#(but it was because it was a tool turned *against* minorities to speak over them and police their self-expression most of the time)

[rawliverandgoronspice]

genuinely bewildered at how it's just g@merg@te again. like it's just exactly the same strategy, except now it's a cabal of dark and sinister narrative designers instead of "there are women near my games" but it's like the same fucking thing and I'm so tired honestly

[donutz]

Sebastian Solace x mute & transgender! reader

It's your first time meeting Sebastian, though.. Your kind soul warms his cold heart

— Sebastian doesn't have that much of a cold heart though so Idk where I was going with that one

Warning: Stitches and needles; Mentions of gashes; Sebastian warms up pretty quickly, I don't like it that much but hey🤷‍♀️; "Signing, looks, like, this".; There's tension, not sure if it's sexual but there's tension;

Speed walking through the halls, you constantly looked around you. Anxious for another monster to pop up. Especially those Squiddles… When it came to even darker rooms you jogged through, hating it when you had to search for a keycard.

You were injured, not too bad. Just a gash in your thigh.

*Good thing it couldn’t chop off anything..*

*I wish it got chopped off.*

It’s hard to breathe or really walk anywhere with your binding(If you do bind). After that ‘minor’ injury, you searched through the drawers and lockers, looking for a medkit. Since you found a flashlight earlier, it might be possible to find a medkit.

You look up at the door number, slightly aching your eyes. Immediately looking down at the ground, you repeat what you saw in your head.

‘Door 48’.

It hurts to blink, to walk. Limping your way into the next room. Expecting anything, except a flying vent grille.

“Got something for ya, come here”.

You jump, yipping in your head. You look around for any flashing lights or peering bright green eyes. Maybe even a squiddle? No, none of them.

“C’monnn, I got good things for you, my own shop.”

You physically quivered. Walking over to the vent, and exhaling while crawling through the tight space. Your wound opening up more.

Reaching the end of the vent, you look around, not seeing much. Until a comforting light turns on.

“Welcome, welcome”!

You jump. Bumping your head against the metal vent.

“Oh… You alright?”

Sebastian wasn’t sure why he said that. He just met you! Worrying about a human… Ridiculous.

You shake your head in response. Bumping your head hurt more than it normally would. You’re stressed, hurt, and scared. Not a great combo.

You look at him, signing, “You,speak, sign, language?”

Sebastian’s eyebrows(?) rose.

“Oh! Um”..

“No”. He accidentally signs.

You tilt your head, confused. 

“You.. Don’t”??

He lightly slaps his face. Realizing he said the wrong thing.

“No I do, kind of”.

“I, just, signed, the, wrong, thing”. He sighs.

You show a surprised look on your face. Though it’s not very visible through your darkened visor. You smile, happy that someone could finally understand you. Even if they weren’t really human.

“I’ll talk, though. If that’s.. Nevermind, my name is Sebastian.”

You finally crawl out of the vent, more comfortable now that you know he’s more kind than any other monster down here. Looking around it seems like this small area is a shop.

Oh wait, he said that earlier.

“If I’m correct, you’re… Instructors told you to grab a crystal and secure loose assets. Well as a trade, you give me the data and I give you useful items. It seems like you need a healing tool for that… Gash”.

It seems like you forgot all about that. Maybe it was because you were too focused on Sebastian.

“Well I do have a medkit for that, just 250 research will do the trick.”

Opening your bag, you check how much you have. Your bag pops up a holographic screen of the amount of data you’ve collected.

Around 1755 data.. That’s more than enough.

You walk over to his tail, picking up the medkit and setting it on the ground to collect the right amount of data for it. Maybe even adding an extra tip to give to Sebastian.

You hand him 300 research, smiling because of your appreciation for his kindness. He counts how much there are, his mouth scrunching from confusion.

“Hey— you.. Gave me extra. It’s only 250—”

“I, know”.

“I, just, wanted, to, give, you, extra. Because, of, how, kind, you’ve, been, to, me”.

It was as if your face was glowing within your gear. You’re a very kind human.

“... Why thank you”. But this isn’t a trick right? Urbanshade isn’t trying to make me all soft?

I’m not sure if I can trust this one.

You buy the flash beacon next, giving him the correct amount. Now you only have 1205 research left. Standing up, you hear a pop in your knees from crouching.

Sebastian visibly cringes from that sound, he isn’t very used to that sound. Not anymore.

Peering at the table, you spot a document. Sebastian looks away from you, looking at the light meters high.

You look at him, and he looks back at you. Side eyeing.

“Who’s, document, is, this”?

“That document is mine.. Urbanshade makes documents on every creature or prisoner they have. They probably even have one on you”.

You look back at the document, pondering.

“Is, this, for, sale”?

“Yes, for 1000 research of course”.

You’re surprised at that large amount of ‘money’, but it is reasonable. It’s not like you would want anybody reading a document about you for a small amount. Especially if you’re more of a private person.

“I’ll, buy, it”.

Sebastian’s mouth lightly gapes, “You really have that much”?

You giggle, nodding at him, finding his surprised look funny. You hand over the data, while Sebastian smiles. Mainly because he can use this against Urbanshade, but also because of you. You’re not really like any other human he’s seen or heard of. 

You’re a kind soul.

“I’ll have that ready for you when you’re at the surface”.

Smiling even wider, you step, putting a bit too much pressure on your right leg, causing a sharp pain to shoot throughout it.

You whimper, stepping closer to the wall to sit down. Right near the vent.

“Oh my, you really need that fixed don’t you”?

Nodding, you sigh.

“Do, you, know, how, to, stitch”?

He’s taken aback, it’s not like he thought you knew how to stitch an injury or something. It’s just because he might have to get close. Close to a human.

“I-.. Yes. I do”. He stuttered.

You notice his visible discomfort and worriedly sign, “You, don’t, have, to, if, you, don’t, want, to. I, see, that, you’ve, gone, through, enough, already”.

“When, it, comes, to, humans.” 

He gasps, staying silent as he takes in what you signed. Yes, he has been through enough when it comes through humans.

But you’re different.

“No it’s fine r-really! I’ll stitch it up for you”. He's still not sure why he's acting like this.

He bends down to your height, being careful with his tail. He’d let you rest against it but… Maybe that’s too far.

A few seconds later, he has the smaller needles and thread carefully sat  between his larger claws.

It’s quiet, minus the low ringing of the lights, and the slight swoosh of the fan.

“Okay uhm.. Deep.. Breaths…”

Inhale

He sticks the small needle through your skin, flinching at the feeling. Though it wasn’t too bad.. Just a hard pinch.

Exhaleee….

You might as well fall asleep because of the earlier adrenaline. And god. That hurt. Nevermind a hard pinch, that felt like getting— Ughh. I don’t even want to describe it.

You throw your head back looking up at the heightened ceiling.

… Do you think that’s where Sebastian crawled from?

Like maybe in a vent or something..?

… Sorry—

Pinch!

You grab his sleeve.

“I’m sorry alright! I don’t mean to—” He looks at you. Letting out a sigh.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just…” He inhaled.

Looking at him, “Stressed”? You signed.

Scrunching his eyes, glad you know what he’s feeling. 

Exhaling, “Yeah. Stressed”.

“It’s, okay. I, don’t, mind. I’m, not, the, one, stitching, after, all”. You let out a small laugh. So does he.

“.. Thank you”.

He loops through 3 more times, just one more loop left. During the three loops, you were holding his hand. Warming it up, warm blooded and cold blooded.

Literally and mentally.

“Alright just one more left and we’re done”.

Finally.

Going through the last loop, he tightens the stitches, holding your hand tighter now that he’s finishes his work.

You observe it, astonished at the fine service.

Looking up at him, smiling, you sign, “Thank, you”.

“S, E, B, A, S, T, I, A, N”.

“You’re.. Welcome”...

You slowly start to lose your vision, falling to your right, which leads to Sebastian catching your body with his tail.

“O- Oh”...

I did a different writing style on purpose, I think. Idk I wanted to sound like a professional writer on A03.

[calabria-mediterranea]

Occitan is still spoken in Southern Italy's Calabria

Blessed with one of the most beautiful languages, Italy is also home to a plethora of linguistic minorities, twelve to be precise, across fourteen regions, with almost three million speakers. The Occitan linguistic minority of the Alpine valleys of Northern Italy's Piedmont and Liguria is probably one of the most well known, also because of the importance the language had in the history of European culture and literature: the Langue d’Oc and its poetry inspired the troubadours of Provence, in Southern France. In those days, Occitan was spoken in the South of France, from the Atlantic to the Alps, but today only small pockets of Occitan-speaking people exists, mostly across the Alpine valleys of France, Liguria, Piedmont and in thr town Guardia Piemontese, in Southern Italy's Calabria. 

How did Occitan speaking people end up from the mountains of Northern Italy to the southernmost region of the Italian peninsula?

It’s a long story, one that brings us back to the 13th century, to a religious minority called Waldensians and to the fact Calabria is known for being a welcoming land for all those seeking refuge, from Greeks to Albanians and Jews.

The Waldensian movement had developed in the Cottian Alps between France and Northern Italy towards the end of the 12th century, most likely thanks to the contributions of Peter Waldo (from whom the movement took its name). Waldensians lived a life of asceticism and poverty, but some of their more extreme views — lack of faith in transubstantiation and having associated the Catholic church with the “harlot of the Apocalypse” — turned them into religious pariah and victims of persecution across Europe.

A considerable group of Waldensians moved to Calabria in the 13th century to escape persecution in Northern Italy and the land of Calabria proved to be a blessing, because its fertile soil allowed the development of a prosperous community.

Guardia Piemontese is a town on the Western coast of Northern Calabria.

The date of Guardia's foundation is unknown, and the name of the place has changed several times in history. "Guardia" means watch or lookout, and this name is probably related to a lookout tower built in the 11th century. Such lookout towers were built to warn against Arab pirates, then called Saracens, ravaging the coast.

For the first century, the community of Guardia cohabited peacefully with their Catholic neighbors, but things tragically changed when the Waldensians decided to join the Protestant Reform: then, they became the enemy and victims of a religious persecution that was to obliterate them in the early summer of 1561. Those tragic events are still remembered today in Guardia Piemontese, thanks to a monument called La Porta del Sangue, (the Gate of blood), a memento to the violence that killed so many and forced many others to conversion.

Despite the suppression of their religion, the people of Guardia, or La Gàrdia, as they call it, have continued to use their distinct Occitan dialect, Gardiòl. Not surprisingly, it has been influenced by the speech of their neighbours in Calabria. For example, Gardiòl has adopted the use of retroflex consonants, common in Sicily and southern Italy.

The traditions that the Waldensians brought from Piedmont to Calabria, such as the Occitan language and certain customs, have survived over the centuries right through to the present day.

In 1863 the name Guardia was changed to Guardia Piemontese, to honor the geographical origins of the Waldensians.

On 5 June 2011, 450 years after the massacre in Guardia, the Waldensian Church opened a museum and cultural centre in the town. The museums tells the story of how the Waldensians arrived all the way in Calabria and preserves agricultural tools, the traditional clothing of Guardia Piemontese, made with a particular yarn of broom and the famous hurdy gurdy, an French instrument of medieval origins. In the Occitan valleys in Italy, the hurdy-gurdy was the traveling companion of buskers.

The Waldensian Church and the municipal authorities now collaborate closely in cultural affairs. Numerous ecumenical events have been planned together with the local Catholic community to mark the 500th anniversary of the Reformation.

Follow us on Instagram, @calabria_mediterranea

[split-spectrum]

Four Hours

Chapter 2

(Complete)

Pairings: Din Djarin/FemReader

Warnings/Tags: explicit content, swearing, mild violence, SMUT, 18+ minors please DNI

Description: A quiet day in the repair bay goes sideways quickly when the Mandalorian next door catches you stealing his tools.

☆☆☆

It's been one hour, now.

He's standing in front of a makeshift table built of cargo containers, cleaning his weapons and glancing at you every few minutes. Four hours. Four hours is what you'd told him when he'd asked how long you'd need to wait out the poison. Time is ticking by agonizingly, and you can feel every second of it. You'd spent most of the first hour watching hyperspace streak past in the cockpit before your eyes had started to ache and you'd followed him down below, into the main cargo hold.

"Can I give you a hand?" you ask him from across the room where you're seated on a smaller cargo container. Based on the rest of his ship's inventory, you can guess the containers are either filled with weapons or ammunition. It seems to be the recurring theme. 

"No." He answers quietly, then adds, "Thank you."

The silence starts up again, and you want to fight against it. It's not uncomfortable silence; it's just a blanket that seems to follow him. But you want to talk, now more than ever. You want to be occupied.

"Can I ask you a question?"

He says nothing, but it's an inviting sort of nothing.

"Why did you help me? Why are you helping me?"

He places a piece of the blaster he's currently disassembling onto the shelf. "Because you asked."

That catches you so off guard that you don't respond for a moment. "There has to be more to it than that."

He clicks the firing mechanism back into place, holding the blaster at a distance and tilting his head to inspect it. You wait, then give up on a response.

The poison edges a little deeper into your bloodstream...

Or does it?

Your eyes close briefly as you try to push the thoughts from your mind. You'll either live or die, or you'll live in a different way. One way or the other, these hours will end. The only way to get there is to pass the time.

When you draw your gaze back over to the table, he's finished with the previous blaster and picked up a different one. You sink back into your seat, trying to come up with another reason for him to speak to you, and look down at your arm, still purple. The dark, blurred mark on your skin is starting to form into the distinct outline of his hand.

"You still haven't apologized for this," you say, holding it up. 

He glances over to what you're indicating, making you a little self-conscious. Your arm drops back into your lap while he looks at you.

"Where I come from, thieves are punished."

Your lip quirks. "I'm not a thief. I explained everything, remember?"

His helmet angles back down to the weapon. "You took things that didn't belong to you."

"And I brought them back," you point out.

"Yeah. That's why you're still breathing."

Your chest flutters a little, and your face heats. You've known a lot of hunters, and you've heard a lot of the same empty threats. This Mandalorian, you're starting to realize, is in a class all his own. His comment isn't careless; he didn't say it to intimidate. He means it. And it stirs something in you. 

You don't have anything to say in argument, and after a moment, you try a different subject.

"You know, I can't afford to pay you much for this," you admit softly. You can't afford to pay him anything, really. You'll hardly be able to cover his fuel costs.

"You don't need to pay."

It's your turn to be silent, now. You bring your eyes back up. "Why would you do this for nothing?"

His visor lowers from your eyes down to the side of your body again. "Your... arm. It's... something I try not to do. Hurt people who aren't deserving."

You shift in discomfort and despite his serious tone, you let a little smirk escape. "Might be in the wrong profession for that."

He doesn't answer, and he doesn't move his gaze from your arm for a while. Slowly, he goes back to his work. 

You know a joke probably wasn't the right response, but it makes you uncomfortable when people are too sincere. Unfortunately for you, sincerity seems to be his default setting. "Besides, have you considered I'm more deserving than you think? You haven't asked why he was trying to kill me."

He still doesn't ask. But you tell him anyway, after a moment's hesitation. "I killed his brother."

He stops looking at the blaster. You squirm again. Is he... angry? Surprised? Is he judging you? You don't like it.

"Everyone is somebody's brother, Mando."

"I know."

He says it quietly, softly, and you can hear in his voice that he means it. He knows. The same way you know.

"Something you should know about me, though..." you offer a more genuine tone. "I try not to hurt people who don't deserve it, either."

From the way he slows his movements, you can see he's listening and he takes your meaning, but he says nothing in return. It really makes you want to tell him the whole story - to prove that you're more than a ruthless killer - but you bite back the words. You don't know why you feel you owe him an explanation.

Instead, you just stand up and walk closer. "Another thing you should know: I pay my debts. So..." You hesitate, pulse quickening as you lower your voice. "Maybe there's another way I could show you my appreciation."

Both his hands go still. "You don't owe me anything."

You bite your lip nervously, then decide to take another chance and push further. "Maybe I want to, anyway."

You watch his helmet for any sign, any reaction. Nothing. Your heart is thrumming wildly now, but you force yourself not to look away.

He places the gun down flat on the table and his helmet tilts just slightly in your direction. "What you're thinking... is a bad idea."

A jolt of excitement runs through you. You'd expected an immediate "no".

"Oh? I don't think so. Why do you think so?"

When he turns to look at you properly, in this close proximity, it's the first time you realize how big he is. His shoulders dwarf you on both sides. "Call it intuition."

"Maybe your intuition isn't as good as you think it is."

The broad chest in front of you slowly rising and falling is the only movement between the two of you. "Kept me alive this long."

"So what is your intuition telling you about me, exactly?" you press, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. 

You catch the faintest shift beneath the fabric covering his neck.

"That you're as likely to fuck me..." He leans his head down, lowering his voice even further. "...as you are to kill me."

Your whole body tingles with electricity, his velvet voice raising the hair on the back of your neck. You can hardly breathe your words back at him, but you force yourself to speak. "So you're afraid of me?"

He pauses, and you wait. It's a line you've used before on many a hunter, and you can't wait to see the effect it will have on him. They love to assert dominance. You can tell it'll drive him where you want him to go. 

But you keep waiting, and his hands don't move. His body remains where it is. He finally shifts his weight to his other leg and speaks. 

"What is it that you want from me?"

This throws you. You're pinned beneath the intensity of his black stare, and you open your mouth just to close it again with no response. You mentally cycle through several lies and irreverant, vulgar comments. Finally, you settle on the truth. "A... distraction."

Another pause. You know it's impossible to see, but his expression behind the metal seems so clear. Somehow, you know his eyes are fixed on yours, and that his brows are dark, and that they're raised at you. "That's it?"

You swallow. "That's it."

He shifts almost imperceptibly closer to you. "And if the poison hits you? What then?"

"I told you, that won't happen for another couple of hours."

"That's why I asked."

Fuck. That shoots straight to your core, making you bold enough to carefully, tentatively reach out a hand and graze his armored stomach with your fingertips.

He lets you drop your fingers lower to where his belt hangs, and then he speaks again, voice a little thicker, a little more breath behind it. 

"How do I know you even know what you're doing? It could be affecting you already." 

You're distracted with tracing a line across his belt, slipping your fingers behind it to feel the fabric padding his armor. You don't answer right away. He stops your hand when it slides behind his belt to remove it. 

"I asked you a question."

You look back up at him, loving the way his voice surrounds you, up close like this. "You want to know if I'm drugged? I'm not. That's not how it works."

His neck rolls to the side a bit as he inspects you, clearly weighing whether or not to believe you. He's still holding your wrist, but you push against his grip and unclip his belt, grasping it with one hand. "If you don't believe it, ask me a question. Test me."

His belt makes a heavy clinking sound as you set it down on the table next to his blaster. 

The Mandalorian says nothing.

You slowly and carefully lift up the fabric covering his stomach, giving yourself access to his waistline.

The Mandaloran says nothing.

Your breath is getting quicker and more shallow with every second. You slowly separate a line between the bottom of his armor and the top of his pants, revealing a strip of beautifully tan skin.

The Mandalorian says nothing.

Your fingertips glide over him, almost working of their own accord, and you hear a whisper of a breath through the modulator when you dip your thumbs first upward, to briefly feel the muscle beneath his shirt, and then down to stretch his waistband and allow you to get into his pants properly. 

His stomach pulls inward and the contact seems to jolt him into finally speaking. "What star system was the hangar in? What planet was it orbiting?"

You're holding up his shirt with one hand as your other one is moving steadily downward, underneath his clothes. 

"I don't know," you answer. "Some scummy little backwater."

You press closer to him to get the angle you need. "Can't remember the name," you murmur absently as your hand brushes the warmth of him, half-hard and growing harder. 

He stifles a modulated inhalation when you brush your palm softly over him, his helmet falling forward.

"Good enough."

You feel a wild thrill run through you at his permission, but you're too fixated on the feel of him to look up. He's getting harder now, the front of his pants straining to keep him contained, and as you drop your hand lower, you start to realize you may have asked for more than you can handle. He's thick, and as the palm of your hand brushes over his head, your eyes widen at his size. 

You look up at him inquisitively, a thought crossing your mind that hadn't before. "Human... right?"

He gives a single low puff of air that sounds almost like a laugh, and he pulls your hand back, stepping to the side and crowding you up against the table. 

"You want a distraction," he says, placing a gloved hand over your hip. "I can give you that." 

He uses the other hand to start unclipping your belt, not looking down. "But that's all I can give you. Understand?" 

The belt gets set down next to his own, and you look over at it, then back up at him. You swallow, trying to keep the arousal out of your expression and forcing a smirk instead. "That's all I need, Mando."

His voice tightens up, low and in the back of his throat when he grabs your hips and twists you around to face the table, yanking your pants down.

"Good."

One of his gloves drops beside you onto the floor and the next thing you feel are his bare fingers dragging through your wet cunt. Your shoulders immediately go slack and your back arches before you can really think about it, giving him better access when you spread your legs. You let out a little "ah," and cut your own air short when he turns his hand flat and slides his open palm from your ass down between your legs, middle two fingers lying flat against your pussy. 

He hums low in his chest, the modulator turning it into a noise so deep it's almost grinding, as he palms you. He doesn't come close to your entrance, doesn't let his fingers wander. It just seems like he wants to feel as much of you as he can, all at once. Like he's claiming you, mapping out territory he intends to own. 

You're seeing stars with the slow brush of his hand, wishing his fingers would spread out and tease you properly, and finally, blessedly, they do. The thick pads of his fingers are surprisingly soft. It makes sense, you think absently - they're always covered in gloves. His hands would be soft, his fingertips smooth. 

But you're wrong - the tips of his fingers glide against your skin, but when he shoves them deep inside you, burying himself to the knuckles, you can feel the coarseness of his hands. He's got callouses across all his knuckles, a testament to the brutality of his fists. His fingers were made for pulling triggers. The rest of his hands are worn by years of less civilized use. You moan when he twists them inside you, making you ache for more as he drags them slowly in and out. 

He holds you down like this, pressing you into the makeshift table and pumping his fingers deftly, methodically, in perfect pace with the arches of your spine. You're pressing your own fingers down against the metal surface in front of you, eyes closed and focused only on the way he's effortlessly drawing the pleasure out of you like it's his job. Like it's something that comes to him so naturally that he's just silently absorbed in the pattern of it. You can feel the way he flexes his wrist against your inner thigh each time he presses up and into you and his rhythm is relentless, measured and perfectly in control.

Your eyes pop open of their own accord, your vision slightly blurred when he suddenly changes the pace to curl one finger further than the other, finding the perfect spot inside you, brushing over the bundle of nerves that makes you want to howl. Instead, you grit your teeth and take in a shallow, sharp breath. 

"Fuck, Mando. That's so- you're gonna make me..." 

You're already panting for him and it's only been a few minutes. He's about to shatter you, with only a single, steady hand. 

"Shit," you squeeze your eyes closed again, a whine entering your tone. You're nearing the edge when a soft beeping starts to drift down from the cockpit. 

"Shit," Mando says, in a tone completely different from yours. 

He slows his movements as you buck against his hand, embarrassingly desperate to keep him touching you. But as the alert continues to go off, you feel him pulling back, and finally stopping altogether. You suppress a noise rising in the back of your throat, blinking and looking over your shoulder. His palm flattens over your back, pressing you down. 

"Stay."

His single instruction sends electricity through your every nerve - and it's not just the way he delivers the word. It's the sound of his voice. It's deeper, fuller, richer. It's heavy with everything he's not saying aloud. When he stood behind you silently pulling you apart, the heat was building in him, too, and now you've heard the evidence. 

You feel him adjust himself before walking away, leaving you bent over, spread for him. As soon as he disappears up the ladder to the cockpit, though, your nature of disobedience wins you over and you decide not to be left alone. You remove your boots, stepping out of the pants that were left around your ankles and shrug out of your vest, leaving only your untucked shirt to cover your naked body down to the tops of your thighs. You follow him up the ladder and back to the cockpit.

He's sitting, looking a bit uncomfortable, when you find him at the ship's controls. He doesn't turn around. 

"Thought I told you to stay."

A grin emerges as you softly roll your eyes. "You did."

You round the side of his chair and his helmet tilts in your direction, then abruptly tilts the rest of the way when he sees what you're wearing. Your shirt is low-cut and the full curve of both breasts is visible through the thin fabric. You clasp your hands behind your back and shrug, then release. "I told you to distract me. Guess we both didn't get what we wanted."

You're standing at his knee, now, and he's looking at you while pressing a few buttons on the side. "Needed to change coordinates. Fuel consumption is too high. We won't make it to our original destination."

He's still working at the controls, but as you press nearer, he turns his seat toward you and starts to spread your legs with his knee. "Would have been back in a minute."

Your eyes flick down to what he's doing, and you place a hand over the metal covering his leg. "Didn't want to wait."

You watch him continue to input new coordinates as you lower yourself down onto his thigh, eyes fluttering a bit when the heat between your legs makes contact with cool metal. You've gotten wetter just standing in front of him, and the slickness covering both of your inner thighs is now wrapped around his leg. 

Your clit pulses with need when he leans back in his chair, broad and stiff, muscles tensed as he takes you in. His left hand is still punching in coordinates, but his right one falls to your leg, holding you on top of him.

You start to grind into his armor, searching for contact any way you can get it. You drag your pussy across him, over and over again, riding him, working yourself up as he gives you half-attention, still typing instructions into the ship's computer. 

Somehow his casual indifference makes you burn more, and you start to rock your hips down, grinding over the cool brown metal. When he finally finishes his work, both of his hands shoot up to unfasten the clasp at the top of your shirt, revealing more of the smooth skin of your chest. 

When he realizes that the clasp doesn't open your shirt all the way, his motions are laced with impatience, almost irritation, as he drops his arms down and grabs the bottom of your shirt. You give no resistance when he pulls it over you, leaving you naked, breasts inches from his face.

...from his helmet. 

It's unnerving, not seeing a reaction of any kind. It makes you feel like prey. And although you didn't think it was possible, it makes you wetter than you already were. 

He drops one ungloved hand to squeeze your breast and drags it across your soft skin. Then he palms himself, watching you. 

"That feel good?" he rumbles, dark visor fixated on your movements. 

You arch your back more, displaying yourself for him as you rub your slick pussy up and down the length of his stiff thigh. "Mm." You can't give a proper answer at the moment, too lost in the thrill of riding him.

He gets your attention, though, when he drops his hand from an open palm down inside his clothes, pulling out his cock and starting to stroke it for you. He's slow, languid with his movements, jerking himself softly and with a focused intensity. 

It's all you can do not to moan at the sight, your eyebrows pushing together in a pathetic expression of need.

"Stars, you look good, Mando. Let me sit in your lap." You watch his grip tighten. "Please."

His lazy strokes become more intentional, more heated. You try not to let your movements become ragged the same heat pools in your stomach. "Pl-"

You're about to repeat the word "please", but you only get half of it out before he's grabbing you by the waist and pulling you off of himself. He stands up and turns your body, standing you next to the chair and forcing your shoulders down, bending you over it. 

He slides the head of his cock through your wetness, pushing up against you, pressing inside. You almost choke at the relief after spending so much time rocking against him, feeling so empty, but you choke instead at the fullness of him stretching you open. 

Gasping, you grip the hand rest of the seat that's in front of your face. As he presses in further, you suck in a string of curses through your teeth. He pauses, holding your hips still and letting his swollen head sink slowly, slowly deeper. After only an inch or two, he pulls back out, letting the muscles of your legs relax. He lets you breathe for a moment before he pushes back in, sliding shallowly back and forth, as your pussy gives him more room. 

It takes a long few moments for you to stop clutching the hand rest, but once he's slicked with you and starting to push in all the way, his movements become more even, more fluid, and your eyes roll back in your head as you feel every inch. 

"Oh, fuck-" you groan, head tipping forward as he starts to move his hips at an even pace, burying his cock deeper and deeper with each thrust. 

He splays one hand flat over your back, pounding into you and striking up against the spot that makes you shudder with bliss. You're starting to hear soft grunts escaping the strangle of his modulator, barely audible but enough to send you over the edge. 

He fucks you perfectly, giving you exactly what you need until you're almost begging for the relief of orgasm to pull you back from the brink of losing your mind. And then he lets you. 

"Shit, shit. Shit."

You grind out the words, barely registering that you're talking at all, and you tumble over the edge, groaning and squeezing at the chair to keep yourself upright as he steadily pounds into you, not stopping, not slowing until you sigh, shakily pushing yourself up and turning to face him. 

"Fuck," you smile, wiping the hair from your eyes. "Fuck, that was good."

He's still inside you, sliding in and out, slow and controlled. He doesn't answer you right away, just keeps fucking up into you, waiting for your shaking breaths to subside. Then he grips the side of your hip and pushes, letting you feel every part of him inside you. "Yeah?"

You nod, blinking up at him, drained and delirious. "Yeah. So fucking good."

His voice is so deep it sends a shiver up your spine when he leans close. You could swear you actually feel the bass in his tone as it rumbles through the muscles of your back. "Then why are you smiling?"

"Hm?" You're caught so off-guard you can't even form a word in reply. You're still buzzing from your orgasm as he pulls out of you, yanking you up from the chair and sliding back into the chair himself. He drops you into his lap, making you gasp when he positions himself back at your entrance and shoves you down on his cock in one hard thrust.

"Let's get rid of that fucking smile."

Before you can say anything back, he puts two fingers into your mouth and you suck them, jaw slack and willing, so overstimulated from the sensation of him fucking you hard and deep like this that you can hardly breathe. He rips the fingers from your wet mouth, dropping them between your legs and stroking, firm and relentless and perfect. He circles your clit until your voice is a high, keening, wrecked thing and you're bouncing on his cock, recklessly seeking a second high. It comes over you quickly, ripping through you without mercy this time, and making you whimper brokenly as you impale yourself over and over on his stiff cock.

When you finally finish - really finish, and you're left panting, completely unable to form a coherent thought, you feel him start to twitch inside you, pulsing with the final few thrusts, and he lifts you off of himself, releasing his cock with a vulgar, wet sucking sound. 

"Fuck, I'm gonna-"

He drops you back into his lap with his cock warm against your pussy, your legs spread wide as he shoots hot, thick ropes of cum over the both of you. You reach down to grip him, pumping every last drop out of him until he's spent over your stomach and legs, his chest rising and falling raggedly against your back.

You lie there against him, unable to think, or move, and hardly able to breathe, for a long, long time.

After so much time has passed that you feel guilty for sinking your weight into him, you finally stand up and bend over to pick up your discarded shirt. He extricates himself from you, tucking his softening cock back into his pants as he leaves the cockpit, mumbling something like, "Be right back."

When he returns with a damp cloth, he finds you staring at the chrono behind the second chair, your eyes unfocused but your face concerned. You snap to attention when he enters. He starts to gently swipe up the mess he's made on your stomach, and looks over to where you're staring. 

"What?"

"Why does that say 17:00 standard hours?"

He pauses. "Because that's the time."

You tear your eyes from the glowing numbers to look at him. "That's the current time?"

He seems to register what you're saying, and answers more slowly. "Yeah. That's the time."

"Then why does that one say 14:00?" you ask, heartbeat slowly quickening as you point at another chrono.

"Oh," he says quietly. "These are all set to local time."

"Even the one in the cargo hold?"

He nods the helmet once, slowly, then turns back to the one in front of you. "That's the only one I keep at standard time."

A smile crosses your face and breaks out into a wide grin as you read it again, just to be sure. You could kill him right now, but honestly, it doesn't matter. You can't stop smiling.

It's been five hours. 

--

[prolix-yuy]

For the Bangathon: Snuggling spoon with Javi G or Oberyn?

Ahhhhh we love ourselves a little snuggly sexxin'! Oberyn was calling to me for this one, but it may be a little more tense than we think...

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x OFC

Position: Snuggled Spoon

Word Count: 1419 (see how these get longer the more of them I write? I have no self-control)

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, PiV sex (don’t be a fool, wrap your tool), fingering (f receiving), allusions to public sex, cum tasting, hate sex, Oberyn is an affectionate bastard.

Notes: A follow-up to this drabble, because I wanted to see how it all panned out.

“How are your accommodations, little scorpion?”

The infuriating voice of her captor (and failed assassination attempt) drifts through her cell bars. Remaining on her side on the floor, only a few crumpled blankets to soften the uncomfortable stone, she ignores his question. 

It wasn’t the first time the Prince had visited during her imprisonment. She’d screamed and railed against him the first time, tried to claw at him the second. Every spitfire reaction left him with a smarmy smile, standing just out of reach. He pulled little bits of information out of her each time - who sent her (a prominent family tired of the house leaders), what her plan was (to poison him and flee to Westeros), if she’d ever cum that hard with a lover she chose (silence). The game was more intriguing to him than she’d hoped, praying for his attention to drift so she could devise a way to escape. But every passing day he visits, and every day she grows wearier of her predicament.

Today, she’s done with this game. Her stomach is empty yet again, body aching, and hope waning. Her employers feign ignorance of her plan, abandoning her as she should have guessed. There was no one coming to reward her for her loyalty. 

“Oh come now, has all your fire finally burned out?” Oberyn purrs, but she doesn’t rise to his challenge. She’d overheard the guards speaking of an execution date, fast approaching. What does this sparring matter when she’s about to be erased from history? A blip only in the mind of a small few, forgotten when larger matters loom. 

Oberyn hums, then calls to a guard. Her interest piques for a moment, the rusty clank of keys and the creak of her door opening urging her to roll over and watch. The Prince, in his fine mustard robes and heavy jewelry, steps into the cell. The door closes behind him, even though the guard’s wary face hovers nearby. She sits fully, glaring up at her captor. He only chuckles, leaning back against the bars.

“So I have your attention finally,” he drawls, crossing his arms and raking his gaze over her body. They’d swapped her gauze and silk for a rough shift, the fabric barely keeping her warm in the night. The vulnerability makes her skin crawl.

“If it pleases the Prince of Dorne,” she spits, turning to lay back on her side. Her hands itch to press her thumbs into his eyes, but what good would it do? Speed up the sentence from days to minutes?

“Oh come now, little scorpion, I’ve already commended you on how much your subterfuge entertained me,” he tuts, steps light and cat-like approaching. “Easily the most fun I’ve had in months. And all our sparring over these last days. Don’t let your current state tamp out your fury. It’s the most beautiful thing about you.”

She stays firmly turned to the wall as he sits beside her, the heat of his body melting the ice along her spine. Denying the satisfaction of her relief, she bites down on her lip.

“I’ve never had such a…” he begins again, trying to win her attention for some mystifying reason, before he stops. His fingers brush against her bare arm. “You’re freezing.”

She snorts, very unladylike. “Maybe I’ll perish from the cold before my beheading.”

Suddenly she’s surrounded by warmth, eyes shooting open. The man she was conscripted to kill is now draping his robe around her, bare expanse of his chest snug to her back. His breath dances along her cheek, and try as she might a shudder loosens her limbs.

“Little scorpion, I would not have you suffer,” he says, and the somber tone drips wonder on her skin. Perhaps ill-advised, but she presses back against his blazing heat, wondering if all desert men are this scorching or if it’s only Oberyn. His palm comes up to her arm and warms her skin. A reedy sound of relief catches in her throat. 

Before she can protest his hand travels over her stomach to cup her sex. Such boldness would normally result in the loss of a hand, but at the barest brush her core aches. Much as she hates to admit it (and never would to the Prince), she had dreamt of his touch more than once.

“I can warm you much better than this,” Oberyn purrs in her ear, his wicked fingers already creeping below her shift.

“What makes you think I would want your touch, my Prince?” She tries to hold her voice steady but his fingers are already swiping at her folds.

“This,” he gloats, bringing his soaked fingers to her face. Her arousal gleams thickly. “I think you would positively gush on me again.” Without pretense he drags his fingers into his mouth, sucking indulgently. She turns and watches him, pure sin and infuriating charm. His eyes open, and by the gods, they’re ravenous. 

“Will you take what your Prince gives you, little scorpion?” he demands, and every fiber of her being is screaming to deny him, but her parted lips and slow nod betray her. He smiles wickedly, tugging his cock from his pants to slide between her clenched thighs. Passing over her weeping cunt, he props himself up to closely watch her face. 

“I have dreamt of this cunt since you gave it to me, fucked my fist at the memory of you clenching around me,” he spits out, notching his blunt head at her at her entrance. “And now, I’ll do it again. But this time, you’ll scream my name.”

With a forceful thrust he buries himself inside her, the blinding sensation of fullness and sharp pleasure driving her to tuck into herself. He tuts and yanks her back against his chest, hand loosely around her throat as he sets a toe-curling pace. His teeth scrape her ear as he pants.

“Tight, wet, perfect little thing. Did you think your beauty and wiles would keep me from seeing your true nature?” he hisses, plunging his other hand between her legs to pinch her clit between his fingers. All she can do is wail and rock against his hold, hands scrabbling back to grip his pounding hips. “I’ve had many a pleasure, indulged all my vices, but making you cum on my cock as you tried to kill me…now that was a new experience.” 

Her breath whistles out through clenched teeth, wishing her body didn’t mold to his so readily. Nails digging into his hips, he growls and nips at her skin. Her orgasm is fast approaching, cursing and praising his skill as he pointedly strokes her clit and pounds into the perfect place inside. 

“Yes, my dangerous little scorpion, all glittering and deadly, cum for me a second time. I want your cunt to only desire how well I fuck it.” A quick strum of his fingers and her body traitorously snaps around him, only held in check by his grip and the roar of his snarl in her ear. When her body laxes he manhandles her to her back, lifting her hips off the ground as he slaps into her with reckless thrusts. A few more and he pulls out, fisting his cock and mashing his lips to hers as he cums in the palm of his hand. 

His lips are full and soft, the scratch of his mustache and beard burning against her skin. He sweeps his tongue into her mouth, full and domineering, but when she presses back with teeth and a lap of her own his hips stutter between hers. They kiss messily, licking and biting and panting against each other’s mouths until he finally lifts up and looks down at her. The Prince of House Martell, flushed and satiated, eyes just as dark and promising. 

“I stand by what I said during your arrest,” he says lightly, standing and shrugging off the floor-length robe. He drapes it over her body, sauntering to the cell door with only low-slung pants and the golden expanse of his back. She sits up, clutching the robe to her chest still warm. “You may beat us all to the Iron Throne one day, with that tenacity of yours.” 

One hand pulls the door shut…but not quite. Not enough for the latch to catch, but enough for the guards to believe so. Her eyes snap from the door to Oberyn’s eyes, challenge and conquest pooling in them.

“Come try and kill me again if you can, little scorpion.”

END

LJ’s Bangathon 2023

[quietwingsinthesky]

Self-Preservation Over Lost Causes

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Crowley/Kevin Tran Additional Tags: Not Canon Compliant with Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror (Supernatural), Kevin Tran Lives (Supernatural), Pre-Slash, Attempted Murder, Kevin Tran is So Done (Supernatural), Minor Injuries WC: 2965 Summary:

When his back is against the wall, Kevin still has one person left in the Bunker to turn to, and he might be the only one who can save Kevin's life.

Something Kevin’s learned the hard way: when Dean says to trust him, don’t.

He could hear the barely disguised panic in Dean’s voice when he demands Kevin look for ways to clamp down on an angel. He’d have to be blind not to notice the weird ways Sam had been acting since failing to close the Hell gates, the way he ran off with no explanation or went so still, so deathly silent, staring at Kevin like he was studying him, a hawk's expression before it swooped. Sam's voice buzzed in Kevin’s ears in ways he let be written off as migraine auras or leftover juice from the trials. It should have been something Kevin saw through earlier, but he’s exhausted and hungry and hurting all the time. Now, on top of that, he’s terrified.

Because the pieces are falling into place and Kevin’s got a paper with his name scrawled on it clutched in his hands and the sigils on the wall are different than they were when Kevin made them and Dean isn’t someone he ever should have trusted.

He leaves Dean thinking he’s talking to his brother. It crosses his mind, for a moment, that that’s selfish, throwing Dean to the meat grinder for a few seconds more to escape, but then he remembers how Dean didn’t even bother to tell him what he was doing. If not for the paper in Kevin’s sweaty palm, with his name, only his name, drifting lazily out of Sam’s jacket, he might not have eavesdropped. He might have been left a sitting duck. So screw Dean. He’s Kevin freaking Solo.

That makes a nervous laugh erupt from his chest. He knows where his feet are taking him, even if he’s doing everything in his power not to think about it. The safest place in the Bunker. It’s a dead-end, Kevin knows that, but where else is he going to run? If he’s lucky, he hides until the storm blows over. If not-

He’s not thinking about if nots. He’s thinking about surviving. He drags the door to the dungeon open and shuts it behind him. All he can hear is his heart pounding as he backs away from it. Should he bar the door? Can he? What is there to-

“-vin. Kevin!” An annoyed growl from behind him. Kevin nearly jumps out of his skin. Crowley rolls his eyes, crossing his arms on the table in front of him. There’s a scrap of paper there. A crayon. Kevin squeezes the name in his fist harder. “What do you need now? Another translation? A spell, maybe? Or is are we getting dirty again?” Crowley glances suggestively at the tools on the wall and then back to Kevin. He looks Kevin up and down. “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Kevin thinks he hears something, and his head jerks back to the door. “Well, maybe not so surprising in your line of work. Is that-“

“Shut up,” Kevin whispers. “It’s going to hear you.” Crowley tilts slightly in his chair, as though he can look past Kevin and through the closed door.

“Don’t tell me you’ve let another ancient horror out of a jar.”

“Shut up!” Kevin hisses. Crowley’s smile, what there is of it, falls. When he speaks again, the taunts are gone.

“Kevin. What did those idiots set free?” There’s another noise from outside, or Kevin thinks there might be. He’s not sure. Anything could be a sign of danger. Desperately, he grasps for one of the hammers on the wall. It has a familiar weight to it. He’s used it on Crowley… more times than he would like to admit.

Kevin feels like a mouse in a trap, caught wrong, his neck not snapped properly, squirming and squeaking.

But this trap has the king of Hell in it. Kevin’s out of options.

“Can you kill an angel?” he asks. Crowley leans back in his chair.

“Do you have one of their blades?” Kevin shakes his head. “Mm. Gun loaded with grace bullets? A very sharp needle?” Kevin doesn’t even bother to answer those. “Then, no, I can’t kill an angel.”

“If it gets in here, it’ll kill you.” Crowley grimaces.

“Not exactly what I had planned for today.” He lifts his cuffed hands expectantly, and when Kevin doesn’t move, he says, “Well?”

“What?”

“You said it yourself. We’re both going to die. Set me free, so that we don’t!” Crowley’s voice rises in aggravation. Kevin is about to shake his head, but that’s when he hears it. Crowley does, too. He tilts his head, listening as Kevin does to the echoing sounds of footsteps. They’re slow. Searching. Still far enough away that Kevin knows they have a few minutes more to live. He holds his breath. “Make a choice, Kevin. The angel hunting us or me.”

“Like you won’t kill me the second you’re free.”

“I’m telling you I won’t. You can trust me, or you can walk out those doors right now. Better a quick death than waiting in here scared out of your wits.”

Crowley sees as well as he does that there isn’t a real choice. Kevin drops the note he’s holding and goes for the keys to his shackles.

“Cuffs first,” Crowley instructs as Kevin’s shaking hands try to fit the key into the lock. Crowley’s taken the paper and crayon, and he’s scribbling away quickly. “Then, you have to smash those marks on the floor. You’ve got the upper body strength for it. I’ve felt it when you hit me.” The cuff around Crowley’s neck falls, and he rolls his head. The cuffs on his wrists are easier, and then Kevin is down on one knee unlocking his ankles. Crowley finishes writing before he stands. “It’s going to make a lot of noise, so when your angel friend gets here, do exactly what I say, or this will just be a lot of wasted effort.”

Kevin stares at him. For a moment, the surreality of the situation is almost too much for him to handle. Crowley has tortured him, he’s killed Kevin’s mom or good as, and now, he’s going to save Kevin’s life. Crowley snaps his fingers and points at the ground. Kevin is shocked back into movement, lugging the hammer in his hands up and smashing it into the ground. It doesn’t have to make a big crack. It only has to sever the mark enough that Crowley’s free to do whatever he wants.

He’s beside Kevin in a moment. His hand covers Kevin’s arm. They can both hear the footsteps outside drawing closer, lured by the sound of the hammer. Crowley slides the drawing he’s made to Kevin, and Kevin recognizes it as an angel banishing sigil, the kind he might have thought to use himself if he wasn’t panicking. “Give me your hand.” Kevin does, and he cries out when Crowley digs his nail into his palm hard enough to tear it open. It bleeds freely. “Copy this onto the table in your blood,” he says, “and as soon as it’s done, slam your wound against it as hard as you can.” Like Kevin needs to be told.

“Why not your blood?” Kevin says. Years of this and his pain tolerance should be better than it is, not make his eyes water from a cut. He doesn’t let that stop him, pushing his fingers against his bleeding palm and scrawling the symbol onto the table.

“Has to be human. Stay behind me.” He doesn’t have to tell Kevin that, not only because Kevin isn’t going anywhere but because Crowley is the one who chooses to step between Kevin and the door as it opens. Kevin draws frantically.

“Get out of the way.” That’s Sam’s voice. That’s not Sam. Kevin’s ears are buzzing again.

“Oh, good choice. I prefer Sam myself. Never possessed him, unfortunately. I’m sure you've noticed his little tattoo when you’ve admired him in private.” Crowley’s voice is as glib as it was when Kevin entered. He reaches back, and he braces one hand against Kevin’s side as though he’s making sure he stays put. Kevin’s not even sure if the angel possessing Sam can see him where he’s hidden. It makes no difference; it knows he’s there. But Crowley won’t let it see him.

“You are the demon they keep locked up,” the angel says. “I’ve watched you talk. Let me have the prophet, and you will live.” Crowley clicks his tongue.

“Give me a moment to think about it.” This symbol is hard to draw, harder in his own blood. Kevin’s not sure if there’s enough to finish it. He digs his own nails into the wound to free more. The scent floods his nostrils and makes him want to gag. He smears it into the shape of the sigil. “It happens that I’m very attached to this adorable little prophet. What more do you have to bargain?”

“Only your life.” Kevin hears the angel take a step closer.

“I see,” Crowley drags the word out. He’s buying time. Kevin only needs a few more seconds. “In that case, having fully considered every facet of your offer, I’m going to have to-“ Kevin slaps the sigil. The broken skin of his palm screeches in agony, but not nearly as loud as the angel screams as it’s forced out of the room. Kevin’s eardrums feel like they’ll burst. He covers them to no effect, only warm blood coating the side of his head. A moment later, it’s all over, and the room is dark and quiet again. “Turn you down,” Crowley finishes. The hand at Kevin’s side falls away. Kevin leans on the table, swallowing down air until his lungs hurt. He feels Crowley pat his shoulder, and he flinches from it.

“Well done, Kevin,” Crowley says, and whatever note is in his voice, Kevin doesn’t want to analyze or worry or think about it.

“And now you kill me?”

“No. No,” Crowley huffs. “That was a deal we made back there. My freedom for your protection.” Adrenaline is a nasty thing. Kevin’s got too much first-hand experience. He might actually throw up. “We made a good team.”

“Fuck you,” Kevin says. Crowley chuckles. He's free to go. There's nothing Kevin could do to stop him. For some reason, he stays, and he speaks again, his tone serious once more.

“I’ve been meaning to ask something for a while now. I told you that your mother was still alive, and I wasn’t lying about that.” Kevin’s head shoots up so fast, his vision dances with black spots. “It seems exactly like the kind of rescue mission the Winchesters would love to undertake for family.”

“She’s as good as dead,” Kevin repeats what Dean said, but the words sound even more hollow now.

“That’s what I thought,” Crowley says as he tries to place his hand on Kevin’s shoulder again and Kevin moves away. “I tried to warn you. The Winchesters burn people up. I’ve been around them a long time. I’ve seen it again and again. What do you think would have happened today if you didn’t come looking for me?” Kevin’s hands curl into fists.

“He didn’t tell me. He put an angel in Sam, and he didn’t say anything. It could have killed me whenever it wanted.” If his voice shakes, he hopes it sounds like the anger he’s finally letting out rather than fear.

“Years of your life gone. No closed hell gates. One mother you miss dearly that they wanted you to condemn rather than look for. Countless nights letting you abuse that irreplaceable brain of yours. And one near-death experience because despite everything you’ve given them, you weren’t important enough to be in the loop.” Crowley counts out the score. Kevin squeezes his eyes shut. His nails dig back into his already injured palm. “Does that sound like a life you want to keep living?”

“You’re doing the ‘work for me’ speech,” Kevin says. The last few times he heard it, Crowley had a one hand outstretched and the other holding a knife. He doesn't think he needs a threat to coax Kevin onto his side anymore.

“I am,” Crowley answers, “and do you know what you’re doing? Considering it.”

Kevin doesn’t want Crowley to be right.

“Look at what I’m offering. Protection from anything who tries to hurt you, whether it’s coming from Heaven or Hell. Lavish living arrangements, food, housing, you name it. The first thing we’d do is pick your mother up and make sure she’s kept safe with you. Is the deal sweet enough?”

“You want me to hand over myself and the tablets to help you rule Hell?”

“You'd be helping people. Hard to see it from your, or Sam and Dean’s, point of view, but I kept Hell organized. If Abaddon’s left in charge, she’ll bring her reign of terror to Earth as soon as the deals she’s collecting early dry up.” He pauses. “But screw helping people. Be a little selfish for once, Kevin. Haven’t you given enough?”

Kevin takes a deep breath.

“Yes,” Kevin whispers.

“Couldn’t hear that.”

“Yes!” It’s freeing. He’s tired. He’s done. The Winchesters promised him this would be over by now. He thought he lost his mother for this fight. Dean couldn’t even give Sam up when he was willing to die to finish things.

“That’s what I thought. You go fetch your tablets, your notes, whatever you think is important. I’ll meet you at the exit.”

“What are you-“ By the time Kevin has turned around, Crowley is gone.

Alone in the dungeon, he’s left to wonder if this was the wrong choice.

His hand stings. He hisses in pain as blood continues to drip down his palm. He looks back at the angel banishing symbol, at the walls around him, and he walks out without any more doubts. He’s had a bag ready to go for ages, even if he could never convince himself before now to leave. He had nowhere else to go, and even if it turns out he's exchanging a prison with the Winchesters for one with Crowley, at least he knows Crowley will feed him better. He sweeps his notes into his backpack, filling it near to bursting but he can’t leave any of his scribbled thoughts behind or risk losing days of work. The tablets go in another bag that he slings over his shoulder. They spark outraged pain in his head at being jostled like trash, but he shoves it away. He’s been hauling them around for years. He’s used to it.

Crowley is waiting by the stairs, as promised. There’s no blood on his hands or his clothes, so Kevin has to presume that if that angel didn’t kill Dean outright, then he’s still alive somewhere in the Bunker. It doesn’t matter except to lend some peace of mind that Crowley didn’t go straight from his newfound freedom to murder.

“There you are,” Crowley says. He motions Kevin closer, and hesitantly, he comes. “No second thoughts, I hope?”

“None.” Crowley holds out his hand. Kevin lifts his injured one, and when Crowley nods and flexes the fingers of his outstretched hand, Kevin lays it in his. Instead of some sort of painful retribution for the days Kevin has blown off steam hacking away at him, Crowley draws out a pristine bandage. “Where did you get that?”

“I stole it. Hold still.” Pressure on the wound stings a little as Crowley wraps it. One hand keeps Kevin’s still, and the other winds the bandage around and around his palm, securing it. Staring at his hand, Kevin realizes it’s the one that Crowley once cut a finger off of.

And now, he’s making a pleased noise as he checks the bandage is tied properly.

“That will be enough for now. Once we’re somewhere a little more secure-“

“After we get my mom,” Kevin insists.

“After we get your mom. It’s at the top of my priorities, I promise. Then, I’ll see if I can throw together a spell to have you good as new.” Kevin adjusts the bags he’s carrying. “Ready to leave?”

“More than.” They climb the steps side by side. Kevin doesn’t look back at the Bunker.

“Since this is a deal we’re making, we’re going to have to follow protocol,” Crowley says off-handedly as the Bunker door swings shut behind them and Kevin hauls himself up the final steps. He can’t tell if he feels like he’s going to pass out because he hasn’t slept in days or because he’s finally out of the rush of nearly getting killed.

“What?” Crowley stops and turns to him.

“We have to do it right. Pucker-“ Kevin’s brain catches up with what Crowley wants before he finishes speaking. He’s the one who grabs Crowley’s coat and yanks him down to get it over with.

As things go today, kissing Crowley isn’t that bad. He’s awful, and Kevin still hates him, but the kiss itself isn’t horrible. Crowley’s hand on his shoulder isn’t horrible. Kevin pulls back, letting Crowley go, realizing a moment too late that Crowley would have to let himself be pulled for Kevin to be able to drag him around.

“Happy?”

“Hm. Really, we made two deals today. You owe me one more.” Kevin makes a face.

“Bite me.” Crowley smiles, and it is disturbingly fond.

“All in due time. I’ll collect on that second kiss later. What say we go pay your mother a visit. I’m sure she misses you.”

By the time Dean wakes up from being knocked out on the cold Bunker floor, Sam is gone, Crowley is gone, and Kevin is long gone and never coming back.

[quietwings-fics]

Self-Preservation Over Lost Causes

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Crowley/Kevin Additional Tags: Not Canon Compliant with Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror (Supernatural), Kevin Tran Lives (Supernatural), Pre-Slash, Attempted Murder, Kevin Tran is So Done (Supernatural), Minor Injuries Wordcount: 2965 Summary:

When his back is against the wall, Kevin still has one person left in the Bunker to turn to, and he might be the only one who can save Kevin's life.

Something Kevin’s learned the hard way: when Dean says to trust him, don’t.

He could hear the barely disguised panic in Dean’s voice when he demands Kevin look for ways to clamp down on an angel. He’d have to be blind not to notice the weird ways Sam had been acting since failing to close the Hell gates, the way he ran off with no explanation or went so still, so deathly silent, staring at Kevin like he was studying him, a hawk's expression before it swooped. Sam's voice buzzed in Kevin’s ears in ways he let be written off as migraine auras or leftover juice from the trials. It should have been something Kevin saw through earlier, but he’s exhausted and hungry and hurting all the time. Now, on top of that, he’s terrified.

Because the pieces are falling into place and Kevin’s got a paper with his name scrawled on it clutched in his hands and the sigils on the wall are different than they were when Kevin made them and Dean isn’t someone he ever should have trusted.

He leaves Dean thinking he’s talking to his brother. It crosses his mind, for a moment, that that’s selfish, throwing Dean to the meat grinder for a few seconds more to escape, but then he remembers how Dean didn’t even bother to tell him what he was doing. If not for the paper in Kevin’s sweaty palm, with his name, only his name, drifting lazily out of Sam’s jacket, he might not have eavesdropped. He might have been left a sitting duck. So screw Dean. He’s Kevin freaking Solo.

That makes a nervous laugh erupt from his chest. He knows where his feet are taking him, even if he’s doing everything in his power not to think about it. The safest place in the Bunker. It’s a dead-end, Kevin knows that, but where else is he going to run? If he’s lucky, he hides until the storm blows over. If not-

He’s not thinking about if nots. He’s thinking about surviving. He drags the door to the dungeon open and shuts it behind him. All he can hear is his heart pounding as he backs away from it. Should he bar the door? Can he? What is there to-

“-vin. Kevin!” An annoyed growl from behind him. Kevin nearly jumps out of his skin. Crowley rolls his eyes, crossing his arms on the table in front of him. There’s a scrap of paper there. A crayon. Kevin squeezes the name in his fist harder. “What do you need now? Another translation? A spell, maybe? Or is are we getting dirty again?” Crowley glances suggestively at the tools on the wall and then back to Kevin. He looks Kevin up and down. “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Kevin thinks he hears something, and his head jerks back to the door. “Well, maybe not so surprising in your line of work. Is that-“

“Shut up,” Kevin whispers. “It’s going to hear you.” Crowley tilts slightly in his chair, as though he can look past Kevin and through the closed door.

“Don’t tell me you’ve let another ancient horror out of a jar.”

“Shut up!” Kevin hisses. Crowley’s smile, what there is of it, falls. When he speaks again, the taunts are gone.

“Kevin. What did those idiots set free?” There’s another noise from outside, or Kevin thinks there might be. He’s not sure. Anything could be a sign of danger. Desperately, he grasps for one of the hammers on the wall. It has a familiar weight to it. He’s used it on Crowley… more times than he would like to admit.

Kevin feels like a mouse in a trap, caught wrong, his neck not snapped properly, squirming and squeaking.

But this trap has the king of Hell in it. Kevin’s out of options.

“Can you kill an angel?” he asks. Crowley leans back in his chair.

“Do you have one of their blades?” Kevin shakes his head. “Mm. Gun loaded with grace bullets? A very sharp needle?” Kevin doesn’t even bother to answer those. “Then, no, I can’t kill an angel.”

“If it gets in here, it’ll kill you.” Crowley grimaces.

“Not exactly what I had planned for today.” He lifts his cuffed hands expectantly, and when Kevin doesn’t move, he says, “Well?”

“What?”

“You said it yourself. We’re both going to die. Set me free, so that we don’t!” Crowley’s voice rises in aggravation. Kevin is about to shake his head, but that’s when he hears it. Crowley does, too. He tilts his head, listening as Kevin does to the echoing sounds of footsteps. They’re slow. Searching. Still far enough away that Kevin knows they have a few minutes more to live. He holds his breath. “Make a choice, Kevin. The angel hunting us or me.”

“Like you won’t kill me the second you’re free.”

“I’m telling you I won’t. You can trust me, or you can walk out those doors right now. Better a quick death than waiting in here scared out of your wits.”

Crowley sees as well as he does that there isn’t a real choice. Kevin drops the note he’s holding and goes for the keys to his shackles.

“Cuffs first,” Crowley instructs as Kevin’s shaking hands try to fit the key into the lock. Crowley’s taken the paper and crayon, and he’s scribbling away quickly. “Then, you have to smash those marks on the floor. You’ve got the upper body strength for it. I’ve felt it when you hit me.” The cuff around Crowley’s neck falls, and he rolls his head. The cuffs on his wrists are easier, and then Kevin is down on one knee unlocking his ankles. Crowley finishes writing before he stands. “It’s going to make a lot of noise, so when your angel friend gets here, do exactly what I say, or this will just be a lot of wasted effort.”

Kevin stares at him. For a moment, the surreality of the situation is almost too much for him to handle. Crowley has tortured him, he’s killed Kevin’s mom or good as, and now, he’s going to save Kevin’s life. Crowley snaps his fingers and points at the ground. Kevin is shocked back into movement, lugging the hammer in his hands up and smashing it into the ground. It doesn’t have to make a big crack. It only has to sever the mark enough that Crowley’s free to do whatever he wants.

He’s beside Kevin in a moment. His hand covers Kevin’s arm. They can both hear the footsteps outside drawing closer, lured by the sound of the hammer. Crowley slides the drawing he’s made to Kevin, and Kevin recognizes it as an angel banishing sigil, the kind he might have thought to use himself if he wasn’t panicking. “Give me your hand.” Kevin does, and he cries out when Crowley digs his nail into his palm hard enough to tear it open. It bleeds freely. “Copy this onto the table in your blood,” he says, “and as soon as it’s done, slam your wound against it as hard as you can.” Like Kevin needs to be told.

“Why not your blood?” Kevin says. Years of this and his pain tolerance should be better than it is, not make his eyes water from a cut. He doesn’t let that stop him, pushing his fingers against his bleeding palm and scrawling the symbol onto the table.

“Has to be human. Stay behind me.” He doesn’t have to tell Kevin that, not only because Kevin isn’t going anywhere but because Crowley is the one who chooses to step between Kevin and the door as it opens. Kevin draws frantically.

“Get out of the way.” That’s Sam’s voice. That’s not Sam. Kevin’s ears are buzzing again.

“Oh, good choice. I prefer Sam myself. Never possessed him, unfortunately. I’m sure you've noticed his little tattoo when you’ve admired him in private.” Crowley’s voice is as glib as it was when Kevin entered. He reaches back, and he braces one hand against Kevin’s side as though he’s making sure he stays put. Kevin’s not even sure if the angel possessing Sam can see him where he’s hidden. It makes no difference; it knows he’s there. But Crowley won’t let it see him.

“You are the demon they keep locked up,” the angel says. “I’ve watched you talk. Let me have the prophet, and you will live.” Crowley clicks his tongue.

“Give me a moment to think about it.” This symbol is hard to draw, harder in his own blood. Kevin’s not sure if there’s enough to finish it. He digs his own nails into the wound to free more. The scent floods his nostrils and makes him want to gag. He smears it into the shape of the sigil. “It happens that I’m very attached to this adorable little prophet. What more do you have to bargain?”

“Only your life.” Kevin hears the angel take a step closer.

“I see,” Crowley drags the word out. He’s buying time. Kevin only needs a few more seconds. “In that case, having fully considered every facet of your offer, I’m going to have to-“ Kevin slaps the sigil. The broken skin of his palm screeches in agony, but not nearly as loud as the angel screams as it’s forced out of the room. Kevin’s eardrums feel like they’ll burst. He covers them to no effect, only warm blood coating the side of his head. A moment later, it’s all over, and the room is dark and quiet again. “Turn you down,” Crowley finishes. The hand at Kevin’s side falls away. Kevin leans on the table, swallowing down air until his lungs hurt. He feels Crowley pat his shoulder, and he flinches from it.

“Well done, Kevin,” Crowley says, and whatever note is in his voice, Kevin doesn’t want to analyze or worry or think about it.

“And now you kill me?”

“No. No,” Crowley huffs. “That was a deal we made back there. My freedom for your protection.” Adrenaline is a nasty thing. Kevin’s got too much first-hand experience. He might actually throw up. “We made a good team.”

“Fuck you,” Kevin says. Crowley chuckles. He's free to go. There's nothing Kevin could do to stop him. For some reason, he stays, and he speaks again, his tone serious once more.

“I’ve been meaning to ask something for a while now. I told you that your mother was still alive, and I wasn’t lying about that.” Kevin’s head shoots up so fast, his vision dances with black spots. “It seems exactly like the kind of rescue mission the Winchesters would love to undertake for family.”

“She’s as good as dead,” Kevin repeats what Dean said, but the words sound even more hollow now.

“That’s what I thought,” Crowley says as he tries to place his hand on Kevin’s shoulder again and Kevin moves away. “I tried to warn you. The Winchesters burn people up. I’ve been around them a long time. I’ve seen it again and again. What do you think would have happened today if you didn’t come looking for me?” Kevin’s hands curl into fists.

“He didn’t tell me. He put an angel in Sam, and he didn’t say anything. It could have killed me whenever it wanted.” If his voice shakes, he hopes it sounds like the anger he’s finally letting out rather than fear.

“Years of your life gone. No closed hell gates. One mother you miss dearly that they wanted you to condemn rather than look for. Countless nights letting you abuse that irreplaceable brain of yours. And one near-death experience because despite everything you’ve given them, you weren’t important enough to be in the loop.” Crowley counts out the score. Kevin squeezes his eyes shut. His nails dig back into his already injured palm. “Does that sound like a life you want to keep living?”

“You’re doing the ‘work for me’ speech,” Kevin says. The last few times he heard it, Crowley had a one hand outstretched and the other holding a knife. He doesn't think he needs a threat to coax Kevin onto his side anymore.

“I am,” Crowley answers, “and do you know what you’re doing? Considering it.”

Kevin doesn’t want Crowley to be right.

“Look at what I’m offering. Protection from anything who tries to hurt you, whether it’s coming from Heaven or Hell. Lavish living arrangements, food, housing, you name it. The first thing we’d do is pick your mother up and make sure she’s kept safe with you. Is the deal sweet enough?”

“You want me to hand over myself and the tablets to help you rule Hell?”

“You'd be helping people. Hard to see it from your, or Sam and Dean’s, point of view, but I kept Hell organized. If Abaddon’s left in charge, she’ll bring her reign of terror to Earth as soon as the deals she’s collecting early dry up.” He pauses. “But screw helping people. Be a little selfish for once, Kevin. Haven’t you given enough?”

Kevin takes a deep breath.

“Yes,” Kevin whispers.

“Couldn’t hear that.”

“Yes!” It’s freeing. He’s tired. He’s done. The Winchesters promised him this would be over by now. He thought he lost his mother for this fight. Dean couldn’t even give Sam up when he was willing to die to finish things.

“That’s what I thought. You go fetch your tablets, your notes, whatever you think is important. I’ll meet you at the exit.”

“What are you-“ By the time Kevin has turned around, Crowley is gone.

Alone in the dungeon, he’s left to wonder if this was the wrong choice.

His hand stings. He hisses in pain as blood continues to drip down his palm. He looks back at the angel banishing symbol, at the walls around him, and he walks out without any more doubts. He’s had a bag ready to go for ages, even if he could never convince himself before now to leave. He had nowhere else to go, and even if it turns out he's exchanging a prison with the Winchesters for one with Crowley, at least he knows Crowley will feed him better. He sweeps his notes into his backpack, filling it near to bursting but he can’t leave any of his scribbled thoughts behind or risk losing days of work. The tablets go in another bag that he slings over his shoulder. They spark outraged pain in his head at being jostled like trash, but he shoves it away. He’s been hauling them around for years. He’s used to it.

Crowley is waiting by the stairs, as promised. There’s no blood on his hands or his clothes, so Kevin has to presume that if that angel didn’t kill Dean outright, then he’s still alive somewhere in the Bunker. It doesn’t matter except to lend some peace of mind that Crowley didn’t go straight from his newfound freedom to murder.

“There you are,” Crowley says. He motions Kevin closer, and hesitantly, he comes. “No second thoughts, I hope?”

“None.” Crowley holds out his hand. Kevin lifts his injured one, and when Crowley nods and flexes the fingers of his outstretched hand, Kevin lays it in his. Instead of some sort of painful retribution for the days Kevin has blown off steam hacking away at him, Crowley draws out a pristine bandage. “Where did you get that?”

“I stole it. Hold still.” Pressure on the wound stings a little as Crowley wraps it. One hand keeps Kevin’s still, and the other winds the bandage around and around his palm, securing it. Staring at his hand, Kevin realizes it’s the one that Crowley once cut a finger off of.

And now, he’s making a pleased noise as he checks the bandage is tied properly.

“That will be enough for now. Once we’re somewhere a little more secure-“

“After we get my mom,” Kevin insists.

“After we get your mom. It’s at the top of my priorities, I promise. Then, I’ll see if I can throw together a spell to have you good as new.” Kevin adjusts the bags he’s carrying. “Ready to leave?”

“More than.” They climb the steps side by side. Kevin doesn’t look back at the Bunker.

“Since this is a deal we’re making, we’re going to have to follow protocol,” Crowley says off-handedly as the Bunker door swings shut behind them and Kevin hauls himself up the final steps. He can’t tell if he feels like he’s going to pass out because he hasn’t slept in days or because he’s finally out of the rush of nearly getting killed.

“What?” Crowley stops and turns to him.

“We have to do it right. Pucker-“ Kevin’s brain catches up with what Crowley wants before he finishes speaking. He’s the one who grabs Crowley’s coat and yanks him down to get it over with.

As things go today, kissing Crowley isn’t that bad. He’s awful, and Kevin still hates him, but the kiss itself isn’t horrible. Crowley’s hand on his shoulder isn’t horrible. Kevin pulls back, letting Crowley go, realizing a moment too late that Crowley would have to let himself be pulled for Kevin to be able to drag him around.

“Happy?”

“Hm. Really, we made two deals today. You owe me one more.” Kevin makes a face.

“Bite me.” Crowley smiles, and it is disturbingly fond.

“All in due time. I’ll collect on that second kiss later. What say we go pay your mother a visit. I’m sure she misses you.”

By the time Dean wakes up from being knocked out on the cold Bunker floor, Sam is gone, Crowley is gone, and Kevin is long gone and never coming back.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[cazort]

I want to talk about this because I've seen hate groups visit my town and I've seen things go really well and I've seen things go really badly, and the people who advocate "punching nazis" clearly haven't witnessed this stuff and have no clue how it actually works.

The popular "punch a nazi" rhetoric also shows a complete disregard for the history leading up to the holocaust, as well as the recruiting methods used by neonazi groups and other hate groups. Nazis, just like any far-right group, play off people's fears about "crime" and "disorder", and cast themselves as a group promoting "law and order" (sound similar to anything going on in the US nowadays? Or in Russia? Or in Iran? Or even Turkey or Brazil? It's the same pattern over and over again) and then use this to advance their authoritarian-nationalistic views that scapegoat minority groups.

When you use violence against a nazi, especially if you are recording it, and especially if it is not overwhelmingly in self-defense, you feed right into the narrative that they want. You're giving them a recruiting tool. You're widening the group of people they will appeal to.

They want to be cast as the underdog. They want to look like the "reasonable one", the one who was just exercising their right to free speech when someone went and initiated physical violence against them.

That's how they elicit sympathy and support.

They want you to punch them, they especially want you to initiate the punch, and that's why they openly say things to provoke people, that's why they openly display symbols and words they know to be offensive.

It's not just nazis that do this either. The "Westboro Baptist Church" which is an anti-LGBTQ hate group, goes around and tries to provoke people into initiating attacks and then tries to get police to arrest the people who did. You don't beat these hate groups by going up and punching them, that's what they want and that's what makes them stronger.

You beat them through approaches like, when they get a permit to speak somewhere in public? Ensure no one shows up. I saw this happen successfully with the Westboro Baptist Church, they were given a permit to protest and then the town organized a counter-event quite far from them to deny them any audience. The counter-event was huge.

Another thing that happened in another place I lived, before my time though, the KKK had been growing in this one area, and was coming to march through town, so what the town did, they showed up to march and a huge crowd gathered around the blocked-off street, much larger than the number of KKK people. And when the KKK appeared the entire town, silently turned their backs to the street and kept silent as the KKK marched through. They never came back after that, and their numbers diminished after that event.

There is a lot of behind-the-scenes organizing that has to happen to make stuff like this happen. You need massive publicity and you need to build a consensus. It takes work. It's hard. You need to listen to people who might not agree with your approach initially, and win them over to it. But it's immensely powerful. Like when a hate group shows up and it's been actively publicized and they know it and they show up and there is not a single face looking at them, not a single voice acknowledging them, it's a really powerful blow.

It shows the hate group, look, you wanted to have an audience, and you wanted to divide people and provoke people and cause unrest, and what happened? Instead everyone is united, everyone is calm, and you have no audience at all, the people have completely closed off from you.

I don't think people on this website understand what "you should love jewish people more than you hate nazis" means

do you hate nazis because they're fun to hate on and easy to ratio? or because of the material harm they have caused, are causing, and will continue to cause? when you see a nazi, do you see an acceptable target? or do you see an active threat? what do you do to help jewish people outside of these situations? anything at all? do you have positive views on judaism? do you try to better yourself by listening to jewish voices on topics of bigotry?

I'm not going to complain about a nazi getting punched for being a nazi, but the issue isn't as simple as just punching nazis. you need to love jewish people more than you hate nazis if you want to address the root causes of antisemitism

[nickgerlich]

Breaking The Law

It’s always easy to blame the big guy for all your problems. Walmart knows this. Amazon knows this. Heck, even Dollar General is accused of destroying small-town mom-and-pops. Blame someone else for things that you can no longer control.

And now 33 state attorneys general have sued Meta, parent company of Facebook and Instagram, alleging that “Meta’s products have harmed minors and contributed to a mental health crisis in the United States.” Those are serious charges, and while the burden of proof is on the plaintiff, they might just have a chance with this one.In effect, they have likened Meta unto a drug dealer that peddles addictive social media content.

And children being children are easy victims, which explains why they are historically a protected class. There are child labor laws. Our society provides for free public education through age 18. More importantly, the courts have decided that children lack adult reasoning and judgment, and that is precisely what these cases are about.

Evidence is mounting that excessive use of social media by children—whom we will define as younger than 18—can have serious effects on self-esteem and mental health. Furthermore, the cases allege that Meta provides an infinite feed of content that is easily digested, one post after another, like a chain smoker firing up cancer sticks.

It’s just that I have a hard time blaming Meta, even though they may very well deliver addictive content. That content could be just as addictive for adults. But speaking of adults, where are they in all of this? If their kids are becoming addicted, who aided and abetted it?I’ll wait.I get it. Parents, and now attorneys general, are upset that our children are addicted to the crack cocaine that social media can be. But who bought the phone? Who pays for the cellular access? Who allows children to carry and use these devices? Basically, who is in charge here?

I am very familiar with that old aphorism about the cobbler’s children having no shoes. But this Digital Marketing prof’s kids not only had shoes, but also smartphones, and at an early age. Both opened social media accounts too under my tutelage. And you know what? They turned out just fine, both working now in the field of Digital Marketing. Along the way, they had a lot of guidance, instruction, and oversight.

Essentially, these cases mean that some parents cannot control their own kids, yet they provide them with the tools to access the thing they have come to loathe.

All of which raises another question: Why didn’t the attorneys general sue SnapChat or TikTok? That’s pretty easy. Meta has the deepest pockets, and chasing TikTok across the ocean would probably prove futile. They have other ways of dealing with them, like trying to completely block them in their states.

But we are talking about children, and they are granted special dispensations. It is easy to point fingers at Meta in this case, because children are deemed defenseless and vulnerable. That is sacrosanct.

It is uncertain exactly what these lawsuits hope to gain in terms of damages. These are not class action suits (although there have been some individual cases filed by parents), like the kind you would file against a company for defective products with identifiable victims. While evidence of mental health issues is growing, that evidence is in very general terms.

About the best they could hope to achieve would be to clamp down on Meta for violating consumer protection statutes, and then levy large fines. Presumably, Meta must inform users of the risks of using their social media offerings.

Still, I must put a lot of responsibility on the parents. If you do not want your kids to become addicted to nicotine, then don’t buy them the cigarettes laced with it. I’m not buying the argument. Social media platforms require devices and internet access, things that the parents should have sovereignty over.

The sad part is that Meta will have to spend millions defending itself, and if it is indeed found guilty, then pay fines. I’m pretty sure that Mark Zuckerberg in his wildest nightmare never could have seen any of this coming. And here we are, almost 20 years since the launch of Facebook.

It all kind of makes me wonder if a do-over would be better in the end.

Dr “Glad Mine Turned Out OK” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[atthetopofthestairs]

The Abrahamic tradition and ethnic homogeneity

The world belongs to God.  The rise and fall of peoples and nations is in the hands of God.  When I speak of ‘divine providence’ I mean the hand of God within human history.

By the end of the tenth century the Abrahamic tradition, via the medium of Christianity, held sway over Britain.  Quite decisively so.  And it remained so for the next thousand years.  What also remained so was the ethnic homogeneity of Britain.  That basic admixture of Picts, Celts, Anglo-Saxons and Vikings which had emerged as the ethnic order of Britain was to stay unchallenged for the next  millennium.  

The Norman invasion is now known to have made very little difference to the overall population of the British Isles.  There were Jews in Britain during the early Middle Ages, cruelly driven out in 1290 by the heartless Edward I.  Huguenots, Protestant refugees from France, were to arrive later on.  Blacks were to be found in small numbers, mostly freed slaves (of which more will be said shortly).  Then the Jews returned under Cromwell, only a few to begin with, but a larger number later on.

Nevertheless, for a period of more or less a thousand years Britain’s population stayed almost unchanged.  And it stayed this way because Britain was throughout all this time overwhelmingly a God-believing nation.  A nation resolutely loyal to the Abrahamic tradition.  Because the British were loyal to God,  nearly all of them anyway, the divine providence ensured that they remained a distinct and ethnically secure population.

There is only one blip in this record, vaguely discernible, of which I shall now speak.  During the eighteenth century there was a widespread turning away from religion in Britain.  Probably as a reaction against the religious fanaticism which had caused so much trouble in the preceding century.  Edward Gibbon and David Hume were leading manifestations of this trend amongst the intelligentsia.  The Hellfire Club was another manifestation, a revolt against Christianity by a section of the upper class.  In tandem with this growing sentiment against religion, curiously enough the demography of London seems to have been changing.  References to this trend are fragmentary and sporadic, but the black population of London seems to have been steadily increasing.  One imagines that they were mainly freed slaves, although this need not have been the only way that ‘blackamoors’ as they were generally known in those days could have entered England.

Had this revolt against the Abrahamic tradition continued apace then white Britons might well have become a racial minority in their own capital city by the end of the nineteenth century.  But in the nineteenth century, more specifically the Victorian Era, there was a great return to God.  Victorian society was a distinctly Christian society.  And by the end of the nineteenth century the black population of London had almost entirely disappeared.  Intermarriage, I rather think, was the tool used by the divine providence to return England to its original ethnic foundations.

But in the latter half of the twentieth century there has been a great turning away from God by most of the indigenous British population.  This is more or less the same as has  happened throughout Western Europe, though far less so in the USA.  I submit that as the modern British population has more-or-less turned away from God so has He more-or-less turned away from the native British population, which population is now in relentless numerical decline.  The latest census figures, for 2021, show clearly that this process is well underway.  It is widely predicted that sometime in the second half of this century white British people will be a minority in their own historic homeland, as they now are in their capital city.  I believe all this to be the decree of heaven, a judgement by God.  Only some kind of return to the Abrahamic tradition can turn away this divine wrath.  I doubt very much though that this is going to occur, bearing in mind how thoroughly secular most of the native British population has become.  The situation is just as bad in Wales and Scotland. The indigenous British are losing their homeland.

The situation is rapidly deteriorating in Ireland too, which provides a striking example of my overall argument.  Up until the 1980′s Ireland was the most God-believing nation in all of Western Europe.  And it was also the most solidly white. But in the 1990′s the Irish began turning away from God. In tandem with this the demography of Ireland started to change.  With each year that passed Ireland became a little bit more secular.  So that now you have African gangs prowling the streets of Dublin and other large Irish cities.  Where will it all end for the Emerald Isle?

The question now, I submit, is not how the indigenous inhabitants of Britain can regain and maintain demographic domination of their historic homeland.  Regretfully I say that it is almost certainly too late for that.  No, the question now is...who will ‘the inheritors’ be?   

[lets-try-some-writing]

I know you don't like vague prompts but if you have literally any headcanons for TFP Soundwave I would love to see them

Don't you worry dear anon! I always have some Soundwave thoughts kicking around in my brain, especially since earthspark's release. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Soundwave is a Dad

He is not like Optimus in that he spontaneously adopts everything small, unattended, and with a pulse. But he does care very deeply about his cassettes. No one, not even Megatron is allowed to harm his charges. He will gladly put an end to anyone foolish enough to try.

His cassettes have been with him since the days long before the war, they are family and the closest he has to children. He will go to any lengths to ensure their health and happiness.

Ravage

Ravage was the first cassette that Soundwave acquired.

The minicon was given to him shortly after his emergence from the well, and while it took a great deal of time for them to warm up to each other, they bonded over their shared circumstances.

They suffered greatly having to spy on the Quintessions while also appeasing the Cybertronian senate.

But they supported each other throughout it all, even when it was difficult.

Because of this and due to having spent so many millennia together, they do not need to speak to communicate.

Instead they often comfort and communicate through touches and actions.

Soundwave will hold Ravage as he goes about his business on the nemesis and Ravage will in turn keep Soundwave from falling too far into his dark thoughts with chuffs or a swat of his tail.

Sometimes they will simply sit together in silence watching the surveillance cameras littered around the nemesis.

Other times they will share energon and discuss old times.

It doesn't really matter what they do so long as they are together.

Their bond is unique, being less of a father-son bond and more of a brotherly one due to the trials they faced together.

Nonetheless, they are family, and Soundwave does what he can to keep his first cassette away from the less savory parts of life on the nemesis (Namely Megatron).

Lazerbeak

Lazerbeak was Soundwave's second cassette, and she is by far one of the most spoiled.

Soundwave saved her from being integrated into the army as an expendable by demanding the senate give her to him in order to improve his efficiency.

Safe to say she was not pleased with being passed around like a tool or interesting toy.

For a long time she fought Soundwave at every turn, purposefully defying orders, making mistakes, and generally being a nuisance.

But Soundwave was patient, and with the help of Ravage he eventually won her trust.

Since then she has been incredibly loyal and affectionate, often bring Soundwave little things and rubbing up against him for loves when there are no prying eyes.

Soundwave in turn spoils her rotten.

If Lazerbeak wants something, there is a 50/50 chance that is will find its way to her perch at some point.

Soundwave always has a stash of her favorite energon goodies hidden in his quarters and on his person at any given moment. And he will readily hand them out if she completes even the most minor of tasks.

Lazerbeak adores the attention and practically preens whenever Soundwave tells her she has done a good job.

They really are a father daughter duo.

Frenzy

Picked up from an illegal gladiatorial ring, Frenzy had more than a few bad habits.

He was overly aggressive, homicidal, and highly resistant to all of Soundwave's attempts to gain his trust.

But being the third cassette to be collected he was not alone, the other cassettes played a big role in helping Frenzy see the Soundwave was a good mech.

Eventually he eased up and began to rely heavily on Soundwave for his mental health.

Even millennia after collecting Frenzy, Soundwave still treats him the same as he always has.

When Frenzy gets too hyped and aggressive Soundwave will pull him aside and have him expend all of his anger through sparring.

Afterwards he will hold him and play a few soft songs while Frenzy finishes calming down.

Other times when Frenzy is having a mental breakdown or a bad day in general, Soundwave will let all his other cassettes out and they will spend time together until Frenzy is himself again.

Their activities are always quiet, but it is something Frenzy greatly appreciates.

Frenzy knows that he has problems and can be a lot to deal with at times, this can make him afraid that Soundwave will get rid of him after an outburst.

However these fears are always pushed aside by the comforting touches and soothing field of Soundwave who always knows when his adopted son is in need of love.

Rumble

Rumble was a bit of a package deal in that he was acquired shortly after Frenzy from the same illegal gladiatorial ring.

He and Frenzy bonded over the years and became practically joined at the hip. This in turn meant that he warmed up to Soundwave around the same time as his partner.

Where Frenzy was wild, Rumble was sly, where Frenzy was aggressive, Rumble was coy.

Rumble learned to hide his feelings behind a mask of pride and immovable ego.

And so Soundwave learned to approach Rumble in a way that did not scare him while still managing to slip past his mask.

Soundwave will play along with Rumble's tough guy persona but will offer him all the kindness and love in the world in a manner that does not go against Rumble's act.

PDA is a big nope when it comes to Rumble, so instead Soundwave will do things quietly.

Some energon goodies being left in Rumble's frequented spots, a light pat or compliment when no one else is around, and perhaps a cuddle or two during recharge if Rumble is having bad night are all common ways for them to interact.

Rumble's favored reading material is always left somewhere in Soundwave's personal spaces so that he can have and excuse to be near him without breaking character.

And on the odd occasion where Rumble does let his mask slip due to trauma or fear, Soundwave is always there to hold him close and whisper sweet nothings until he calms down again.

All of his children have issues, but Soundwave loves them anyway, and they love him in return.

[pineappleparfaitie]

*inhales*

Reblog time.

Keep my name out your mouth.

Im sick of you frankly you should have kept your problems with Suzy i wanted to voice my opinions on why your callout was poor.

Im not here to fucking argue about ABLEISM you cant speak for every disabled person!Ive had a few who told me your points make no sense.

I cant repeat myself anymore because you cpildnt have bothered to text someone directly about your issues.

Shut up.

I have been giving you the benefit of the doubt in what world is saying "not the sharpest tool in the shed" IS NOT SAYING YOURE MENTALLY HANDICAPPED? it is saying you arent bright ??Its in the definition.

Stop just stop i am so done with you respect to adults?I habe 0 respect for most of them because a minor will assume their friends who aree over 18 wont be stupid and reblog shit from a kink blog. Of course a kid wont know any better you damnUGH.

Also please type more clearly about serious issues like this i make lots of spelling mistakes but using "y" instead of "why" makes it so difficult to read anything you say.

NSFW BLOGS CAN BE UPSET THEIR DNIS WERE NOT RESPECTED!THEY SHOULD!AS SHOULD WE WHEN THEY DONT RESPECT US! and turning off anons wont help some ppl got an ask from a acc called anit-vore which isnt anon.

Your logic makes no sense.I can control who i interact with. NOT.WHO.INTERACTS WITH ME!I CANT DO JACK SHIT IF A DUDE MAKES AN ALT JUST TO BE A FUCKING WASTE OF OXYGEN.

Violent fantasies??One comment is a fantasy? Dude oh man oh man oh man Ive heard so much worse . You must be one of those ppl with no Media literacy atp cause the red paste thing

Was Suzy saying shed turn someone into red paste for calling her a groomer for just interactinf with minors

Would kt be wrong if i said i want to turn a pedo into a pile of guts?Would it be wrong to say i want a politician to be disintagrated? Im using these in a better context then Suzy but arguably this comment is so dumb.

Oh and the r word i have 0 clue what your argument or rebutal was but

The r word is associated with mental r3tard@tion. Obviously and while some dont view it as bad , its commonly used against people with disabilities, people who have trouble learning and even neurodivergent people. First hand from many awful family members here. It would be ableism if someone knew you were disabled and called you that as an insult. If you use the word and someone isnt disabled it still carries the meaning of "im apsdociating you with people who are disabled because i believe they are lesser and im using them in my insult"

People can reclaim the wordx people who view it in a different light can do whatever they want i personally made my point with this assumption above.

If you want a further reply from me. DM ME. IM NOT WHAT YOU THINK SUZY WOULD HAVE BEEN I WONT YELL AT YOU OR THREATEN YOU. Heck give me your discord id be more then intrigued to see why you think this and whatnot.

But please let me end this here I should not have been here because i wanted to get my thoughts out on a serious situation made unserious by incompetent people.

anyway hi pine

Something they said about someone labeling them a groomer aka turning someone into red paste is no excuse to make a callout." absolutely no one called them a groomer, and that was also not the only reason why there was a callout post. they were just fantasizing about being violent towards a hypothetical person calling them a groomer

again expressing graphic violence against other ppl is generally seen as bad and weird

the sfw community is playing this down because they want to be able to interact with porn blogs without consequence, srry to say. the rules only apply when THEY feel hurt, not if they hurt other ppl

"If someone is caling your actioms stupid thats not ableist." calling someone an idiot is not calling their actions stupid, it is imposing ur view of them as someone who is disabled. words mean things. tinysuzy literally said she was "mentally concerned for my mental comprehension", seeing me as someone lower than her, that is NOT criticizing my actions, thats, again, the same as saying u think someone is mentally disabled. if u can explain why comparing someones negative actions to disabilities isnt ableism aside from "everyone does it" that would be an interesting read. using disabilities in negative language affects how u see disabled people, making those connected of disabled people as being something undignified and being OK to use for insults. it is entirely about demeaning someone u dont like or who made a mistake and comparing them to someone mentally disabled. this is wrong, dont u think? why or why not?

"If your disability made you sct poorly, its not an excuse its an explanation." i mean yeah obviously. no one is arguing this! ppl who act poorly as a result of their disabilities can still b talked to, or if it is severely life affecting they should seek support when possible!

",no one is targeting your disability they are targtting your actions" saying ur worried about someones "mental comprehension" is NOT targeting their actions! neither is calling them mentally lesser by saying they arent "the sharpest tool in the shed". that is just calling them mentally handicapped

turn anons off for a while. the threats i dont ever condone but u can easily prevent them and control how ppl interact with u. this seems to generally be a big issue with the community with ppl claiming they cant control who they interact with

"The nsfw blogs we interavted with as a result of us interacting eit rebloged posts can now use amo against this community. Its already happened." CHECK PPLS DNIS BEFORE INTERACTING WITH THEM EVEN IF ITS A REBLOG? this is not a community u can just interact with whoever u see whenever. u have to have basic respect for ppl especially adults. why wouldnt ppl with nsfw blogs be upset about this?

"Adults of this community, you may not like it but you need to look out for the younger memebers especially ones who follow and interact eit you. Its the same for every content creator with a young fanbase. You are no different." but u dont feel the same way about ppl who have nonsexual interests in other topics that ppl usually see as "fetishes" like feet/BDSM. y is that different here?

also again start talking to disability activists about using mental handicaps as insults. are u only saying it bcuz it feels right to you? and not talking 2 other ppl who have different perspectives on this? are u only relying on ur pov or in ur friend group for this or have u been researching? srsly connect with ppl ab this stuff. my pov on this comes from irl groups and friends and personal experiences

"If they use the r slur to you and know youre disabled, , invisble or visible - THAT IS ABLEISM!!" .........is it ok to use it if they arent disabled? what? or is it only ableism, but still not socially acceptable, if they use it on someone who isnt disabled? what is the implication there

anyway an archival of what im replying to cuz i figure its good to keep track of whos saying what in these convos

[finniestoncrane]

May you pretty please write something with Arkham Riddler with a reader who has a degradation kink?

Trying to do the Riddler challenges in the Arkham games is so bad for me (especially with the Arkham Knight races) because I absolutely suck at them (I can’t drive for shit in video games). And so of course because I’m failing Eddie just starts dealing out insults and makes everything worse. Cause like then I don’t want to succeed right away you know?

I just need a reader that just adores Eddie degrading them please.

Totally don’t have to do this btw, sorry it was a long ask.

Pathetic. Worthless.

Arkham!Riddler x GN!Reader, word count: 1.7k don't ever apologise to me for long asks i swear or i'll smack you on the head with a broom i love the detail you've done all the hard work for me lmao but anywayyyy... you are speaking my fuckin language baby this is a tight as shit concept and i am ALL OVER IT because guess who likes to be called a silly little slut (it's me, i'm the silly little slut teehee) and i also spent a majority of what i've played so far fanning myself when he tells me i'm stupid 💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi minors DNI!! 🔞 cw for nsfw stuff: language, degradation, humiliation, forced oral just a smidge of aftercare cos he's a soft boy really

You placed the wrench on workbench where Edward was busy with another of his projects.

“Having fun tinkering?”

“It’s not tinkering! It’s…just, pass the screwdriver.”

Handing the wrench to him, you tried to hold your smile back.

“Are you stupid?”

“I don’t know, Eddie, why?”

He placed his fingers at his temples, obviously trying to hold back his irritation, or simmering rage. But it was the effect you had hoped to garner from him. All day you’d been purposefully obtuse, getting his riddles wrong, so wrong and so consistently wrong that he had stopped telling you them, which was a first. And this was now the third time you had brought him the wrong tool. Smacking his hands down on the desk he turned to face you, no doubt straining to keep his words curbed, trying to remember how fond of you he actually was, even if he struggled to show it sometimes. And when his eyes met your coy smile, noticed you batting your eyelashes and shuffling your feet, he understood immediately.

“Ah, I see.” There was a glint in his eyes as he narrowed his eyebrows, lips curling at the edges into a wicked sneer. “You are stupid.”

It took all of you not to jump up and down on the spot, but you couldn’t contain the little giggle that erupted.

“Enough of that! If this is going to be pleasurable for you, you can forget it.” With a wink, he stood up from his seat, inching closer to you until your noses were pressed together. “I’m not in the mood to be nice to you right now, nor to placate your insecurities and tell you that you are smart after all, that you’ve been very good today, when the exact opposite would be correct. Get on your knees.”

You fell to the ground instantly, knees making contact with the oil-stained floor, shards of metal and glass and whatever else luckily not pressing too hard against you where you knelt. Looking up at him, you tried to hide the excitement in your eyes, but it was a futile attempt. Eddie knew you. Very well.

“Now, I’m going to be very rough, but that’s only because you’ve been entirely insufferable today. And if I’m being too mean, you’ll just have to take it. I want to see just…how…much…you…can take.” As he spoke, he let his fingers trace your lips, pushing two inside and pressing down on the teeth, opening your mouth and lowering your jaw, his thumb resting on your chin. “To see how much of me you can take.”

Towering above you now, he began unbuckling his belts, tossing one to the floor, the other, clattering to the sides of his pants. Unzipping slowly, he slid the fabric down, unsheathing his cock, holding it in his palm, hardening from soft at the touch, growing ever more impressive as he became stiffer at the sensation, at the prospect of what he had in store for you. He palmed it, hissing through clenched teeth as he let his thumb stroke the head softly, tentatively.

“Ok, remember what I’ve told you.” He lifted your head up by the chin, smiling as he realised you were staring intently at his cock, mouth subtly open in preparation. “If a job is worth doing, do it well. We don’t half-ass things around here.”

He slapped softly at your cheek twice, letting his trousers fall further down to his knees, his legs exposed, deliciously thick, dark hair covering his thighs which you reached up to touch, letting your palm glide over them, fingers pressed in slightly.

“Put the whole thing in, don’t make me struggle to make it fit. This is the best way to shut you up, you insolent little pain. Take my whole cock in your mouth.”

Grasping himself at the base of his length, he dragged the tip along your lower lip, pausing before he inserted himself.

“I would say I’m going to fuck you stupid, but that would be a pointless task. You’re already completely stupid.”

There was no more waiting around, as you were taken back by his swift entry, the taste of sweat and salt hitting your tongue, saliva pooling instantly as you let your tongue swirl around his head, trying to savour as much of him as you could. Pressing the very tip against the slit of his head, you looked up in response to his light whimper, which he quickly shifted into a deeper groan when he spotted you looking at him.

“You’re a thirsty…shameless slut. Prove you’re good…for something. If you can’t please me…with your mouth…then you can leave.”

He wrapped his hand around the back of your head, no pressure on the touch, just letting his fingers brush through your hair. In response, you hollowed your cheeks and slid your mouth further up his length, taking more of him in, moaning around his cock as he grunted in pleasure.

“That’s more like it…mmmm…yes, that’s good…this is your only task right now…focus on me…I could replace you with a robot…in an instant…so you better do a good job…”

Edward’s breath hitched as you bobbed your head at a more rapid pace, slowing down as you got close to the base, drawing your tongue languidly back up the shaft before pursing your lips around the head.

“Keep your eyes on me, idiot.”

Staring up at him, trying to hold his gaze despite the fact you were consumed with pleasure, arousal building in your stomach, skin clammy and prickled with excitement.

“You stupid, pathetic, worthless little creature.”

He growled as his hand pushed on your head onto him, fingers gripping your hair at the root and directing you onto him, only letting go when you gagged loudly, choking on him.

“Oh, come on now! Put some effort into this, use your tongue, hollow your…ok no, I’m not going to tell you how to do this.”

With his hand softly on your cheek, he let his thumb gently pass over the skin, back and forth, soothing you.

“Dear, dear. Your mouth was big enough earlier, this shouldn’t be a problem for you. It doesn’t take brains to know what to do if you’re choking, no?”

Pulling himself out from your lips, groaning at the sound of you gasping for breath, he watched you quietly as he panted. Your moment of reprieve was done though, as he guided his tip, slick with your drool, back into your mouth, spit falling from your chin to the floor.

“You’re making such a mess, my dear. Is this really so hard for you? I’ll just take a hold of your hair then, to help you. Good thing you wore those silly little pigtails. Who do you think you are? Do you think you’re going to be my pathetic little sidekick like that idiot clown and his little jester?”

Your hair, tangled in his fingers as he gripped both of your pigtails, he forced your head down onto his dick, more of it hitting the back of your throat than before. Gagging against it, you focused on breathing through your nose, trying to do your best for him, despite the fact that you were desperate for him to degrade you further.

“This kind of humiliation and punishment really suits the intellectually challenged such as yourself. Is this an achievement for you? It should be, you should be grateful that I would pay this kind of attention to a little slut.”

You nodded, mouth still full, lips pouted around him, tasting his precum, your own saliva.

“Shall we try a little task, a challenge?”

Again, you bobbed your head, muffled moans of agreement emanating from your otherwise occupied lips.

“Ok, you tell me you’re stupid when I’m out. Time it right, take a deep breath in, say your piece, and then get ready to take me again. Got it?”

He gripped his cock at the base once again, bring it out for you to struggle a ‘yes’, waiting until you caught on and offered your statement.

“I’m stupid.”

With no time to process, he was pushing himself back in, sliding himself in and out of your mouth, giving you the bare minimum time to tell him how stupid you were, following his demands to say you were a whore, to tell him you were worthless, to beg him to choke you. He settled inside of you permanently again, allowing you to get back to a pace where you could properly satisfy him, the tip of your tongue pressed hard to his shaft, flicking over his head, stretching your mouth open wide enough that he wasn’t touching the edges before enveloping him in your wet, pouting lips.

“Using you…hmmm…like this, I’m disappointed it’s taken this long, but I am…phew…I am going to cum. And you’re going to take it…all down your…worthless…pathetic…mmm…throat.”

He growled every word, pausing only when his breath hitched and his whines managed to escape.

“And you…my silly little…idiot…you’re going to take all of it down your stupid throat…do not open your mouth…until I’m finished…this should be…a gift to you…hmph…a treat…mmm…as if someone…god…of my…urgh…calibre…would ever…hng…stoop so low…ah…ever…again…ah!”

Edward’s hands held firm to the back of your head as he came down your throat, leaving trails of his seed along your tongue and on your lips as he pulled out, holding your chin up and your head back until you swallowed it all, hands slipping to your throat as you opened your mouth wide to show him that you had done as he wanted.

“Good girl.”

He fell to his knees in front of you, shocking you by kissing you, lips against yours, tongue flicking out and then pulling back, his eyes screwing up as he tasted himself. He smiled though, as he stroked your cheek.

“I hate to ruin the illusion, my dear, but you are above and beyond. You are perfection. As if I would sully myself with anyone not intellectually worthy, hm?”

Ed pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head as he stood up, offering you a hand to help you onto your feet.

[inkykeiji]

you’re like a drug to me, a luxury, my sugar and gold

character: gojou satoru

genre: smut with a sprinkle of fluff at the end

notes: aaaaah first jjk fic ever!!!! uhhh this is honestly just pure smut and punishment, satoru is a Bad Daddy, and it’s set in a curseless AU | title cred: handclap by fitz and the tantrums

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon/noncon, slight size difference/size kink, belly bulge, spanking with a belt, rough sex, minimal prep, minimal aftercare (at first), toxic and unhealthy relationship (satoru is mean n a bad daddy!), daddy kink/slightly implied ddlg dynamics, praise kink, dacryphilia

words: 3.1k

synopsis:

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

Gojou Satoru is a bad Daddy.

He’s a sweet Daddy, a silly Daddy, a Daddy who’s almost incapable of saying no. He’s a Daddy with a massive sweet tooth, a Daddy who frequently allows both of you to have dessert before dinner—sometimes dessert for dinner—and a Daddy who gives his princess nearly everything she desires, weak to your pretty pout and puppy-dog eyes and please, Daddy?’s. He hates to deny you, aches at the thought of you being even just a teensy bit displeased, because he wants his baby happy, always.

It’s his fault, really, you’re saying, insisting, when he calls you a spoiled brat. Because, honestly, it is; Satoru is entitled—he always has been, born with a not silver, not gold, but platinum spoon in his mouth—and his little princess is entitled, too.

Because he gives you anything and everything you ask for the moment the demand leaves your mouth, dotes on you hand and foot, absolutely adores you, lavishing you in the finest silks and prettiest lace, always indulging you just as much as he indulges himself—as much as he has always been indulged, growing up filthy rich.

Because you weren’t always like this; or, at least, you weren’t always this brash about it.

But years of getting exactly what you want, exactly when you want it, has forced your attitude to change, to shift.

You haven’t changed, Satoru tells you one day, a tub full of melty ice cream in his lap as he shovels another spoonful into your mouth, waning sun bathing the penthouse terrace in translucent gold and coral, brilliant colours reflected in his crystal eyes. “I didn’t do anything—I simply revealed your true nature,” A devious little smirk spreads across his lips, eyes glinting in an almost ominous nature, and you shiver. “You’ve always been a selfish materialistic brat, haven’t you?”

Well, you guess he has a point.

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

It’s always something little, after a day full of disobedience, that does it, that finally lights the fuse and forces an explosion. Something that would normally be inconsequential, something he’d usually laugh off with a coo and a loving pat to your head.

Because you fought him on bedtime last night, then fought him on going to university this morning. You demanded pancakes for breakfast and when he denied them to you, because he’s got an important meeting in the afternoon and thus hasn’t the time to make them, you refused to eat anything at all—only to whine and bitch and complain about how starved you were for the entire duration of his conference. And yet, throughout it all, he was the perfect picture of patience, endlessly cool and nonchalant in his responses to your multiple tantrums.

Until you rushed into the kitchen in a famished frenzy, diving straight for the cookie jar and shoving three in your mouth.

“Sweets are not an appropriate dinner, baby,”

The words are sighed out in pure exasperation, his thumb and his forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose, lids shut tightly.

Eyebrows furrowing, you tilt your head in confusion, speaking around your mouthful. “Since when?”

His eyes snap open, blazing azure glaring at you with such an intensity it makes you flinch, cookie crumbs turning to ash in your mouth.

“Since forever,” he seethes, mask of impassivity finally beginning to break.

“What?” you laugh around the word, but it trembles. “What are you talking about? You rarely enforce that rule—especially since you don’t even follow it yourself!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snaps, nostrils flaring with a particularly harsh exhale. “I am the boss, and what I say goes,”

“Daddy!” A sock-clad foot stomps against the marble floor as you whine out the word, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “That isn’t fair! You can’t just—”

“Enough with this attitude!” he snarls, moving like a crack of lighting as he lunges at you, lithe arms embracing you in an iron grip. “I can, and I will,”

And then he’s hauling you over his shoulder, one strong arm wrapped around you and pinning you draped over his body, delivering swift, harsh slaps to your ass every time you kick your feet or beat your fists against his back, while every whine and complaint earns you another spank in his mind, mentally tallying them up and vocalizing the thought a moment later.

“You’re being a meanie,”

“That’s twelve,” he growls.

“I don’t care!”

“Thirteen.”

“So what?”

“Fourteen.”

“That’s nothing,”

“Twenty-five.”

And that—that gets you to pause, but not to halt, not to stop, potent brattiness mixing with fury as it boils in your chest, the need to defy, to disobey, burning through your veins.

“I-I can handle that,”

“Thirty,” his voice is calm—serene, almost—and ice cold. There’s an underlying challenge sown into it, daring you to try him again, to utter another word. He’ll go higher, you can almost hear his apathetic voice floating through your mind; he’ll go as high as he needs to in order to teach such an ungrateful little brat a lesson.

Thirty it is.

The buckle of his favourite belt jingles as he undoes it, that dainty clink! forcing shivers to pebble across your naked skin, pressing your chest further into the foot of his bed, fingers curling in cashmere.

You’ve developed a love-hate relationship with that belt; it’s so fun when you get to undo it yourself, gentle fingers tugging and toying as you squirm eagerly in his lap, yet the clank and clattering of that heavy buckle as nimble fingers skillfully unfasten it and pull it from the loops of expensive trousers is almost menacing, carrying with it portentous threats it fully intends to see through.

He never warns you when the first strike is coming, reveling in the way your muscles are coiled in tension, in foreboding anticipation; basking in the surprised yelp that bubbles up in your throat.

“Relax,” he tells you with a callous chuckle, leather squealing between large, smooth hands as he folds it. “And count,”

It’s his usual response, predictable and scripted by this point, but he never seems to tire of it, notes of delight lacing his voice.

And that first blow never counts.

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy by most standards, but his punishments are harsh, brutal, and cruel, and they happen to be one of the only things he takes seriously in life.

There’s rules to each of his punishments—so many rules he’s made you write them out multiple times, until your hand ached and fingers cramped and the heel of your palm was swollen, so they’d stick in that pretty empty little head of yours, so you never forget—and his spankings are no different.

You are not to move until he tells you to. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are to count each lash, loud and clear before the next strike lands. Each mistake, each misstep and slip-up and refusal to comply, will earn you one extra slap. The tool is to be decided based on the severity of the offence.  

The belt, all rigid rawhide and sharp edges, cuts into the supple flesh of your ass with each easy, nonchalant flick of his wrist, abrasively snapping against you.

Each collision of leather against flesh sears a tingly sting into your skin, biting rapidly rising welts into your ass and sending spiky jolts of agonizing pain bolting up your spine, the pain fading to a dull throb for just a moment before another blow is delivered.

“Gorgeous,” Satoru murmurs to himself halfway through your punishment, the word nothing more than a little huff of breath. You don’t dare respond, simply crying out the next number as he lands another harsh blow to your abused skin. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more beautiful sound, he continues, voice appearing faint and far away, mingling with the combined symphony of the crack of leather and pathetic whimpers muffled by sheets.

“It’s incredible,” he says, louder this time, voice dripping with wonderment, as if he can’t believe he’s created such a magnificent piece—the streaks of blood staining once perfect, unblemished skin; the high-pitched whines and sharp cries of each subsequent number; the resounding slap of the belt against your bare ass that evokes it all.

The whole thing sends a surge of intense power rushing through his veins, the tingling buzz it leaves behind enthralling and invigorating. You don’t need to look at him to know this, don’t need to see the way his eyes shine with it, the way his chest heaves with it, the way his entire body trembles with it—you can feel it in the atmosphere surrounding you, can feel the shift as his ego saturates the air, as his pure superiority bleeds into it, dense and suffocating, stimulating and revitalizing.

It infects your body, seeping in through your skin and flooding your veins, re-instills the need to be submissive, the ache to be good, providing you with the strength to endure.

The punishment lasts for forty-five excruciating minutes, accumulating a total of thirty three spanks—the extra three tacked onto your original punishment of thirty, one for each time you broke a rule. He’s on you in less than a second the moment it’s over, belt dropping to the rug-covered floor with a distinct thump as soft, eager palms roam your sweaty body, lips crushed against yours, still trembling as they spill pitiful whimpers into his mouth.

The luxurious bedroom—all cream and gold and drenched in sunlight—is blanketed by backhanded praises, warning you not to be a brat and just take what he gives. He’s sadistic when he gets in moods such as these, a feral glint in crystal eyes as large hands hastily flip you over—so fast it knocks a gasp of his name from your chest—seemingly unconcerned about the fresh blood oozing from the thin swollen welts that embellish your ass staining his thousand dollar sheets.

“Daddy needs you now,” he growls when you try to protest, breathing erratic as fingers flex on your hips, squeezing and kneading before pressing down hard, a silent order to stay fucking put. “And you’re going to be a good little girl for your Daddy now, aren’t you?”

Of course. Of course, because you are a good little girl, his good little girl.

But he’s a bad Daddy.

And, like a bad Daddy, he defers aftercare—it can wait, he practically snarls as he drags you to the edge of the bed, folding your legs up on either side of your body, knees nearly nudging your jaw; and foregoes prep almost entirely—two slender fingers slipping between your slick folds, prodding your hole and deeming you wet enough to take him.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t absolutely love it when he gets like this, when that façade of indifference finally shatters to pieces, replaced with desperation, with urgency, with neediness.

Your head lifts from the plush mattress, neck straining a little as you watch him push his trousers down his thighs through bleary eyes, residual dewdrops of tears clinging to spidery lashes. His cock bobs a little as he kicks the pants off, and it’s just as pretty as he is, smooth and symmetrical and perfect in every way.

“This would be part of your punishment,” he pants out, speaking over your cry of discomfort as he begins to shove his cock into you, little cunt aching as it attempts to accommodate the sudden intrusion. “If you didn’t love it so much, fucking slut,”

“Daddy!” The pet name claws its way up your throat in a yelp, hands scrabbling against his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh through his Armani button-up in an effort to steady yourself, eyes squeezing shut against the severe burn that accompanies the stretch. “Gonna—Gonna tear me in half,”

“You’d think you’d be used to this by now,” Satoru muses, voice already returning to its apathetic playful lilt now that he’s half buried in your cunt, breathing already calmed. A malicious little smirk decorates his lips and he observes you as if awestruck, one of his hands moving to trace the curve of your cheek, cold fingertips soft against your scalding skin.

“So beautiful like this,” he whispers as he finally bottoms out, hips pressed flush against the back of your thighs.

And you are, fresh tears that glitter the way his eyes do in the waning sun streaming down your cheeks, leaving the prettiest streaks of salt staining your flesh; lips swollen from merciless teeth sinking into them, an attempt to silence yourself, to keep those whines and complaints of Stop, Daddy! and Hurts, Daddy! safely stored in your throat.

Your little hole flutters around him, still struggling to adjust to his girth, and his head droops forward, long tongue unfurling from his mouth to lap at the bitter water adorning your face, slow languid strokes from your jaw to your bottom lashes, replacing shimmering tears with viscous saliva.

Saccharine sugar stings your nose, sticky toffee bathed in decadent chocolate and garnished with a touch of vanilla enveloping you in a sickly sweet embrace.

Such a scent—his scent—starkly opposes the vicious snapping of his hips, setting a merciless pace from the very start, blunt nails biting deep half-crescents into your flesh as they hold you in place.

But the pain only heightens the pleasure, contradicting sensations clashing together with every one of his brutal thrusts, cashmere feeling as rough as sandpaper against your raw, wounded ass. Thorns of pain pierce through your abdomen and shoot up your spine, back arching off the bed, and the muscles in your thighs flex and clench with every slam of his cockhead against your cervix.

It’s potent and intoxicating, a heady exhilaration clouding your brain and flooding your veins, and soon there are tears leaking from your eyes again, dribbling into your mouth and mixing with strings of drool that coat the words you’re babbling out.

Blood rushes in your ears, procuring a deafening ring, and you’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore, voice vibrating indistinctly in your chest as saliva soaked mewls ooze from your mouth. Your Daddy’s staring down at you, condescension etched into his pretty features, eyes morphing from dainty crystal to the navy of a tumultuous sea, framed by strands of cream and ivory dripping with sweat.

And he’s so big, too big, stuffing you full to the hilt with each ruthless piston of his hips, mattress trembling beneath you from the sheer strength; and it’s so much, too much, you swear you can feel him in your tummy, can see the way your lower abdomen cutely bulges in synchronization with every pounding thrust.

You must say it in some way, in some shape or some form, because the patronization varnishing his features melts away, sharp smirk dissolving into a genuine grin, blue eyes lightening with pure adoration.

“Such a good girl,” you think he’s saying, through it’s hard to tell when your eyelids keep drooping, hard to hear when a symphony of broken moans and hitched whimpers and the sharp slapping of skin against skin blanket the room, reverberating off the walls of your skull. “You’re such a good, good girl for me,”

Yes, Daddy, you want to say, such a good girl for you, only for you.

“Y-Yours,” you manage instead, locking your arms around his neck and clinging to him.

“Mine,” he growls, possessiveness lacquering his eyes, brilliant and bright and shining with devotion. “That’s right, mine,”

It only takes another three thrusts before you’re gushing all over his cock, the intense spasming of your cute little cunt drawing the prettiest whines from the back of his throat as he rams into you.

“Beg for it,” he demands, and although it’s an order, it comes out more like a plead, desperation sown into his voice. “Beg for Daddy’s cum,”

You obey immediately, words spilling from your lips without a second thought, automatic and instinctual. Please, Daddy, gimme your cum? Please, please, pretty please, want your cum, Daddy, fill my belly with it, Daddy, I need it, need it so bad, please?

He gives you what you want only a moment later, cock throbbing almost violently as he fills you with thick, scalding cream—so much that you’re sure it’s dribbling out of you, trickling down your ass and onto his pristine sheets—and you roll your hips up, attempting to milk him for more.

“G-Greedy,” he pants out, but there’s a dazzling smile slapped across his face, and so much love in his eyes it’s nearly overwhelming, a fresh wave of tears casting a gleaming shield across your own.

He notices immediately, both of you wincing a little as he pulls out, a wrecked little whine escaping your mouth.

“My poor little princess,” he’s saying as he untangles his briefs—Balenciaga, this time—from his trousers, abandoned in a heap on the hardwood.

“Daddy,” you rasp, a frown marring his face, fingers encircling your ankles as he helps you unfold your stiff legs.

“I know, I know,” he’s murmuring as gentle hands pull the soft clothing up your silky thighs. “It hurts, I know baby, Daddy’s gonna make it feel better now,”

A shiver courses through your body, and he tuts, nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt, shrugging it off before he hoists you up and drapes it over your shoulders, tenderly threading your arms through the sleeves.

It’s cozy, and warm, infused with his scent—melted sugar and expensive cologne—and you snuggle into it, weak arms pulling the material tighter around your body, swathing it in comfort. Tears prick your eyes again, blearily blinking them clear as you glance up to find him backing away. A noise of indignance sounds in the back of your throat, eyebrows knitting together as you make grabby hands for him.

“I’ll be right back, princess,” he reassures you as he laces your fingers together and allows you to pull him back towards you, voice soothing like a lullaby. Fingers trail along the curve of your cheek then trace the line of your jaw, palms smoothing hair back from your face. “Daddy’s just going to go get the first aid kit so he can clean you up, okay?”

“‘N then food?”

He coos with a little chuckle, cupping your head as he tilts it up towards him, eyes overflowing with fondness.

“Yeah, baby, and then food. Whatever you want, it’s yours,”

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy, but he is also your Daddy, and that makes him the best Daddy.

[siderealxmelody]

"And I would like to see you try, I like to think I would have at least a standing chance to get at least four wounds on you before you killed me."

Her words faded away, a soft breeze against his cheek. A gentle hum to the drumbeat of the waves. But he didn't focus on any of that. He located her heartbeat, the slow beat.

He rose on a downbeat, letting that magic take over. He spun and moved, tuning into the music. He didn't shift, didn't Windwalk or Winnow. No, how would that make him special against all the fae, gods and monsters who could do that?

No, he pulled on the threads of the music. Bending the light to mask his form and shadow. Calling on the sand to muffle the sound of his movements. Playing the wind to make his feet too light to indent on the ground.

He let it go as he struck, at her shoulder, at her wrist, ribs as he moved around her. Shallow, fast cuts. He hid himself again coming back around to hold the dagger at her heart.

He wasn't even winded from the movements, but from holding back. He exhaled, letting the magic go haywire. The light show flared behind them, sand spinning into glass at the heat. Glass falling around them, the sky overhead cast in Aurora Borealis.

He felt something tug at him and he brushed it aside. Whatever it was, whatever tether was trying to hold him would find no purchase here.

"Still think you have a standing chance?"

He stepped back spinning the blade to hold it to her handle first. He turned from her, not focusing on the light show or sea glass but on the weeds. The things that try and try to grow and survive.

"Your brother is upset to be hurt? This world isn't nice and he can't handle one minor grievance? People always hurt those they love, why wouldn't he experience that at some point? I'm inclined to heal him just to have him stop whining - I wouldn't want him dead and you to be upset."

He shoved his hands into his pockets, lifting his gaze to the sky. His cheeks blushed silver, and he forced himself to not keep speaking. He liked her voice but he'd seen first hand how those relationships ended regardless of gender or commitment.

Death, betrayal...agony. Perhaps he could eat any children born, he'd thought of trying. And some part of him thought it a quick mercy, and then the other sire or dam. But he would not kill life to further himself, even when he whole. He'd gotten into this because he'd believed in the good - in the potential of them. He'd let himself be sold on a lie, on a pretty story where he was a hero, a god, maybe even a villian.

He was ever meant to be a tool it seemed.

Lucien should listen, clearly she had a better insight than he did. He should listen to her.

He stared at the plant, it was still growing. It's leaves unfurling green and brilliant.

He should listen to her.

She was right.

He snapped his one remaining eye toward Nen, leaing toward him as best as he could from across the room.

"You can heal me."

It wasn't a question. Nen looked to the plant and watched it for a long moment. He touched a finger to it recalling that blood, that life into him. Leaving it all, plant and pot to turn to ash.

He placed his hand back in his lap, holding his wrist to hold that energy back. He wouldn't take it, he liked plants - they still held bits of the music if he tuned in just right.

They were fickle things.

"No."

Lucien moved, slightly off balance. He gripped the wall glaring at him.

"But you can. What is the point of this power if -"

Nen moved, his dagger aimed at his throat. The point at his neck but still. His voice was low, that old weight. All those memories, all those rejecting spinning back up.

He could see it. Calaena would yell, would throw him out. Would cut him off and send her family after him. Sbe knew enough about him to track him and she was clearly the smarter of the two.

"You don't want me to heal you Lucien. Because I will just kill you and revive you again and again."

He leaned, his voice a hiss. He knew they'd still hear. But effects were important.

"Again and again till you can't tell the difference."

He stepped back, the blade smoothly pulling from Lucien's skin. Not even a scratch or nick. Nen turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind him.

Lucien watched him go. He rubbed at his neck and spat after him. He spoke as if he knew what that was like. As if that was even possible.

"So he just says the most fucked up things to get reactions? The fuck does that even mean? How could you not know the difference? When you die there's nothing there and when you're alive -"

He walked blindly. Too agitated to focus on the forest or the mountains. Water, he wanted water. The flower had no sun, it had been trapped, it wanted to destory. Or maybe he did and he'd influenced and turned into dark. He did that a lot to too many things.

He came to the sands, kneeling in the waves and let the flower's and pot energy go. It dug into the sands and seas. Burrowing and anchoring. Only time would tell what would come of it.

He exhaled and didn't bother to turn. He was so tired, of fighting, of war. Of existence. Even asleep he wasn't beginning to hear the music as much. Was he becoming like them? Would he never get back what he'd been?

"I will only you warn you once that if you are here to avenge your brother I'll kill you before you're able to unsheath your dagger Calaena."

[neon-junkie]

MORE panty snatching shenanigans! its your turn to do laundry so you go to strip the beds— including pillow cases. you end up finding your panties tucked away into the crevice between the mattress and surface it rests on and stashed in their pillow cases. its not an obnoxious number, but you could tell they were underwear you had just thrown into the dirty hamper the previous day— each one had a freshly dirty pair for themselves. how the hell do you move on from tjat?? just put the bedding back on and leave it alone? how would they even react when they get back to the ship to stripped bed. they know you saw them, there’s no way you didn’t. now you have five sheepish men (that includes cross) who don’t know how to approach you or look you in the face. you pretend to not have seen anything, go on like nothing happened just to see them squirm but also how the hell do you approach a situation where you catch five extremely handsome men stealing your panties, panties you wore the night prior when you touched yourself to the thought of them, and then slipped them back on when you were done…. 😳🥴

Part 1 is here.

I think Echo is the only person who wouldn't get caught. He partakes in pantie snatching shenanigans, but he constantly feels so guilty about it, so much to the point that he physically cannot forget to return them. But you've just caught four of the five men doing it, and given Echo's panicked expression when he returns to find that you've changed his bedding, despite not finding anything, you assume that he's just as guilty as the rest.

The men are silent. They know. You know. They know you know. You know they know. Tension is so thick in the air that you could slice through it with a knife and eat it up for dinner. What the kriff do they do now? Are you going to mention it? Should they mention it?

It doesn't really bother you, if anything, you have the opposite reaction; you're glad that they see you in that way, considering you touch yourself to the thought of them every night. If anything, they deserve to enjoy your panties, since you're often cumming in them to the thought of these men.

You're uncertain how to move forward that you leave it, at first. Your panties stop going missing, and suddenly your underwear draw is overflowing. Ugh. You want things to return to previous ways, so you chalk up a plan to encourage them to use them again.

Minor adjustments are made to your wardrobe. You begin to wear tighter fitting clothes, ensuring that your pantie line is visibly pressed against your ass beneath the clothing. Sometimes you wear a thong, and settle the bands over your hips, peeking out from beneath your pants, as if to remind them that you're wearing underwear today.

You bend over more often. Tech is the perfect victim for your crime; he's always dropping tools whenever he's working away, and that's your opportunity to flaunt what you have whilst 'helping him.' Tech doesn't notice at first, not until you're shoving the tool back into his hand, and he jumps at your sudden appearance, dropping another tool yet again.

"Careful, Tech," you tut as you pick the tool up. "If you treat your tools carelessly, then that makes me question how you'd treat a woman." Tech is attempting to stutter a reply as you smile and walk off, leaving him with a hazy mind.

Crosshair is another victim to your bending over shenanigans. It's part of his routine to clean his rifle, and you're lucky one day, lucky in the sense that you overhear Crosshair grumbling to himself because he's just sat down and forgot something from his kit. You offer to retrieve it, and Crosshair watches hungrily as you band over and begin rummaging through the box, taking your time to retrieve said item.

"For you, Sir," you playfully announce as you hand over the missing item, and Crosshair accidentally drops the toothpick from between his lips at your bold name. You're gone before he can even think of a reply, and he makes a mental note to get you back for it.

You ask the boys if any of them want to come clothes shopping with you. Wrecker says yes, and you enjoy dragging him through the underwear isle specifically, asking for his opinion on every single frilly, lacy, bright pair of undies that you pick out. He tells you that they all look "nice," and the poor man looks like he's about to pass out at any given moment.

Hunter is a hard one to catch slipping, so you create an opportunity to rile him up. Whilst he's alone, you strike up a conversation, and eventually ask, "have you ever misused that knife of yours?"

"What do you mean?" Hunter quirks a brow.

"Oh, I dunno.... Used it during sex, maybe to help undress someone? Cut off their panties, maybe?" you shrug. Hunter can't even attempt to string together a reply, too flustered at those thoughts that you've put into his head. "I'll take that as a no," you laugh, and as you begin to walk off, you turn over your shoulder and state, "let me know if you ever want to practise."

Echo has managed to act the most normal around you. He always politely averts his gaze whenever you're flaunting yourself in front of the boys, and you can't deny that his politeness isn't winding you up, just a little. One day, Echo's going through his usual routine of oiling his joints, a task that you sometimes help him with. You offer a hand, as always, and he accepts it.

Usually, you'll work on his legs whilst he works on his arm, but since he's already started, he decided to do his arm first. You settle between Echo's thighs, looking up at him innocently as you begin working on his legs. Echo has nothing to distract himself, and struggles to keep eye contact as you slowly work the oil into each crevice, slicking the mechanical compartments up. All colour that Echo had managed to gain drains from his complexion, and once you've finished and left, he has to remain seated for a while, concerned that he's going to pass out.

Your shenanigans have been going on for a few weeks, and you decide that it's time to finally inform them that you know.

"I'm going to bed," you announce one evening. The Batch say goodnight, and you find your way into your room, quickly stripping off and changing into pyjamas. "Oh," you sigh as you exit your room, turning to face them. "I don't know whos turn it is tonight. You can fight amongst yourselves," you say with a smirk, and toss todays pair of panties at them.

"Goodnight!" you sweetly smile once your panties land within their crowd. You don't linger around, you've seen more than enough of their ghost-white expressions as they figure out what's happening between them. You enter your room, the door shutting behind you, and grin to yourself as you get into bed.

The Batch is frozen. Every single one of them has their own shocked and embarrassed expression plastered across their face, unable to move, until Echo finally breaks the tension by letting out a cough (he forgot to breathe.) They decide to speak about things, and two questions swiftly rise up in conversation:

1. You're clearly aware of what's going on, so how should they approach the matter?

2. Who gets your panties for tonight?

---

Part 3 is here.