in Hugo’s glasses scream ‘danger’ just as loudly as Oswald’s little continental cross - a bizarre twist on a commonplace item which suggests a threat hidden in plain sight.

[queen-evanlyn]

It's late 'o clock, but have some bat-family music headcanons

Dick: Dick is the 1975. He doesn't take himself too seriously and has a nice butt

Babs: Old Fall Out Boy. Certified Original 2000's Emo™ here.

Jason: My Chemical Romance. Has made alfred promise to actually play Helena at the funeral the next time he dies. Probably had a heart attack when MCRX happened. "If I came back from the dead so can they" Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge is his unironic aesthetic.

Tim: Twenty Øne Piløts. Tim has the depth to jam to the deep poetry. "Blurryface matches my costume stop laughing the beanie is just to keep me warm" "what you've never seen me in red eye makeup?" (Protip: singing heathens whenever Dami and Jason are unapologetically trying to murder each other doesn't help)

Steph: Steph is a Panic! At the Disco Girl. Several viral videos have documented a cloaked vigilante belting out classics such as "Camisado" and "Far too young to die" while belting supervillains a new one. "Steph that's unprofessional" "If you love me let me Gooooooooooooooooo"

Cass: Cassandra is really Into PVRIS. #PunkAesthetic

Damian: New Fall Out Boy. Insists that any FOB before 2013 should forgotten. Gets in verbal fights with Dick over it. Gets in physical fights with Babs over it. Gets a black eye over it. Still defiant. "Patrick's the shortest in the group but he's the most obviously superior one" "Have you seen Pete's abs?" "Calm down Dick"

Harper: Harper is solidly in the Halsey camp. Matching hair helps. Bruce gets her tickets for a Gotham city show for her birthday and gets "dragged along" to the concert. Lets just say the batkid's snap stories blow up that night. ("He knows all the words to young god what")

Luke: Luke is secretly a hipster. Mumford and sons, Young the Giant, Fitz and the Tantrums, Of Monsters and Men.

Alfred: Alfred's theatric past means showtunes are his jam. Les Mis, Wicked, the Sound of music and West Side Story are all in his repertoire, with newer shows like Hamilton popping up as he stays at the forefront of what's big on broadway

Duke: Duke is just doing his own thing. Nobody can argue with All Time Low and Paramore, with a dusting of Relient K and Switchfoot. He stays out of the war over who gets the aux cord with the aid of a good pair of noise-canceling headphones.

[njawaidofficial]

Not All Bad Girls Go To Prison

https://styleveryday.com/not-all-bad-girls-go-to-prison/

Not All Bad Girls Go To Prison

Sarah Maxwell and Alexis Miller

Netflix

“She don’t care who you are, how big you are, she’ll fight you if she needs to and it cracks me up.” That’s the introduction given by 16-year-old Sarah Maxwell when we first meet fellow inmate Alexis Miller, an otherwise soft-spoken 15-year-old with dimples and cascading brunette locks, in Episode 5 of Girls Incarcerated: Young and Locked Up, an eight-episode docuseries released on Netflix in March. It would work equally well as a tagline for the whole series, which delves into the lives of teen girls serving time in Indiana’s Madison Juvenile Correctional Facility for a range of mostly petty offenses like repeated runaways and drug and alcohol consumption, but in a few cases assault and vehicular manslaughter.

Executive producer Nick Rigg has described the show — which follows the emotional and behavioral growth of roughly 15 inmates (referred to as “students”) along with empathetic commentary from their correction officers, counselors, teachers, and occasional family members — as “Orange Is the New Black for a 13 Reasons Why generation.” But unlike both of those series, Girls Incarcerated is not fiction. The series sits at a provocative nexus of popular unscripted programming, where a wave of documentary-style shows that spotlight the issue of incarceration in the US, such as MSNBC’s Lockup and OWN’s Released, intersects with the trope of the troubled teen seen in many reality programs, such as MTV’s Teen Mom and A&E’s Beyond Scared Straight. Rigg maintains that Girls Incarcerated is not a “reality” series in the way that we’ve come to understand the term, because, he says, “we weren’t going to make TV stars of these girls.” And yet the show highlights the girls’ innate star quality. They are funny, and outrageously so, delivering an uncanny mix of outsized confidence and childish goofiness direct to your living room.

Madison Juvenile Correctional Facility

Netflix

Asked about practicing Zumba during the prison’s daily rec hour, Paige McAtee, a wide-eyed 17-year-old with a heart-shaped neck tattoo, explains matter-of-factly that she wants a body like Nicki Minaj, before smacking her hips for the camera and succumbing to a giggle fit about the “jiggle.” In another scene, Miller gushes over a girl she’s crushing on, an inmate named Armani Buckner, in her diary: “Let me find out she find another girl I’d be gettin’ a murder charge lol no joke.” (In reality, Miller is serving time because she started using drugs and running away after her mother became homeless and released her to foster care.)

“I’m too pretty to fight.”

Later, when Buckner discovers her cat has died back home, Miller and a group of Madison inmates stand around the cat’s makeshift funeral in the prison yard, reassuring Buckner that her cat is “probably eatin’ hella tuna up there.” And when 16-year-old Najwa Pollard, agitated, argues with correctional staff over a piece of her mail that’s been returned to sender, Pollard threatens, “Do you really wanna go down this road? … It ain’t gonna be pretty. It’s not gonna be peaches ’n’ cream. It’s gonna be baked beans ’n’ burritos ’cause I’m farting up a storm in here!” Pollard eventually cooled off, which reminds me of a common refrain when the girls at Madison decide to de-escalate a confrontation before it turns physical: “I’m too pretty to fight.”

The cheeky and combative bravado of the show’s teenage protagonists is, on the surface level, wildly amusing. (Believe me when I say that the girls of Girls Incarcerated are experts in throwing shade so brutal they make Khloé Kardashian’s comebacks seem almost tactful.) And despite Rigg’s stated intentions, it’s not hard to imagine this as a selling point for the show’s producers — one of whom, Jordana Hochman, formerly acted as vice president of Oxygen Media and might have recognized the bizarre appeal of something like a state-sanctioned version of Bad Girls Club. It would be easy to dismiss Girls Incarcerated as yet another example of questionable reality television, one that uses entertainment value as an excuse to capitalize on the real-life circumstances of some of the nation’s most vulnerable populations: girls of color; girls who live in poverty; girls who run away from home; girls whose parents are imprisoned; girls who have been molested, raped, and abused.

Alexis Miller and Armani Buckner, and Najwa Pollard

Netflix

But Girls Incarcerated (thankfully) isn’t Bad Girls Club. Neither is it exactly like other popular television programs that gawk at out-of-control “bad” girls like the delinquent teen guests we’ve seen on Dr. Phil or the criminally self-obsessed aspiring reality stars of the 2010 E! series Pretty Wild. The inmates of Girls Incarcerated could only be cast on the show because they’d already been assigned their roles by the criminal justice system and trained to play those roles by the failure of the institutions around them, like public education and the foster care system. To some extent they’re performing for the show’s cameras, but there was no need for the producers to manufacture drama: These girls are already living it.

Instead, the show’s awkward balance between tragically adult situations and the final vestiges of childhood enables us to view the “bad” girls of Madison as, surprisingly, just what they are: living, breathing human teen girls — not yet fully formed. While the criminal behavior of young girls is typically flattened by the media into two-dimensional spectacles that humiliate these girls and serve them up as cautionary tales, the show’s (sometimes sad, sometimes banal) contextualizing of the complex histories of a girl’s race, class, and childhood feels like a considerable shift in how our culture turns its gaze on “bad” girls.

Yet for all the empathetic reframing it does, the hopeful optimism offered by Girls Incarcerated still positions the detention center as a site of redemption for its teenage protagonists, none of whom are rich, and many of whom are girls of color. The question is why, when other, more privileged “bad” girls enjoy lower stakes for the same behavior — think about the troubled teen celebrities of the mid-aughts — are the girls of Girls Incarcerated still only afforded redemption stories on television if they are funneled through traditional punitive measures of the state?

Girls walk back to their unit at Madison Juvenile Correctional Facility.

Netflix

“What are we to do with the ambition of young Midwestern girls?” critic Jessa Crispin asks in her introduction to the 2013 edition of I Await the Devil’s Coming, the forceful and unapologetic autobiography of Mary MacLane, the “Wild Woman of Butte,” who published her diary in 1902, when she was just 19. The book, in which MacLane proudly proclaims herself an amoral genius devoted to the devil, scandalized the US for its surprisingly self-assured teen girl ego, so uncommon for girls of MacLane’s time, or any time for that matter.

MacLane’s memoir was, needless to say, a hit, selling 100,000 copies in its first month of publication alone and jettisoning the defiant teen out of Butte, Montana, and into the decadent life of fame, fortune, and devilish pleasures she so desired. MacLane became a household name, but after she was found dead in a Chicago hotel room at the age of 48, her books fell out of print and the legacy of her youthful rebellion was largely forgotten. Still, there is something timeless about MacLane. Crispin describes her as “a feminine, Midwestern Napoleon” — the “teenager who, born in another place with a slight change of disposition, the government would have to send for with its gunboats.”

Newspaper heiress Patty Hearst is led to her 1976 trial by two federal marshals.

Bettmann Archive / Getty Images

In other words, the United States has always been invested in the surveillance and governance of “bad” girls, though their construction in the media has shape-shifted considerably throughout the last several decades. In 1974, 19-year-old Patty Hearst, who was famously recorded wielding a semiautomatic rifle while robbing a bank with the Symbionese Liberation Army, symbolized the wayward female revolutionary of the 1960s and ’70s. By the 1990s, it was the flashy urban girl gang — armed with box cutters, beer bottles, screwdrivers, and knives — who lined their lips and coated their faces in Vaseline before flocking to the streets in defense of the “hood.”

While Hearst — a rich, white heiress — was framed in the media as a lost girl suffering from Stockholm syndrome whose loving parents (and the rest of the nation) wanted her home, broadcast news reports on the ’90s girl gangsters serve as examples of race- and class-based fearmongering that paint girls of color as violent detriments to US society. Despite being found guilty of armed robbery after her story of brainwashing and coercion was deemed unbelievable by a jury, Hearst was released from prison after only two years when her original seven-year sentence was commuted by President Jimmy Carter. She then enjoyed a brief acting career and quiet family life before being granted a full pardon by President Clinton in 2001. Talk about a redemptive arc.

In 2018, the girls of Girls Incarcerated are those teens sent for with gunboats, only the gunboats have now been replaced with a less metaphorical form of control: the juvenile justice system. They are angry, assertive, and loud, poised for a fight behind Madison’s barbed wire and cinder blocks — an entire squadron of “mouthy little girl[s],” which is the most common description given of any one of the teens featured on the show, both by the inmates themselves and their correction officers. The girls have all got mouths: Of course they know how to use them.

Heidi Lakin

Netflix

Take, for example, Madison’s young Heidi Lakin, who is locked up on violent assault charges (she beat up a kid and stole the keys to his car while drunk). Lakin is 16 years old, a wisecracking, bespectacled white girl with a soft spot for conspiracy theories and fart humor. “I like to fight,” says Lakin during an interview in the first episode, twisting her lips into a smirk for the camera before allowing: “But it’s a bad habit.” Anticipating an afternoon volleyball tournament between Unit 5 and Unit 6 later on in the series, she boasts, “5 is better than 6, of course, ’cause 6 is trash. Trash-ass females, trash-ass day room, trash-ass bedrooms — look at us.”

Or take Chrissy Hutchinson, whom we also meet in Episode 1, just a few weeks prior to her release from Madison. Hutchinson is 17, black, gay, and a bit of a heartthrob, sentenced to two years for a litany of charges, including selling drugs, stealing cars, and robbing homes. Proud of the change and emotional growth she’s accomplished inside, Hutchison, when interviewed about romantic relationships between the girls at Madison, smiles and says simply, “I’m a stud.”

It’s a sort of larger-than-life self-posturing we can’t seem to get enough of when it comes to young girls, especially as entertainment on TV. And it’s no more on view than with “mean girl” Brianna “Princess Thug” Guerra, the queen bee of Madison Juvenile, who, at 17, has been in and out of lockup for going on four years. When we first meet Guerra, her arrival on scene is precipitated by a series of strained commentary from fellow inmates and correctional staff alike. We learn from those around her that the popular and perennially lip-glossed teen is “blunt and honest,” a confident “alpha personality” who “tells people exactly how she feels,” with an added dramatic flair from the sparkle of her dermal face piercing. Regarding Lakin, for example, Guerra doesn’t beat around the bush. “She spit in my best friend’s lotion,” she says, disgusted, followed by the obvious: “I don’t like her.”

Clockwise from top left: Chrissy Hutchinson, Aubrey Wilson, Brianna Guerra, and Sarah Maxwell

Netflix

Since the ’80s and ’90s we’ve seen this bravado on reality or talk show programs in the form of the out-of-control white girl, whose crimes are ultimately redeemed through the kind of short-lived celebrity that brings a payday. Consider Danielle Bregoli’s rise to internet stardom after appearing on the 2016 Dr. Phil episode “I Want to Give Up My Car-Stealing, Knife-Wielding, Twerking 13-Year-Old Daughter Who Tried to Frame Me for a Crime,” which somehow led the teen to a record deal and later a Billboard nom for Top Rap Female Artist in 2018.

The obvious problem with all representations of “bad” girls in the media is that, no matter what, there is a flattening of the truth.

There was also 16 and Pregnant and Teen Mom star Farrah Abraham’s DUI and near collision with a police cruiser in 2013 (when Abraham was 21), to which she responded to press by tweeting “#I’mSuccessful & I don’t care about drama!” Abraham was sentenced to six months’ probation and a $500 fine, after which gossip blogs like TMZ continued to report about the “hard partying” mom who “knows how to get down,” allowing adequate wiggle room for Abraham to pass as “just a young girl having fun.” And in 2010, “Bling Ring” felon Alexis Neiers, an 18-year-old aspiring celebrity from a well-off part of the San Fernando Valley who was arrested for her involvement in the burglaries of several celebrities’ homes, secured an entire season of her own reality show, Pretty Wild, on E!.

Pretty Wild continued to film while Neiers was out on bail and negotiated the circumstances of her highly publicized court case, about which Vanity Fair’s Nancy Jo Sales reported that Neiers wore conspicuous “six-inch Louboutins” to her arraignment. The Vanity Fair article prompted this unforgettable voicemail scene in which a hysterical Neiers simultaneously prayed to God, swore at her mother, and shrieked through tears at Sales for misrepresenting her as a shallow, fame-obsessed brat, instead of the “great, amazing, talented, strong healthy girl” that she was — err, “not even a girl, a young woman.”

Alexis Neiers (right) and her attorney during the sentencing hearing for burglary charges in 2010.

Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times / Getty Images