Gonna Probably Work On Organizing My Tumblr Page Tonight If I’m Actually Gonna Start Posting Shit Lol

Fan Theory: Alastor had a rivalry with Thomas Edison (yes, really) in the 1920s

I originally had a whole theory typed up with lots of evidence for this, but my computer crashed and deleted all of it, so here are some of the basic points of the theory that I came up with:

Alastor grew up in the early 1900s, when the phonograph, invented and sold by Thomas Edison, was the main form of music recording and playing in the United States. Alastor was likely called a "gramophile", or gramophone enthusiast "who eschewed a wife and children to focus on music", as he was an asexual during this era. However, radio started to replace phonographs in the 1920s-1930s, cutting into Edison's profits, to his frustration.

Alastor was a popular radio host in the 1920s-1930s, and was one of the main reasons why people were buying and using radios, instead of Edison's phonographs and records, to play music. If people could listen to music for free on the radio, why would they buy Edison's phonographs? (Alastor was quite smug about this.)

The quality of music on the radio was often better than on Edison's phonographs and recordings, as many radio shows provided live music, which means inviting the band and musicians to play live on-air. It wasn't something that could be mass-produced for profit, also to Edison's consternation.

Alastor's specialty was jazz, a form of music originally "invented by, and for, the phonograph". (He also dabbled in blues as well.)

Unlike Edison and other phonograph and record producers, who were often racist and used what is called "digital blackface" today (i.e. pretending to be Black in recordings, because hiring Black artists over white artists was unthinkable), Alastor was an authentic mixed-race Creole host, though likely "white-passing".

Vox seems to be based, at least somewhat, on Thomas Edison, particularly as Edison didn't just formerly control the music industry with the phonograph, but also the movie industry, with one source stating that 75% of Americans in the 1920s went to the movies "every week". (Edison sold his film studio in 1918.)

Alastor seems to have a special disdain for Vox and his "picture show", all movies and TV shows. My guess is that this came from his disdain for Edison Pictures and the movies vs. radio rivalry.

Edison died at the age of 84 in 1931 from old age and diabetes complications, whereas Alastor was killed in his 30s-40s in 1933.

As an edit, here is Part 2 of this fan theory with a lot more evidence.

The Sound of Being Loved

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Possibly OOC. I'm posting this at like 12am and I am so tired sleepy but I needed to finish this Or Else

Warnings: some hurt/comfort, talk about The Scar™️

Word Count: 737

Masterlist

AO3

Astarion let out a stiff breath as your fingers brushed over the scar. The poem. The sigil. Whatever it was Cazador'd carved into his back.

You'd asked him about it before. He'd answer curtly and bitterly - as he’d always done when his master was the subject of conversation. But that was so long ago now. At least, it felt quite long ago. He couldn't really be sure. All he knew was things were finally dying down and becoming normal. As normal as things could be, anyway. And you couldn't stop yourself from asking again.

That's how you ended up straddling his thighs as he laid chest-down on the bed.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," you reminded him softly. You kept repeating the phrase when he tensed beneath your fingers, or got that quiet, distant aura about him.

He hummed, turning his head to peek over his shoulder at you. He offered the most reassuring smile he could muster. "Go on," he encouraged. "He's dead - it doesn't matter anymore."

You tilted your head. Sharp eyes studied him, searching for any hint of a lie. He sighed quietly as your hand massaged the back of his neck. "But it still happened," you said, "you still hate it."

He smirked, but his quiet voice gave away the false confidence. "You know me too well, darling."

"Yes," you leaned down to kiss his cheek, "I do." He turned his head slightly more to catch your lips for a momentary kiss. Your lips hovered over his, eyes boring into his soul, searching. "I can stop."

"No. Please. I... I want you to know every part of me. I trust you."

You kissed him once more, languid and sweet, before sitting back up. He closed his eyes and tried to relax under your fingers. They danced across his back, tracing each line in their circular pattern. One hand slid to his waist to thumb circles into his side. He wondered why for a moment. Surely it would be easier to feel each infernal letter with both hands? Then he realized: it was a distraction. You were giving him something to focus on while you studied his back. His undead heart stuttered in his chest.

“I could translate it,” you whisper. It’s a gentle offer. “If you wanted to know what it says.”

Cazador is dead, he reminds himself. Whatever the bastard carved into his skin, it shouldn’t hold so much power over him anymore. But the thought of knowing exactly what was written there… His lips pursed.

You pressed a kiss to his spine, in between the circles of text. He lets out a breath. “No. Let it die with him.”

You’re quiet as you go back to tracing. He wonders if you’re translating it in your mind. He… doesn’t mind the thought - not as much as he thought he would. He trusts you, enough to know you would take the words to your grave. They would never be used against him, held over him as leverage. They’d just sit in a corner of your mind and collect dust, until their meaning is lost forever. He doesn’t mind that at all.

Once you’ve felt all of the letters, your hand traces the circles themselves. Starting right at the center, you go out ring by ring. Where scarred lines branch off, you ghost your touch up and down the ridges. There are several at the bottom of the scar. It almost looks like dripping wax, sealed into his skin forever. Imagining what it was like hurts too much.

He peeks over his shoulder again as he feels your hands, full, flat-palmed on his skin, sliding over his sides. You lay on top of him, sliding your arms around him, squished between his stomach and the bed. You’re so warm. Your head rests between his shoulder blades, breaths sliding across his back and shoulders like a warm summer breeze. His body fully relaxed into the affection. All tension faded away, and he allowed his eyes to close in the comfort.

“I love you,” you hum near his ear. “My beautiful star.”

Astarion smiles. “I love you, too. My dearest blood donor.” He relishes in the way you laugh against him, full and bright and free. And he hopes, when he’s lived for centuries more, and loses the spark of life in his eye, he remembers exactly how it sounds to be loved.

Yeah, I'm fine

*Types "<character name> x reader" into tumblr search bar*

Gojo gives a class assignment

nightmare

alastor’s voice is so charming, especially in the scene where he’s talking to nifty.

“almost makes one sentimental”

“i admit one could get accustomed”

i could listen to the radio demon talk all day

post-graduation trip airport looks

How the fuck do freeways stay up

New name because I’m an Eddie Munson addict, my old one was a placeholder until I could think of something. Still subject to change tho I think