#something something ... inhuman constitution

[biskael]

ㅤi need everyone here to know that it takes quilge an INSANE amount of alcohol to get drunk due to *gestures*

[hyperlexichypatia]

I've seen basically two response arguments to Kennedy's slurs about autistic people being unable to pay taxes, have a job, play baseball, go on a date, write a poem, or use the toilet.

Both the responses are good and necessary, but I think they're incomplete. The two response arguments are essentially: 1. "That's not true, there are plenty of autistic people who have jobs and go on dates and play baseball," and 2. (largely in response to 1.) "Autistic people deserve acceptance and dignity even if they can't pay taxes or write poetry or use the toilet; people's value isn't determined by their abilities or productivity."

And, again, both of these responses are true and good and necessary. But what I'm not seeing people talk about enough is why Kennedy listed those specific skills, and what he's trying to imply with them. Because, see, when people are reduced to a dehumanized stereotype, "Not everyone is like that dehumanized stereotype" isn't sufficient, and neither is "Even people who are like that dehumanized stereotype deserve respect." The problem is the dehumanization. So let's look at the list of things we supposedly can't do, which Kennedy is using to conjure an image of "Inhuman Unthinking Blob."

Having a job. This is the big one. In American culture, your value, your personhood, is solely dependent on Your Job. Are you a valuable cog in the capitalist machine, or are you a cheap cog in the capitalist machine, or are you so worthless you're not even in the capitalist machine, and therefore have no reason to be alive? So it's good and necessary and important to spell out "A person doesn't have to have a job to be a person with dignity and rights." But there's a larger question out there, which is: What, exactly, constitutes "a job"? Yes, absolutely, everyone should have dignity and rights (and material needs like guaranteed housing, food, and consensual healthcare). But also, most disabled people, including ""severely"" disabled people, can and do perform productive labor benefiting their communities. It's just often labor that capitalist society doesn't classify as "a job," like caregiving, studying, or making art. It's important to say that people shouldn't need "a job" in order to deserve rights or resources. It's also important to point out that disabled people have been doing labor this whole time, just without the dignity, rights, or pay associated with "a job." In a socialist utopia where everyone had their material needs guaranteed, labor would still be done, and a lot of it would still be done by disabled people. That's important. Disabled people's contributions to society matter. And erasing that is something ableists do on purpose -- excluding the labor done by disabled people from the category of "job" is integral to excluding disabled people from the category of "productive" and thus the category "worthy of life."

Paying taxes. This is the most transparently ridiculous one, because absolutely everybody in the U.S. pays taxes. Poor people pay taxes (too much). Rich people pay taxes (nowhere near enough). Undocumented immigrants pay taxes. You buy a Snickers? It's priced $1.79 but you pay $1.92. That's a tax. You live somewhere? You're paying property taxes. You rent your home? How do you think your landlord pays their property taxes? From your rent. You're paying property taxes. You have a crappy underpaid minimum wage job? You're paying FICA. Everybody pays taxes. What Kennedy probably means to imply is "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes." Politicians love pretending that "taxes" means "federal income taxes" so they can claim to "lower taxes" while shifting the tax burden somewhere else (cf. Trump's attempt to claim that tariffs aren't taxes). And. And also. There's another subtle implication in there, that I see a lot from parents and ableists. Because of the deep intersection of ableism and classism, Kennedy is implying "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes" (therefore they're inferior) but also "They're not smart enough to do something complicated like file a tax return." When ableists talk about disabled people who "can't take care of themselves" or specifically "can't pay their bills" or "can't pay taxes," they're intentionally trying to conflate an economic state (having enough money to pay bills/taxes) with a cognitive ability (having the skills/executive function to manage money, budget, pay bills on time, or file a tax return). Kennedy probably doesn't file his own tax return either. I'm sure he has an accountant for that. Presumed-neurotypical people are allowed to do that. The world is full of rich people who lack executive function or money-management skills, whose wealth insulates them from the consequences of that, because they can either afford to just lose money, or they can afford to hire someone to handle it for them. The world is also full of poor people for whom one missed payment has ruined them. The world is also full of disabled people for whom one missed payment has gotten them declared mentally incompetent, institutionalized, or placed under guardianship -- by abled family members who probably hire an accountant to manage their own money. Again, all this is deliberate. Kennedy and other ableists/classists/eugenicsts are intentionally trying to conflate "lacks money," "lacks money management abilities/skills," and "lacks General Intelligence" as one more-or-less interchangeable phenomenon (Note: If you've read this far and haven't figured out my angle yet: There is no such thing as "General Intelligence" and the very concept is harmful).

Write a poem. Again, this is deliberately ambiguous wording -- pretty much anyone can write a poem, including people who can't write or speak. Have you ever expressed an idea in which the words you used had an additional meaning on top of their literal meaning? Boom, you can write a poem. Maybe not a good one. But Kennedy didn't say that autistic people's poetry is bad -- plenty of neurotypical people's poetry is bad too, after all. There is a somewhat positive stereotype floating around that neurodivergent people are creative. We may be tragic, burdens on society, our parents' heartbreak, worthless, stupid, subhuman, but at least we're creative. Probably due to being more animal-like, "closer to nature." And neurobigots like Kennedy absolutely hate this stereotype. No matter how much dehumanization the "positive" stereotype is rooted in, we cannot have any positive attributes at all. They must never let us forget that we have no redeeming value whatsoever. We must be rendered as completely lacking in thought, feelings, expression, and creation. I'm seeing some echos of 18th century racism, too -- a common belief among 18th century white Europeans was that even if non-Europeans were superficially clever, they could produce no "higher culture," no great art or poetry or literature, because they were intrinsically a lower tier of human. This seems to be the root of Kennedy's implication -- not that autistic people "can't" write poetry (anyone can), or that autistic people are bad at writing poetry (most beginners are), but that an autistic person's creative output cannot constitute true poetry, true "high culture," because it comes from an inferior mind.

Play baseball. This is an especially slippery one, because like writing poetry, it's a learned skill with gradations of skill level, not an intrinsic ability that someone does or doesn't have. Most autistic people aren't pro-level baseball players, but neither are most allistic people. And again, Kennedy didn't say "Autistic people are bad at baseball." He said that we would never play baseball. "Has ever played or will ever play baseball" is such a ridiculously low bar that even I can meet it. Technically speaking, I can play baseball. I have played baseball, in school gym class. I know how! You sit there minding your business until it's your turn to stand up, and then someone hands you a bat, and then someone throws a ball, and you're supposed to try to hit the ball with the bat, and in theory, after you fail three times, you're supposed to be allowed to sit back down again and go back to imagining wild self-insert fanfic, but the coach gives you "extra tries" out of pity, so you have to humiliate yourself with five or six attempts instead of three. Yeah. I can play baseball. So what's Kennedy going for with this one? Baseball in the U.S. is associated with two things: American identity, and idyllic midcentury childhood. If autistic people can't participate in America's Pastime, can we really even be Americans? Do we really count as citizens? I don't think Kennedy is personally, ideologically all that committed to xenophobia himself; he's just hitched his wagon to a deeply xenophobic administration because they indulge his medical conspiracy theories. But he knows how to align his goals to the administration's. He knows that his boss is deeply committed to narrowing and restricting who counts as "an American," who's not really part of "our culture," who's not really a part of baseball and hot dogs and the Fourth of July, if you know what I mean. Okay, okay. Maybe I'm reaching with this one. But I'm definitely not reaching with the other association he's going for: Idyllic Midcentury Childhood. All kids play baseball. By which I mean, all boys play baseball. I'm not sure Kennedy knows that girls can play it too, or that he cares. The point is, baseball is part of childhood, and autistic people are never children. We don't play, we don't learn, we don't go through developmental stages, we're just forever Mindless Blobs. That's why things that would be considered cruelty if done to neurotypical children aren't cruelty when they're done to us. We're not really children. We never become adults, either -- how can we, if we don't go through childhood first? You can tell we're subhuman because we don't go through the universal experiences of Real People Life.

Go on a date. Okay. This one. This is the one where I get actively angry at the well-meaning, "inclusive" responses. "Just because an autistic person has high support needs and can't do XYZ doesn't mean --" no. Stop right there. There is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no impairment or disability that prevents someone from dating. There are people -- autistic and otherwise, disabled and otherwise -- who for whatever reason, choose not to pursue dating. Maybe they're aromantic, maybe they're loners, maybe they have religious objections, maybe dating just isn't something they're interested in. Fine. That's their choice. But there is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no such thing as a disability that renders people incapable of romantic relationships. There is no such fucking thing as being "too disabled" or "too severe" or "too profound" or "too high support needs" to have a romantic relationship if two or more people want one. That is not a thing that exists. That is a thing ableists made up. There is no such thing as an autistic person who "can't" go on a date. There are autistic people who aren't allowed to go on dates, because their family or caregivers control them, infantilize them, restrict their freedoms, or treat them as mindless blobs. But all disabled people (yes, all) can pursue romantic relationships. All disabled people (yes, all) deserve the human right to pursue romantic relationships if they choose to. With other disabled people. With abled people. With whomever. And yeah, dating doesn't necessarily have to be romantic or sexual, but let me be perfectly clear -- disabled people, autistic people, "high support needs" autistic people have a right to have sex, too. A multiply disabled autistic person who needs 24/7 assistance deserves the absolute, unreserved right to have wild, kinky, balls-to-the-wall, whole-chicken sex with the entire starting lineup of the Detroit Lions, if xe so chooses to, and if said Lions are on board. We should not accept the premise that there is any such thing as a disabled person who "can't" go on a date.

Use a toilet without assistance. This is the Kennedy playbook trump card, but unlike some of the other claims, this one is actually true. There's no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date, but yes, there are in fact plenty of disabled people, including autistic people, who need help with using the toilet. So what's Kennedy going for here? He's trying to evoke two things: Disgust and infantilization. We have a visceral disgust around excretory functions. Needing to eliminate waste reminds us that we're animals made of meat, not the higher intellectual beings we pretend to be. Everyone poops. So we do it in private, we describe it with euphemisms, and if someone needs help with it, well, they're not keeping up their end of the social compact to collectively pretend we're not animals with animal bodily functions. So people who need assistance with the waste process are disgusting, subhuman, a violation of imagined purity. And of course, they're babies. Babies wear diapers. Babies need help using the toilet. So an older child or adult who needs diapers or toileting help is basically a big baby. We have entire election cycles centered on "Which candidate has incontinence issues?" as a proxy for "Which candidate is a big baby unfit to lead?" as though someone's bladder leakage has any bearing on their wisdom or policy positions. And of course, since people who need help with toileting Are Babies, we're meant to assume that they can't do any of those other things, either. They can't even use the toilet, let alone write poetry or go on a date. In reality, plenty of people who need toileting help are writing poetry and going on dates. One of the biggest misconceptions that holds disabled people back from education or, in some cases, from basic communication, is this myth of linear "developmental stages" -- that if someone isn't "smart enough" to master an "easier/earlier" skill, then they can't possibly be "smart enough" to master a completely unrelated skill that some abled person thinks of as "more advanced." This is literally the primary barrier to communication access for speech-disabled people, and the reason nonspeaking people who type to communicate are so often disbelieved -- if someone isn't "smart enough" to master a "baby skill" like talking, they can't possibly be "smart enough" to read and write! Nevermind that for many speech disabled people, reading and writing are much easier than speaking. And if someone isn't "smart enough" to use the toilet unassisted, they can't possibly learn any advanced topics at all, because they must the "mind of a baby." (The only people with the minds of babies are babies. A 50 year old with incontinence has the mind of a 50 year old.)

So. To sum up: Kennedy is intentionally evoking the concept of autistic people as The Abject Unthinking, and neither "Plenty of autistic people can do those things he says we can't do" nor "Disabled people deserve respect and dignity even if they can't do those things" fully addresses the dehumanization he's trying to conjure. Maybe I'm just jaded, too, about calls for "respect and dignity" for disabled people that don't challenge the concept of The Abject Unthinking. I see behavioral therapists, institution staff, and parents pursuing adult guardianship talking about "respect and dignity." I see articles about how to restrain and forcibly drug people with "respect and dignity." Ableists literally murder disabled people in cold blood in the name of "respect and dignity." I don't know what "respect and dignity" means to these people, but it's sure not synonymous with "bodily autonomy" or "civil rights." By this point, I consider "respect and dignity" about as meaningful as "thoughts and prayers." All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, express themselves. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, make their own decisions about their own bodies. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, participate in their communities. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, pursue relationships with other people of their choice.

[hiromzi]

lawstudentbf!higuruma

he's trying so desperately to study for his upcoming mock trial that he ends up neglecting you ;( ( fluff, suggestive towards end ><) 2.3k

for the past three days, your law student boyfriend hiromi higuruma has not dared to drift his gaze from his textbooks for more than forty-five seconds.

you only know this because you’ve timed him — twice.

firstly, it was out of worry, but the second time was just out of spite.

attending law school has turned your boyfriend into an inhuman being, a sleepless beast assembled from caffeine, highlighters, and constitutional law.

the little apartment you had bought together no longer had the appearance of a home.

it seemed more like the site of an academic exorcism.

every accessible surface in your home is buried beneath casebooks.

sticky notes sprout from pages of his textbooks, the kitchen counter is simply decorated with empty coffee cups, multiplying at the horrifying rate of bacteria in a petri dish.

and in the middle of it all, higuruma sits by himself, gradually being consumed by his coursework.

he used to blink more often, you swear.

it all starts tuesday night.

exhausted, he returns home from campus, his messenger bag leaning on one shoulder, loose papers threatening to spill out from the zipper.

“hey,” he speaks wearily as he enters.

he barely gives you a kiss before heading over to the dining table, taking out books thick enough to be classified as lethal weapons.

“you studying again?” you ask.

“mock trial on friday, yeah."

“you’ve already spent six hours studying today, ‘romi…”

“yeah?”

“aren’t you pushing yourself too hard?”

“no, it’s fine.”

after the brief interaction, he spends the remainder of the night in academic hell.

you try to be encouraging at first, you truly do.

he highlights sections of text with the terrifying focus of a man defusing explosives as you bring over food. he murmurs legal jargon under his breath like incantations as you move to sit next to him.

occasionally, he would lightly squeeze your thigh whilst reading.

sometimes, he would draw you in for a precise twenty-five seconds before becoming sidetracked by some footnote.

the amount of attention you begin to derive from crumbs is just pitiful.

so, by wednesday, you’re beginning to despise the entirety of the legal system.

around midnight marks your first real attempt to win back your boyfriend.

sitting at the dining table, surrounded by enough paperwork to be considered environmental clutter, higuruma is annotating something with frightening intensity, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

with the sole exception of the rain gently pounding against the windows and the sporadic sound of his pen scratching at paper, your apartment is sullen.

you leave your shared bedroom wearing one of his shirts and shorts so little they are essentially ornamental.

with every movement, the hem of the shirt brushes the tops of your thighs, the crisp cufflinks engulfing your hands. it hangs on you in an obscenely large manner.

which, normally, got a reaction out of him.

usually, there would be a pause before he takes a look at you.

usually, completely dropping whatever task was at hand and bringing you into his lap, letting out a deep, weary sigh, as if you were the only enjoyable thing he’d encountered that day.

but tonight?

nothing.

not even a proper look, just a brief glance.

in fact, you freeze completely, just staring at him blankly.

"really?"

before a distracted “hm?”

“didn’t even look at me…”

“i am…”

his gaze shifts upwards before finding its way back to his textbook almost immediately.

the audacity?

“baby… you barely even looked at me.”

“sorry, sweetheart… yeah— you look good.”

good?!

you just look at him with genuine disbelief.

hiromi higuruma used to praise you as if you invented happiness, but now he compliments you with the emotional intensity of a supermarket receipt…

you approach the table gently.

“‘romi—”

“mm?”

you push his chair back just a little by wedging yourself between his knees.

at last, it receives more of his focus, leaning back just enough to properly gaze up at you, his hand intuitively resting on your waist.

“what’s up?” he murmurs.

“trying to remember what my boyfriend looks like.”

he lets out a lethargic sigh of laughter.

“’m sorry.”

“no, you’re not.”

“i am, baby. promise.”

“put down the book then—please?”

“i can’t, love…”

your eyes narrow.

“you’re lucky i love you.”

“i know.”

then through your shirt, he plants a distracted kiss to your stomach, not even taking his eyes away from the casebook.

it’s lazy, but devastatingly affectionate.

you almost forgive him immediately out of sheer weakness.

instead, as he continues to read, you glare at the top of his head.

“y’know, i could probably flash you right now and you’d ask me to cite my sources…” you murmur.

it causes him to chuckle quietly.

low, fleeting, and enervated.

and oh, do you miss that sound...

wednesday’s even worse.

because he’s been studying for so long, the air in your apartment is thick and stale, like the air in an overheated library.

you find him reading case reports with the disturbed look of a man seeing eldritch horrors on the couch, surrounded by colour-coded notes, his left leg bouncing restlessly.

which, to be fair, could just be tort law.

with a sigh heavy enough to be categorised as performance art, you fall theatrically over the couch next to him.

no response.

and even with a louder sigh, nothing.

you gently turn to look at him.

“hiromi—”

“mmhm?”

“would you even notice if i just died right now?”

“’course i would,” though very monotone.

you raise an eyebrow. “that sounded fake.”

“sorry…” distracted pause. “well, you’d make noise, wouldn’t you?” still furiously clicking the keys on his laptop.

you huff, looking more intently.

in all honesty, it’s simply unjust how attractive he looks right now — something about his exhaustion that makes his features a lot softer. his sleeves are pushed clumsily to his elbows, his coarse black hair a little dishevelled from the stress of it all, his brows furrowed in concentration as he reads.

you’re simultaneously madly in love and irritated with him.

a deeply unfair experience, by the way.

you cautiously reach over and take his glasses off his face.

well, that works.

his eyes instantly flicker towards you. “what are you doing?”

“um, sabotage?”

“can still see, sweetheart…”

“not well you can.”

“give ‘em back, sweetheart.”

“gonna have to make me…”

at that, his countenance shifts, inconspicuous and small enough to go unnoticed by most, though not by you.

his eyes linger on your face for an excessively long while before he lets a quiet exhale through his nose.

“you’re distracting me, sweets — please?”

after taking his glasses captive, you sit up a little.

“you’ve been ignoring me for days, ‘romi.”

“i haven’t been ignoring you, darling — now, can i plea—”

“really? what colour shirt was i wearing yesterday?”

you point accusingly to disrupt the silence. “exactly—”

“ah— it was…” he holds his head in his hands, thinking, before looking back up at you. “grey?”

you gaze at him. “it was white. tch—”

“’s close enough.”

a gasp of betrayal escapes your lips.

and at that moment, he genuinely smirks. it’s brief and clearly worn-out, but it’s still genuine enough to make you feel all warm inside.

this time, he leans in, speaking more softly. “i’m sorry, i just really need to focus, honey. we’ve spoken about this.”

additionally, higuruma’s apologies are always so sincere they just feel painful.

and despite your best efforts, your displeasure is quick to wane.

you fuss against his ear. “you owe me attention.”

“yeah — i know.”

“a criminal amount.”

a soft huff of laughter. “seems legally inaccurate.”

you lift your hand to lightly slap his cheek, to which he catches your wrist mid-air. what an infuriating man…

his focus abruptly shifts away from you once again when his phone buzzes with a notification from one of his classmates.

you collapse backward against the soft comfort of the couch cushions dramatically.

higuruma reaches out blindly to touch your ankle as he responds to the message, giving it a light squeeze as an apology.

which works surprisingly well.

you think you’re going crazy by the time thursday night rolls around.

his law mock trial is scheduled for tomorrow morning, indicating that your lover has clearly developed an almost supernatural level of intense intellectual concentration.

his side of the bed is empty when you wake up at one o’clock in the morning, again.

oh, was it finally friday morning?

well, as you follow the dim light towards the living room, you find that he’s sat cross-legged on the floor, open textbooks standing tall around him like a scholar in a renaissance painting:

other than being noticeably even more sleep-deprived, his tie had been forgotten somewhere across the room, hair a mess, his brows had long formed a stress crease deep enough to split his expression in two. the image only makes your chest ache a bit.

“hiromi?”

this time, he looks up right away, concerned more than anything.

“sorry, baby. did i wake you up?”

“no, ‘m fine.”

you stay still for a moment, checking the clock, it's sleek hands rotating with a soft click.

1:15am...

“i know you have your mock trial thing at nine, but can you please come to bed?"

“i need another hour, baby, ‘m sorry.”

you laugh once, though not because anything is funny, but more so because you’ve heard this exact phrase an uncountable number of times this week.

“you said that when i went to bed three hours ago.”

“i know…”

“and the day before.”

“baby — i know, i know.”

you watch him for another moment, and you can visibly notice how miserable he is.

worn out — to the bone.

well, sometimes loving higuruma is like witnessing somebody gradually immerse themselves in responsibilities whilst maintaining their composure, constantly insisting that they’re “fine.”

you approach him cautiously.

“my love...?”

“yeah?”

then you drop straight into his lap without uttering a word.

and absolutely everything comes to a halt, pen stopping in the middle of a note.

his arms instinctively grab a hold of you, one firmly around your waist, the other resting on your thigh.

and finally—

finally, he’s looking at you properly.

“hi, sweetheart… you okay?”

“mm— hi…”

with your arms wrapped around his neck, you sink securely against his chest, the room falling silent.

exhaustion clings to him up close, faint shadows underneath his eyes. like twisted wire, stress ran through his shoulders.

your beautiful, overburdened boy.

from under your hoodie, his hands gently brush across your back, warm and grounding, as if touching you serves as a reminder that he exists outside the weight of his coursework.

after a minute, he looks down at you lovingly. “have i really been that bad?”

you simply gaze at him.

his expression instantly changes to one of comprehension instead.

“alright— silly question,” he whispers against your hair.

“three days, ‘romi.”

“shh, s’okay, i know…”

“i wore your clothes.”

“i noticed."

“basically threw myself at you twenty-four seven…”

his mouth faintly twitches.

“noticed that as well.”

“so why didn’t you care…?”

his gaze quickly dips near your lips before rising back up to your eyes once more.

somehow, his voice sounds lower when he talks.

“because if i let myself be distracted by you, i wouldn’t be able to study. you wouldn’t want me to fail my mock trial in a couple hours, would you sweetheart?”

seriously?

your irritation fractures right away.

“no… still really annoying though.”

“it’s true though, hm?”

with a weary exhalation, his forehead softly meets yours.

you really missed him.

he apologises again, this time with a sincere gentleness, raw and genuine in a manner exclusive to his own.

“i didn’t realise how absent i’d been, my love.”

you melt a bit, against your will obviously.

you mutter, “my boyfriend abandoned me for the legal system…”

a small rumble of laughter. “don’t be dramatic.”

“i'm in mourning…”

now that he’s finally stopped studying, finally being able to breathe, the tightness in his shoulders releases underneath the feather-light touch of your palms.

“you’re so warm,” inhaling your scent.

you giggle slightly. “yeah, that’s how people work, ‘romi—”

another quiet chuckle.

and that sound again — the sound that always feels unjustly personal.

you slowly come to the realisation that he’s now finally paying close attention to you, attention no longer divided between heaps of textbooks and study material alike, but all yours.

it’s as if he’s only now just realising how much he yearns to hold you, fingers flexing at your waist.

he smiles softly against the curve of your ear. “you really spent your days trying to get my attention?”

“don’t be stupid — obviously…”

“could’ve just told me.”

“i performed psychological warfare just to tell you, hiromi!”

at that moment, a genuine grin appears.

beautiful enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

continuous apologies. “i’m really sorry, honey.”

“yeah, you ought to be.”

“don’t be sassy with me, baby.”

you tut before carefully running your fingers through the hair near the nape of his neck, slowly.

“you done studying now?”

his gaze momentarily drifts back to the pile of textbooks encircling the both of you, then back to you.

his inner conflict lasts for five seconds before letting out a long exhale, shutting the casebook that lay next to him.

the soft thump of the book closing reverberates through your apartment like heavenly intervention.

your eyebrows lift. “wow, hiromi, you’ve changed.”

“don’t make fun of me—”

“just surprised.”

his hand slides beneath your thighs, standing up from the floor and raising you properly against him before you can even think—

“’romi, wait!”

he carries you back to your shared bedroom, lightly kicking the door open with the point of his toe.

“i think my angel has been extremely patient with me, don’t you think?”

“mhm.”

“i think i really owe her attention.”

your arms instinctively tighten around his neck.

“what kind of attention?”

in the faint light of your apartment, he meets your eyes before smiling.

“well, the one that doesn’t involve constitutional law, but i do just want to love you. that okay, honey?”

you don’t even have the chance to respond before he’s laying you down on the bed.

it was about time.

a/n: is this basically the same thing i uploaded yesterday...? uh... no! whaaat?

ugh i just love him sm ;3

[sorceress-of-stories]

Ciao, Bella {part 1}

Lestat x f!Reader One-Shot words: 2,432 A/N: okay, so after re-binging the show for the third time, I figured I ought to write something for our flawed Monsieur after I checked and saw how little x f!reader fics there are. By no means is it perfect (this is my first time writing for Lestat) - but I felt called to try when I saw this prompt by this lovely creator @groovyangelkisses This fic isn't exactly phantom of the opera but it was heavily inspired by this idea! I hope you all enjoy!

CW: explicit sexual content and language, p in v, blood drinking, dub-con blood drinking during sex (reader doesn't know he's a vampire), lestat is his own warning tbh, manipulation, isolation, gaslighting MDNI!

Rome, Italy, April 1799

YOU HAD ONCE BELIEVED IN THE LIE of Lestat's devotion, blinded by the radiance of his smile and the grace of his surety. It did not matter that his touch was always fleeting, that his gaze drifted like the sea, that his promises were nothing more than smoke and ash that left you wanting.

It all began as a simple game of cat and mouse in the opulent opera houses of Rome, where those rich enough to idle fought tooth and nail to experience a mere moment of your divinity. The voice of an angel, the grace of a goddess, a beauty bestowed by the heavens. Your name was on the tongue of every notable member of high society, and unable to ignore the call and promise of the fine arts, he found his way to you.

Lestat watched with unabashed raptness as you waltzed across the stage, adorned in silks and finery befitting that of a queen. He could hear the steady thrum of your heart above the inconsequential, discordant hush of lesser humans, the ease in which you felt upon the stage. And when you sang the first note, the perfect and inhuman note, he knew then in that moment you were too sacred and holy to ignore. He did not reveal himself immediately, savoring the thrill of the hunt, the shift of your energy as the weight of an unknown gaze became harder and harder to ignore. It pleased him to see your wandering eyes as you preformed, the way your body grew taut the more it became aware of his hidden stare. It wasn't until your final performance of the season did he allow you to find his gaze, and when you did not shrink away from it, he made his move.

~

"Ciao bella, Signora, and good evening."

Your eyes lifted from the golden and plush couch in which you sat, illuminated in the bright amber light of the flickering candles beside you. They found the source of the voice, breath halting slightly as they landed on the most vivid blue you had ever seen, belonging to the most beautiful man you'd ever met, the familiar stranger whose gaze shook you to your core. Something deep within you pulled, the weight of his stare setting your body aflame.

"Is it?" you blinked, turning your attentions to reading the composition within your hands. "I usually do not think random men making their way to my dressing room constitutes as a good evening."

The corner of his lips twitched, amused. "Rest assured, ma cherie, I am no ordinary man."

"That is what all men claim, Frenchman."

He crossed further into the room, standing only a few paces in front you. The crushed sapphire and black petticoat that adorned his chest made the golden tendrils of his hair shine like the summer sun.

"Do you harbor such dislike against my all countrymen, siren? Or is this...show of indifference just for I?"

Slowly you lifted your gaze, peering at him from your lashes. "For the entirety of your sex, Signore."

"Scorned by a lover, then?"

"Not an affliction rarely experienced, Frenchman." you gently set the parchment beside you, standing to your feet. Your flowing robes billowed with your movements, the scent of your perfume and blood washing over him. "What do you want? I have seen you in the audience, but we have not met."

"Forgive me for such impudence," he bowed theatrically, "I am Lestat de Lioncourt, your humble servant."

Your turned and sat with your back towards your vanity, an amused smirk etching itself onto your lips. Your eyes traveled down the length of his body, taking in each detail of his fine garments, the poise in which he held himself. "There is nothing humble about you, Signore Lioncourt."

He inclined his head to you, nearly imperceptible.

Your eyebrow quirked. "Your purpose here, Signore Lioncourt?"

"You of course, my dear." he gestured elegantly in your direction. "For your voice, that of angel. For your beauty, that of Aphrodite. You are everything that is beauty. I am here to offer you patronage, dear siren. I hear from the master of the house himself that your contract for the season has expired. I have expressed an interest in financing it, in a personal capacity of course."

"Personal capacity?" your eyes narrowed. "I am not a whore."

"It wouldn't matter even if you were," he smirked charmingly, "art is art, of course. I wish for you to perform at my own soirées, be a companion joined in our love for music, for your art."

Your heart skipped a beat, completely unaware of the deep satisfaction that flooded within him. Your heart was steady as stone no matter the crowd, no matter the difficulty of the composition. He hungered to hear it roar.

"I will pay you thrice your earnings for an entire year, supply your room and board, whatever your heart's desire. And at the end of the season, you may return here, back to the company."

You considered for a long moment. "That is quite the extraordinary offer, Signore Lioncourt. Foolishly so."

"If you need further convincing, ma cherie, then lend me your presence for but a single evening. I will gift upon you but a taste of the wonders that await you."

You signed the contract nearly a fortnight later, soul buzzing with the intoxicating warmth that was artistic fulfillment. Lestat spared no expense for the parties held within his flat: he invited those who were adjacent to royalty, adorned you in jewels and silks, plied you with rich food and wine. Party by party, banquet by banquet, you grew more accustomed to living amongst the stars, the resplendence of your patron. On the nights it was just you and he, he'd sing with you while you practiced, shared with you compositions from times long forgotten. It grew ever impossible to ignore the aching between your thighs when he drew near, when his deep voice murmured advice on a certain note in your ear. Your body would set itself aflame at the gentlest touch or hush of caress. And all the while, you did not know he was planning your ultimate ruin.

The night of his summer solstice soiree, Lestat took you to his bed for the first time. He was like no other you had ever lain with, completely devoted to your body and pleasure. Everything about him consumed you wholly: the weight of him above you, the strength of his arms as he held you close, the fullness of his cock deep inside of you.

"Let go for me siren," he groaned in your ear as he fucked you, "I want it all."

Every sigh, every moan, every flutter of you around him fed the hungry beast within. Every thunderous beat of your heart hammered against his own until he could take no more. HIs lips found the hollow of your neck the moment he began pounding into you, the sharp snap of his hips barely felt over the sting of his bite. The pleasure was indescribable, only clouded by that of confusion and fear.

"Does it feel good?" he whispered, hips never ceasing their movements, licking the dribbles of blood that rolled down your shoulder. "I know it does, siren. I can hear those filthy thoughts of yours, begging me to keep filling you up like this, to keep consuming you like this."

You moaned, the haze of pain now inconsequential as you clawed at his back.

"Tell me, ma cherie," he bit you again, moaning deeply as your warm blood coated the back of his throat.

"Lestat!"

He licked the bites before pushing himself from your neck, blue eyes meeting your own. Your throat constricted as you saw his fangs and the crimson staining of your blood on his lips, but instead of being engulfed by fear, you surrendered to the immeasurable pleasure that shook you to your core. Your cunt clenched around him, another desperate whimper falling from your lips.

Lestat smiled wickedly, pupils large and dark, hips still hitting against your own with obscenity. "Naughty siren."

Your climax found you moments after his hand snaked its way to rub the small bundle of nerves between your thighs, soon finding his own, the pleasure blinding and all-consuming. In the quiet moments that followed, you asked him what he was.

"A vampire," he kissed your swollen lips, allowing you to taste your own blood on his tongue, "and the weaver of all your deepest desires."

And so, you became his lover, falling further and further into the pits of his insidious trap. After the initial shock of the revelation of his true nature and all the inevitable questions that came afterward, you found yourself in free fall. You became addicted to his hands upon your body, the taste of his lips, the giddiness of his praise, the sensation of when he fed off you. But the more you intertwined with Lestat, the more you found remnants of your old self falling away.

You would sing the compositions he picked instead of the ones you wished because it made him happy. You would bite your tongue when he started answering questions on your behalf, swallowed your pride when he would pick your clothing and jewelry and costumes when you performed. You would turn the other cheek when his hands and lips began to roam others during your performances, fighting with all your might to keep the tears from spilling. After all, it was you who he shared a bed with, it was you who he cared for, it was you who he promised to spend the rest of eternity with.

It all came to head on Christmas Eve, the night of his so-called pageant. You entertained the guests as you had always done, wearing a forced, bright smile and grace that did not fit with the rage that was boiling inside of you. You were clad in a ridiculous dress with an even more ridiculous hat atop your head, its heavy diamonds shining brightly in the candlelight above. You had not seen him since the start of the evening when he whispered a half-baked apology to excuse himself, more than an hour ago. With clever maneuvering you finally got away from the ballroom and meandered through the quiet, winding corridors of his flat. You walked carefully, taking great precaution as to dampen the clicking of your shoes upon the marble. You knew his vampiric hearing would render this useless, but you could not help yourself from doing so. It only took you a moment more before you stood outside one of the many spare rooms, the sounds of passion deafening to your roaring ears. You could not control your body as you slammed open the door, heart pounding as your eyes landed on the naked form of a nameless Contessa riding your lover with theatrical enthusiasm. The woman screamed and turned, her cascading black hair glistening in the low light as she clutched the bedsheets around her.

Lestat was at your side in an instant, cock still glistening with the woman's arousal. "My beloved it's not-"

You wretched the tasteless crown from off your head and threw it at his feet, hands and legs shaking with overwhelm. You could not speak through the flood of rage and seething anger that consumed you. For the remainder of the night, you hid in your room, and it wasn't until the streets of Rome began to awaken did he finally come to your bed.

"It was only a desire of the flesh, my dear, nothing more." his finger ran along the soft curve of your cheekbone. "Look at me, siren."

You did so reluctantly, unable to find it in yourself to ignore him. Lestat leaned in, licking your tears away as he shushed you.

"How many others?" you peered at him through swollen eyes. "How many others are there?"

He inhaled deeply, a flash of annoyance crossing his features. "In this very moment or century?"

You recoiled. "You bastard."

He swore in French, eyebrows knit together, fangs bared. "I have given you everything and this is how you treat me?! So what I fucked another? That is all it is, siren. Vampires are meant to drink and ravish and experience all of the night's pleasures! You would have me shackled to just you? You would have me deny my very nature?"

His words made your heart ache. "I would have you loyal."

"Loyal? You speak of loyalty, mortal?" he barked a cruel, taunting laugh. "I have been alive since your grandmother was but spilled into her mother's belly. And you dare lecture me about loyalty?"

Lestat shot from the bed in an angry flourish, his lilac costume for the night billowing at his feet. Without another word he left your room, slamming the door hard enough the wood cracked.

He refused to speak to you for nearly a week, after that. The absence of his presence was agonizing, your body and soul needing it more than breath. Sleep refused to find you, food did not settle in your belly, and before long you could no longer take it, could not bear that your human irrationalities were the things that drove him away. You began to tell yourself you could not expect anything less from one such as him - he who lived in the shadows of night, who walked the expansive void of eternity. He was immortal, you were not. And yet, he had chosen you, for a small infinitesimal moment in time where you suspended together in the ecstasy of each other's company. You could swallow your pride, your weak human sentimentalities, your jealousies, so long as it meant he would be by your side.

On the ninth night, he found his way to your bed. You did not speak as you took each other, him whispering apologizes that filled your heart with something you could not name, ignited your body with hellfire.

"You are the only one I need, siren," his hand wrapped around your throat as he buried himself inside you, in the very same breath he bit into your neck, "I promise."

You learned soon after that Lestat was many things, but an oath keeper was not among them. He had found his way into other beds before the ice had melted, and the snow had thawed. He would never answer your questions about vampirism, despite his promise to bestow upon you the gift. But as the weeks turned to months, the months into years, the veil lifted from your eyes, the curtain that hid the innerworkings of theater showing all the ugly machinations within.

~~~~~

[miajooz]

hello my loves! i’d like to talk about something important going on in america because it’s not okay AT ALL. as of recently, ICE (immigration and customs enforcement) has been raiding LA in a horrific way. children are being taken, families are being separated, friends are disappearing, it’s absolutely fucking disgusting what is happening. there’s no defense for this at all, arresting people without a warrant IS AGAINST THE LAW. IT IS UNCONSTITUTIONAL. this is the exact thing kamala and the harris administration warned us about, i am ashamed of all the people in my life who have voted for this sick, inhumane treatment being inflicted upon fellow people in this country. In no way is such lack of empathy and coldness against HUMAN BEINGS okay. the children, the families, it’s SICK.

recently, ICE has been targeting hard working families and innocent people. trump claims to be targeting violent criminals which is BULLSHIT. was that pregnant woman a violent criminal? what about the children being separated from their families? what about the hard working immigrants who literally helped america be what it is in the first place. if you open a history book or did research you would know that. you can’t claim to be getting rid of violent criminals WHEN YOU ARE A FELON. TRUMP WASNT PROVEN INNOCENT, HE IS A CONVICTED FELON. how can you support this shit but vote for a criminal to run our country? YOU CANNOT BE ILLEGAL ON STOLEN LAND. EVERYONE IN AMERICA IS AN IMMIGRANT BESIDES THE NATIVES. this country was stolen, and anyone who says otherwise is ignorant.

ICE has been raiding and sent to places that are densely populated with immigrants, JUST TO ARREST THEM. rounding people up who have legal documents, who are US citizens, who were born here. rounding people up because of the color of their skin is inhumane and absolutely repulsive. criminals aren’t being targeted, and have you seen the prison in el salvador? it’s HORRIFIC.

in LA, there have been a lot of protests, most of which were peaceful. california’s OWN officers were went to keep things peaceful which was partly successful. protesting is a first amendment right, but the freedom of speech has been violated ever since trump has went into office. tear gas, rubber bullets, flash bang grenades, all of that have been used on protesters. and without consulting any california law enforcement members, trump deployed 2000 state national guard members to the streets of LA. that is also ILLEGAL. THAT IS UNACCEPTABLE. and to the troops who were deployed, YOU SWORE AN OATH TO SERVE THE COUNTRY AND PEOPLE AND PROTECT THE CONSTITUTION. NOT A FACIST FELON WHO IS CAUSING A CONSTITUTIONAL CRISIS. deploying troops without the consent of the state is federal aggression, and shouldn’t be tolerated. you guys are bitching about immigrants and saying they’re violent criminals? look at all the shit trump is doing! many veterans are absolutely devastated and it’s so sad to see. sending troops to attack american citizens is absolutely disgusting. this is the most obvious violation of the first amendment.

america’s democracy is at risk. donald trump doesn’t want a constitution, he’s a man child who bitches and uses violence when people don’t agree with him or oppose him. social media is being censored, he is targeting education, he is filtering everything—he literally DEFUNDED THE BOARD OF EDUCATION. education is the most dangerous weapon against dictators, so that checks out. if this isn’t a start to a dictatorship i don’t know what is, it’s here. these 4 years could be absolutely horrific, not to mention how he wants to ignore the precedent and “run again.” WHO WANTS THAT?

to all the people who have been affected by this, i am so, so sorry. it is repulsive what is happening, and i am sending love to all the families and individuals who have been hurt. to all the protesters who have been hurt, and to everyone this country has literally failed. to the women being denied life saving treatment in emergency rooms, to the women in my state who can’t get an abortion, it’s just horrific. to all the people who have been hurt during protests in LA, you deserve to be recognized. thank you for being a voice, you are valid and you are amazing and you deserve to be heard.

despite all of this, DO NOT STAY SILENT. that’s what he wants, he doesn’t want opposers. you are free to speak, that is the first amendment and cannot be violated. talk about it, don’t be scared to talk about it. the people are what makes a country, we shouldn’t be separated and on the brink of a civil war. it’s not right, why are we looking at people in such a selfish, ignorant way? this isn’t about being red or blue, this is our DEMOCRACY and the fact we are in a human rights crisis. this is about the fact that people are scared, communities are traumatized. people should be joining together and helping each other, do not normalize apathy. people are meant to love and join together, nobody should have this kind of power and influence on human lives in such a horrible way.

we are all people, you are all valid people. keep protesting, keep using your voice because it is POWERFUL. i love you all so unbelievably much, please, please don’t be ignorant.

Speech from Governor Newsom this addresses california!

[pandemonini]

Making my ATLA post debut controversially: the fact that Zuko and Azula are often treated as being less of children than the (pre-Zuko) gaang and often treated as the same brand of coloniser as their father is missing a very important part of the story's themes and uh, postcolonial theory at large tbh.

Maybe I'm thinking about it too much because I watched ATLA in adulthood and not as a child but it really does stand out to me as important. I've seen a lot of takes on how any fan-made content where Azula is redeemed being too OOC or that Zuko's romantic prospects have to be narrowed down to Fire Nation people because anything else would automatically constitute a lack of equality, and these are, in my humble opinion, very unnuanced takes if not straight up anti-progressive.

When it comes to adultification the conversation generally concerns Katara, which I don't disagree with of course and it's very much canon and real that she was forced to be an adult too early due to tragic circumstances imposed on her by the Fire Nation.

But Zuko and Azula are forced into adulthood in ways that are are a lot more radical. Think about it, there is a reason why Azula looks so visibly older than Katara despite the age difference being only one year — she looks like she's already approaching 20s if not already there despite being only 15. With Zuko we get a lot more attention drawn to his body and his attractive appearance.

There is the parentification experience Katara had, and then there is the Fire Nation's normalisation of death and violence for Zuko and Azula. Make no mistake, this isn't about the time period. The moral rot and inhumanity in Europe was very different during its colonial era than it was during the Medieval era; that is to say that for a colonial project to succeed there needs to be a kind of "mental preparation" of sorts, usually of the nationalist kind.

When Ozai punished Zuko and permanently scarred him at the age of 13, it is heavily hinted at least to me that it had less to do with Zuko's defiance so much as it did with the fact that he didn't stand by that defiance. He took his words back, something a Fire Lord must never do; Fire Lords should pursue their wants no matter how immoral, even if it's their own flesh and blood that pay the price. It is their inherent right, their divinely-given right if you will.

When even blood relations, one of the most intimate aspects of humanity that have long defined our social conditioning, are made meaningless in the face of power, it makes it that much easier to discard everything else. And everything else is that much easier to discard when you're a child, because you don't have that much to begin with. Most children, even teenagers, have their worlds consist almost exclusively of their parents; the parent is the one who defines their existence for them and no amount of external influence would be enough to come between a parent who emotionally abuses the way Ozai does and his children.

When the right to be their father's child and having his love, or at least attention, is written in power and blood, the children will automatically shed their childhood because childhood is weakness and ignorance, neither of which have a place in the battle for Ozai's nonexistent affection.

There is a whole host of uncomfortable subjects that follow this sort of circumstance. Of course this does also depend on the culture, but realistically sexualisation is the first thing that follows. Not so much for Azula (as one would expect, barring the subject of marriage) as it does for Zuko as masculinity is intricately tied to the subject of sexual dominance and engagement, not by way of sexual predation but in the enouragement of partaking in sex before a boy has even learned about sexuality and intimacy.

Zuko and Azula in ATLA stand as examples of how two people of influence in an imperial core would turn out — namely by either becoming part of the system or by rejecting it. There is, quite understandably, less talk about how this type of environment truly molds people in more intimate aspects; how for Zuko who rejected the system there is likely a whole host of mental health issues related to both his body and his mind will haunt him. That Azula is not empowered but at one point even more exploited than Zuko, despite being a better bender than him as well as heir apparent. Two things (ability to inflict violence, political power) that in colonial (white) feminism, tend to be automatically associated with female empowerment: "why are the men leading the empire when women are just as good at leading"', instead of the radical "why does an empire have to exist".

Stories like Zuko's need to be told because the people of the imperial core, especially those in power, should be scrutinised not only through the lenses of "why didn't you do anything" but also "this is what you could have done, but you didn't". Because the recurring sentiment tends to be "what was this normal person supposed to do about their evil fascist government" (which, Zuko had no influence or political leverage left by the time he did rebel) and the answer is always invariably a whole fucking lot, except that doing something about the evil fascist goverment would require sacrifices that their people don't consider the victims of the empire worthy of.

Stories like Azula's need to be told because it fights the nihilistic idea that the recurrence of fascism and colonialism is a natural phenomenon rather than generations of people, normal people and not just influencial ones, molding new generations into vessels for their imhumanity. That fascism consists of choices made by adults rather than the natural inclinations of any child growing up.

And for both of them, stories of redemption are important because people who fought back against their fascist regimes did exist and highlighting them is actively humiliating the complicity of those who don't do the same.

Also, redemption stories are just important in general.

[puppyboy--butch]

I know I'm notoriously the "allegorical sexual violence is everywhere if you're looking even a little bit" guy, but I'm being serious when I say it's literally everywhere in Daisy's plotlines. Okay hold onto your hats:

Ward

The most obvious example. Not only does he literally threaten to rape her in s1 ep22, he repeatedly pursues her specifically because he is attracted/feels entitled to her. Time and time again he corners, intimidates, and harasses her, and because of both his explicit threat and his attraction, a good amount of their interactions have a very sinister unspoken sexual undertone, at least on his end. She's canonically terrified of him because of what he did to her.

Even before his threat, she has to kiss and be physically affectionate with him to keep herself safe. Gee I wonder what having to act romantic/sensual under implied threat of violence at best constitutes as. Hmm this is a real head scratcher.

Hive

This one is squarely in between the literal and the allegorical. While we never see anything explicitly happen, it's very much implied; Hive has Ward's memories and affection for Daisy, he's physical with her in ways he's not with any of the other swayed Inhumans, hell, he even refers to the artificial Inhumans as their children. Hive and Daisy metaphorically had sex to create the primitives. Did they have it literally too? Up for interpretation!

There's also the sway itself; he forces something into her body that takes away her bodily autonomy and specifically targets the parts of her brain that are responsible for pleasure. The only way the rape allegory could really get any clearer is if they had come right out and explicitly said it.

Whitehall

Getting into the allegorical here. While Whitehalll doesn't do anything to Skye, he was very clearly intending to. Not only does Whitehall clearly derive immense amounts of pleasure from violating people's (more specifically women's, just based on what we see vs what we're told) bodies, he starts to violate Skye's bodily autonomy even when he's not operating on her; in s2 ep10, as he's telling her how he's going to do to her what he did to her mom, he begins touching her knee. Specific attention is drawn to this, with an entire shot being dedicated to Skye staring down at his hand on her leg. It's not sexual, at least not explicitly so, but the implication is there.

Her past

Daisy's past obviously goes largely unspoken, so there's nothing to be said definitively. That said, children in foster care have about a 27% rate of experiencing some amount of sexual abuse. Compound that with the statistics about revictimization, the statistics about sexual abuse experienced by homeless youth, and the fact that homeless youth who grew up in foster care specifically are more likely to fall into abusive patterns, and I'd say it's not only possible, but probable and even likely that Daisy faced some amount of sexual violence pre SHIELD. And that's not even getting into her being a woman of color, which just makes it even more likely.

Plus this ⬇️ joke, which to me implies that not only is her first time worth talking about in therapy, if the mention of inkblots (which are typically jokingly used to portray past trauma, see jokes about them looking like your parents arguing) is any indication, it's specifically traumatic.

The Devil Complex

Stabbing as a metaphor for penetration LMAO. That's really the only thing that hasn't been said in the rest of the post. Something something held down and restrained something something entitlement to her body and subsequent violation something something loss of bodily autonomy. Again. Christ that one happens to her a lot.

In conclusion, while it's never explicitly stated (aside from that one time for some reason. Why did Ward do that), sexual violence, both allegorical and literal, is a weirdly insanely prevalent theme for Daisy over the course of the show. Guy please I can't have been the only person to notice this.

[radaedan]

There's something very haunting with Och-Kan and Lianca' relationship. (Also before anyone ask, no, this isn't a ship post. A platonic relationship could be as devastating as a romantic one.)

Excluding Ineffa and Ajaw, as far as they knew, they were remnants of the Old Dragon Order. They were part of the dragons' royal family. And yet, their childhood could be anymore different. Lianca was the beloved daughter of her mother, CL-08. She was called "the Dragon Princess"; Och-Kan was born for the sole purpose of replacing his dying uncle, the Pyro Sovereign, and was treated coldly by his father as an experiment, at best.

[Chain Breaker lore & Nest Experiment Log]

By technicality, Och-Kan was Lianca's first cousin once removed. (But let's be honest, its easier to call him her uncle😅)

Their lives, beliefs, and personalities too greatly differ. Lianca build the Flower-Feather Clan, a tribe that valued freedom and welcomed all, be it humans or dragons. She was wild-spirited and free. And she loved the world and believed that everyone could transcend their past and become a better person. While Och-Kan was consumed by his self-loathing and internalized racism, reigned over a kingdom built by the suffering of humans and dragons alike, and was chained by his blind love for Xbalanque, believing that only he alone could fulfill the latter's dream. He was a tyrant, through and through.

Och-Kan's actions would later cost his friends their lives, including Lianca. He deemed Lianca's walkout during his order to recruit laborers in his inhumane excavation project as an "abuse of power", and Lianca's first child flamed this issue and convinced him to wage war against Lianca.

...Aside from the First Speaker of the Flower-Feather Clan's refusal to recruit laborers, no other tribes objected... ...Storming out unauthorized not only constitutes a blatant abuse of power, but demonstrates utter disregard for our oaths of alliance...

- Holy Sovereign's Notes (II)

[Chain Breaker lore Page#2]

And yet, with all that betrayal, Lianca didn't lose hope on Och-Kan.

She didn't gave up on him even after he deemed her a traitor. After his genocidal policies against the saurians drove Ixquieh, one of their friends, to kill herself by her own brother's sword. After his army, led by her traitor child, was marching towards the FFC's settlement to kill her.

Why?

In her own words, they both owe each other far more than their mere lives.

Unfamiliar Lady [Lianca]: Besides, I have no plan to go to war against him. We both owe each other far more than our mere lives... If either of us actually wanted to claim on that debt, all they'd have to do was ask.

Lianca: If anything... I pity him. In a way, his situation's not so different from yours, but in his case, it's turned him into something neither human nor dragon. The more he chases the sun, the more it blinds him to the creatures who live by its light.

Also, in her second sentence, unbeknownst to her, she said something that paralleled them to both of their parents, Kukulkan and CL-08. Both the daughter and mother gave devastating psychoanalysis of their uncles:

He is always like this. He scorns his kin, mocks his bloodline, and never shares his thoughts with other dragons, yet he resents them for failing to understand him. But if he refuses to speak his mind, how could anyone ever fathom what he truly intends?

Our Sovereign's indulgence toward him knows no bounds, so much so that he can no longer distinguish right from wrong. Whether his actions were just or misguided, the Sovereign would always respond with gentle agreement. And precisely because of this, his unease only grows deeper. No matter which path he takes, he is always met with the same tender light, leaving him utterly lost as to which road he truly walks. In the end, his suspicions toward his kin are nothing but reflections of his self-doubt.

I pity him.

- Priestess's Records: I

And they both pitied them.

(I could say something about how CL-08's analysis of Kukulkan could also be applied to Och-Kan, considering Kukulkan himself admitting that Och-Kan reminded him of his younger self, but let's focus to the topic at hand.)

Lianca clung to her belief that everyone could transcend past their mistakes. Alas, Och-Kan proved her wrong...

For in the battle, she finally gave up on her hope.

[Chain Breaker lore Page#2]

And even then, Och-Kan haunted her narrative; her tribe and successor.

In the 5.5 event, "Tournament of Glory in Bloom", there's a tale of Ifa's ancestor who was desperate to save his saurian companion, and yet was betrayed by his brother and inadvertently triggered wars between the tribes. Hmm... that sounds familiar.

And in the FFC's tribal quest, turns out, the villain used technology from Ochkanatlan era that extracted the Saurians's lifeforce, in which one of the victims was Chasca's-- the current bearer of "Vuka" (Trascendence), Lianca's Ancient Name-- niece. Heck, even Mutota, their chief, has something to say about Och-Kan lmao🤣

However...

Lianca too, haunted his narrative.

The one who led the rebellion and took down Och-Kan was the Scarlet-Eyed Youth. He had Och-Kan's beloved's power and eyes... and Lianca's belief.

Liks... imagine.... the boy wields your man's power... speaks like your man... acts like your man... but he also fights like your kin/rival, he wielded the same weapon as her, she, kin you killed. The fire in his arrows is your beloved's power yet the archer himself is just like your kin.

And he utterly despises you

(Also, since SEY's lore is expanded in Chasca's signature weapon, wouldn't it be a stretch to think that it was Lianca who taught him archery?🤔)

But hold on! After uncountable millenia, one part of your sould would later be discovered and saved by a girl who was as free and wild-spirited as your kin!

Bona.

The boy who defeated Och-Kan and the girl who saved his soul hailed from the same tribe, Lianca's creation, her dream and belief incarnate.

...Perhaps, in a way, it was a confirmation of what Lianca believed; everyone could transcend their mistakes, even Och-Kan.

Maybe it takes a thousand times, two thousand times...

But in the end, Och-Kan did transcend his sins and finally be at rest.

Be it his through his fall by SEY's hands or his renewed second chance by being discovered by Bona...

Lianca's right. She haunted him until she was right.