#Fits Over Most Standard Toi

[nonasuch]

Miss Universe National Costume 2024, Part 2!

Splitting this off into a new post so I'm not clogging up everyone's dash quite as much.

Miss Malta is some sort of environmental protection Sailor Scout. I think the giant bow would look better on the back of the skirt but otherwise this is solid.

It has just come to my attention that I skipped over Miss Albania and several other A/B countries, back at the beginning. I sincerely apologize! She went to all this trouble putting together a Fifth Element cruise ship passenger costume, and I nearly missed it.

Miss Armenia, in what even I have to admit would be a legit Princess Leia fit.

Miss Bahrain, adding some green to her Gold And Vaguely Historical look, along with what is either a comically large prop chalice or an upside-down lamp.

Miss Bangladesh appears to believe that adding two plush tigers from the toy store around the corner from the pageant venue will conceal the fact that she is just wearing a tiger-print evening dress. Miss Bangladesh is incorrect.

Miss Belgium. Girl. No.

Miss Belize let the seventh-grade art class do her whole costume, which was a bold choice.

Okay, I think that's everyone I missed! Back to alphabetical order. And I should have to rely less on shitty screenshots, now. Some countries were benefiting from the low resolution, tbh.

Kind of feel like Miss Maldives had a luggage mishap and she's just wearing the outfit she packed for a slightly dressy dinner.

Miss Martinique's costume would honestly have looked better in the shitty screencap version. The construction is... bad. It's bad.

Feel like we're in a little bit of slump here. Miss Mauritius did not stick enough butterfly appliqués to her gown to conceal that it is, in fact, just a regular evening gown.

Slump officially over! We are so back. Everyone say thank you, Miss Mexico.

I would like this better if it had just committed to the giant skirt and not felt the need to make it a Sexy Miniskirt look. Sorry, Miss Moldova.

Miss Mongolia wanted to stand out from all the other gold armor on stage, so she decided to a) wear cooler armor and b) bring a bow and arrow instead of a sword. Great work, Miss Mongolia.

Starting to feel like I'm picking on the smaller countries that probably don't have a huge pageant culture or the budget for really elaborate costumes, but on the other hand Miss Montenegro's costume is super low-effort AND the fabrics look cheap, so what am I supposed to do?

Okay, this looks like a pretty standard Miss Universe Sexy Bird, yes? Well, THIS is how Miss Myanmar entered the stage:

She had to fight her way out of that thing! God only knows what the visibility was like in there.

I think the hat is doing most of the heavy lifting to keep Miss Namibia's costume from being Just An Evening Dress, sadly.

Oh, yikes. It's more obvious in motion but Miss Nepal's bodice looks like it's made of craft foam and it fits real weird. The rest of it looks a little like she got together with Miss Cyprus and a pile of tablecloths for a sewing bee last night, I'm sorry to say.

Miss Netherlands has chosen a Tribute to Delft. I think if I were in charge of this costume I would do a much fuller skirt that falls from the waist, instead of the weird trumpet-skirt-with-hoop we've got here. And, obviously, I would make the windmill on the bodice actually spin.

It looks like she's having some issues keeping the wings and peplum in place, but I really like Miss New Zealand's costume from a design perspective. It at least slightly resembles the bird it's supposed to be (New Zealand fantail) and I think the feather pattern is meant to be in a Maori art style.

Miss Nicaragua is a Sexy Cathedral, which I think might be a Miss Universe first and is definitely a big old step closer to drag.

Okay, pausing here to get the next batch ready.

[mylittleredgirl]

i know some of you have been pressing your faces to the glass waiting for me to see this one in particular SO i saw "the nurses" the other night and am still thinking about it!!

i love love love it when characters get pushed to a point where you can almost see their childhood selves pop out, like are they even talking about what's happening right now? or are their 12-year-old hearts just screaming?? i love that margaret's outburst is both irrational (the hostile work environment is coming from inside the house; i was yelling at my tv "baby it's your fault!!!") and so so honest.

[this turned into a bit of a character thesis, so not only is there a readmore, there will also be a reblog soon with the rest of the post because i maxed out the image limit] [edit: part ii now in the reblogs!]

this whole time, margaret has treated her subordinates with a heavy hand because she thinks it's the right and fair thing to do. the rules say this is how it works!

she maintains a high standard of excellence in brutal circumstances, but she's also reactive, moody, and unforgiving. she's often shown on the edge of losing control and authority, she inflames situations by overreacting, and the thing she punishes most egregiously is disrespect (toward frank, toward the army, toward herself). she intentionally underlines the distance between herself and the other nurses at every turn.

from season 3 "there's nothing like a nurse": [all IDs in alt]

really, everything she thinks and does comes from a place of "they're not supposed to like me," but the childish part of her that is completely unable to see her own behavior is confused and hurt because "i'm just doing my job so why don’t they like me???"

it's her job to maintain discipline, but especially here in 4077-land, she doesn't have to lead with the whip. henry was beloved because he was an overly permissive clown, which will never be her speed, but colonel potter has all the same training as she does. he's loved and respected as the Good Regular Army Guy because he leads with discernment and mutual respect.

it's easier for him. he's more experienced, he's respected and supported from above and below, and he has a calm temperament — which isn't nothing.

from season 4 "the interview":

whether she's aware of this as a problem or not, we at home can see how margaret's inability to control her emotional reactivity causes her as much grief as her inability to control other people.

if she were capable of laughing off small slights, hawkeye and trapper wouldn't have used her as a chew toy so much, and henry might have taken her real concerns more seriously if they weren't lost in the noise of daily fits, you know? she rarely started it, so i'm not blaming her for the hostile chaos circus of seasons 1-3, but i am saying she would have had a better time if she knew how to take a few deep breaths.

this description from the script, after the near-brawl in the nurses' tent in act one, is basically her character thesis statement:

and here, when she's reacting fully emotionally, the truth comes out! the reason that she won't be flexible and show compassion to the nurses isn't because of the rules, but because they're mean to her!!

that's obviously a very bad place to lead from. she has enormous institutional power over them, including controlling their freedom of movement, but she feels like all the other girls in school are hanging out together and they hate her. because they are! and they do! the fight in act one boils over when they make fun of her hair, and that sent all of them back to middle school.

and in many ways, that's where margaret's emotional maturity is stuck (which is, i think, why i find her so endearing). she can't see herself. she knows they don't like her, trust her, or want her around, but she doesn't understand how she dug this hole herself, or how to get out of it.

to add insult to jealous injury, one of the nurses (mary jo, who gets between margaret and baker to stop the fight and takes care of the others in different ways) is margaret's age, and the others look to her as their chosen leader and personal support.

and i'm sure margaret had NO IDEA this was the messy truth until she heard it come out of her mouth.

and her emotionally breaking on the "one lousy cup of coffee" in particular…

i wonder, how often does some version of that first tent scene happen? does she deliver their assignments every night? she walks in already defensive, they immediately stop laughing, and then... she either finds a reason to scold them or they ice her out until she leaves. (and they probably start laughing again as soon as she does!)

from her perspective, when she arrived for the dreaded sleepover and they turned out the lights the minute she walked in, it's like they cancelled the nightly coffee klatch just to avoid spending one social minute with her.

i also think the nurses are right when they assumed that she wouldn't have accepted an invitation to hang out with them (and might even have snapped at them for being inappropriate for asking). she doesn't cross that emotional line, even when she should — she didn't know gaynor was spiraling after losing so many patients in a row, and didn't respond compassionately when she learned.

has she ever invited them for coffee or a friendly chat? no.

...... but her circumstances have recently changed.

[reblog with the rest of it is here!]

[court-jobi]

For Your Eyes Only

💥Poll Reveal: Birthday Special💥

Pairing: Bakugou x tattooed!reader (fitting theme for biker!reader, no?)

Words: 2.2k

Rating: 18+ (heavy smexy insinuations near the end)

Warnings: NSFWish, reunited lovers, partial undressing, body worship, tattoos, possessive!Bakugou, basically foreplay, implied sexual touch, reunited and it feels so good

Summary:

Someone's missed their Pro-Hero while he's been off lighting up villains for seven weeks straight. The meantime does gives you the brilliant idea for a gorgeous new tattoo, though... all for your darling hero as a birthday present while he's away on mission, so you can keep the freshly inked secret close to your chest. Pretty nice surprise waiting for Bakugou to unwrap when he gets home, yeah?

A/N: Remember THIS POLL? Y'all gave me some splendid direction, thanks so much to everyone who voted! Might still very well run with some leftover ideas and make another fic for our other recipient (Birdie Boy Hawks), but hope you enjoy the winner~

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

Read on Ao3

"Ready for a surprise?"

Shrugging off his shoulder strap, Bakugou stares after you in snarky disbelief. He hasn’t even taken his shoes off yet, dammit. Still, he can’t help but smile.

"Hmm a surprise, huh? Takes a lot to surprise me, sweet thing…"

"Oh, I think I've done it this time,” you swing your hips on your way to the kitchen. “You haven't noticed it yet in all our calls- though I guess you haven't really had much chance to, lately."

"Tch– don't remind me,” he toes off his travel shoes by the table. “This whole ‘secret agent’ bullshit took way longer than I thought it would- been dying to get back to you. Haven't talked to you in days, or had decent reception enough to look at a photo in weeks; forget anything else. Speaking of…c’mere you.”

Bakugou slinks towards you, though you back up away from him, tugging your yukata taught from the back so he couldn't make a grab for it.

“What’re you runnin’ way for, heh??”

"Not letting you spoil it so fast there, babe~!”

You hop onto the kitchen counter with a couple careful adjustments to the overlapping ends of your robe, –sweet, sexy appeal coating your words.

"If you're gonna unwrap it, you've got to have a good view."

Bakugou teased the tip of his canines with an appreciative chuckle.

"You're my present, are ya?"

"Something like that."

Bakugou eyed you over with sneaky wonder. What on earth could you be hiding. 

His attention trailed down your legs- socked, but otherwise bare. He steps closer to you, wedging between your legs with a forceful jut of his hips, and cups your jaw into a long, starved kiss. You won't be getting out from under his grasp anytime soon, he's makin’ damn sure of that. 

It’s not your first kiss since Bakugou’s arrival through the door, but deeper than that quickie peck you'd given him at first sight. You’d hugged him tight around the neck in perfect bliss after such a long separation– only to dart away, killing any of his plans to never let you go. 

That long-awaited kiss of greeting was kept painfully brief by Bakugou’s standards– followed immediately by your retreat to the kitchen, where you’re now acting the most secretive you ever have in your entire relationship. 

He'd be crushed if he wasn't so confused. 

Parting, he rumbles directly into your waiting mouth.

"What are you up to, pretty?"

"No funny business. Just a great surprise." 

You’re toying with his hoodie’s knotted ends, cinching and uncinching the knots and seeking shy permission to strip him. Bakugou lets you, shedding his pullover that reeks of airport and leaving him in the black compression shirt he could trademark- wrinkled, half-rucked up his abs, and perfect.

To his surprise, you seem pleased enough with this level of undress and stop tugging on him altogether. At the moment where he’d expected you to slip his pants loose next, you merely push him back into place between your knees. Doing so allows the space to scoot just so towards the edge of the counter. 

You brace back on your palms, posture up and cutting your sights down to where his hands trail across your waist: he’s calculating your moves for hints, few as they are.

"Go on and open it."

Bakugou's brow still worked together as he fought his edging smile. 

What on earth could this be? His first best guess would be something sexy to wear, but he honestly finds that pointless since nothing lasts that long on you, anyhow. A laced-up view would be the most mouthwatering sight for the man who’s been starved of you for seven straight weeks… but he reckons this has to hold bigger shock factor. 

Following your lead and gentle instruction, Bakugou sweeps an eager hand back with a jerk to untie your sash and then bends over to divide the curtain of your kimono to your hips, granting him the sweet heat of your calves, knees, thighs, and-- 

Bakugou's jaw goes slack.

Atop your left leg, creased at the flesh of your hip lay his intended surprise: a fully realized tattoo of gorgeous black and grayed ink. 

The center of it all bore a gorgeously stylized pawprint -left empty of pigment for contrast- digging in slightly to the flesh, deliciously possessive, as if the full body were howling its word of ‘mine’ into the night. 

Claiming its territory. Guarding its beloved.

Naturally, the design didn't stop there. The paw and its indentions laid surrounded by a burst of swirls and sparks resembling firework patterns: some as sunbursts, some as residual trails of light intermixing with haze. The most notable hailed the shape of ‘Dynamight’s fanned accents– mimicking the rays of the earth’s brightest star– known by just about every folklore believer for strength and victory.

This shading is impeccable: saturated to perfection and a gorgeous display of artistry. There are billows of ombre smoke that spread throughout the design, creating a nebulous effect throughout the background, leaning into uncanny imagery of a certain someone’s quirk.

Each element features his take on ‘lucky charms’~ branded right there on your skin. 

The symbol was divine… and for a man with a faster tongue unafraid to speak his mind, Bakugou has no words.

Dumbstruck and in utter awe, Bakugou's fingers trail in slow motion towards your newest addition of skin ink. He releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding back, crouching subconsciously to one side, revealing more and more skin with the lift of the kimono. The hipband of your underwear cut off the very spiky peak of a spark, but it didn't hide much of the body of the tattoo- all was plenty visible from the hip, down your thigh.

You sneak in a cautious breath with proud anticipation, drinking in Bakugou's every soft reaction. A little huff escapes your nose seeing your partner’s mouth hung open from the moment he locks sight of your leg– sights which have never parted since. 

Not to speak, not to swallow, barely to blink.

"Happy birthday, Katsuki~" you nearly sing.

Finally, Bakugou tears himself from his trance to lock into your brilliant eyes, their bright points muted in this low light by the kitchen window.

"When-- hah- ho-?"

"You were gone almost two months, honey," you reminded with a twinge of sultry pride. "Once you got orders on the op, I booked the outline, then another session for the fill. Healed up just in time for you to come crashing in the door."

With your non-balancing hand, you twine your fingers over his, swiping over the lower half of the tattoo. The movement matches the curve of the curling tufts of smoke laid there.

Bakugou follows as you move his hand along by your guidance, leading him lazily until you trace it down to the bottom, not wanting to cover up anything.

Taking a slow knee to study it with careful hands cupping your thighs, you coo light in your chest with a loving stroke on your hero’s arm as Bakugou gets comfortable on his knees.

"This-- this is days worth of work, for you.." Bakugou muttered breathlessly.

"‘Bout three full days, start to finish. Larza did such a good job, didn’t they." you beam, crediting your artist. With a little sparkle, you hedge your newly revealed excitement, "--Do you like it?"

Bakugou's squint through his surprised joy was adorable- though he'd deny ever resembling anything close to the word.

"Sweet’eart... S'fucking gorgeous."

His weak slack-jawed look turned into a grin, which drives up into a breathless laugh. 

But Bakugou is not done marveling yet…

You rake through his wild hair lovingly, doubling the intimate experience. 

“Three days,” he husks, "That's a long time, angel. You stayed so still for this one- there's not a stroke outta place."

Recounting each of your other tattoos that lie either on both your arms or other bits of tender skin, this piece held significantly more ‘natural cushion’ to work with.

"Probably hurt the least of any of them, honestly. M'not gonna lie n’ say it was a breeze near the hip..but hell, was the finished product worth it."

At this, Bakugou finally shows an emotion other than ‘want’- a flash of concern tents his brow and firms his lips as he lifts up to you.

You could laugh about it now; all discomfort is long gone after the insanely prickly healing process.

"Not too much of course! Just the usual. But the itching- oof, that wasn't funny. Had to hide out here for the first two days- couldn't wear any clothes over it yet. Just me, your pillow, my Kindle, and a vat of lotion to keep me from going out of my mind from the blistering. N’ I couldn’t handle talking to you, or else y-"

“-You faked a head cold, you crafty little DUMBASS!!” 

Bakugou pieced together your ‘random’ excuse for those days when he’d tried to touch base with you.

The sidenote of spending that much time alone -wearing next to nothing- sends Bakugou reeling into lust again in a heartbeat; all while you giggle at your successful ruse. 

Gifts to your lifemate have all carried meaning and touched on every part of his identity. Whether it was a symbol of your connection, or a splurge that he’d been pining for but far too tight-fisted to award himself, you stepped in and would take extra care into a special, well-thought out present on these occasions you felt were worth celebrating– even if he’d sooner forget. 

Bakugou’s arrival home landing on his birthday was a true afterthought to him; but not to you. 

Your skin laid newly adorned with more stunning art– but more notably, laid nearly bare under his hands. Right where he craved them, and right where he could smell your very essence - just a little closer. 

It’s no secret how much he loves every inch of you -inside and out- and in every curve and crevasse… and it’s here that his brain clicks together why you’d sat so precariously on the counter now.

Bakugou thanks you with his whole chest, the lovesick aura glowing even more beautiful with its rawness.

"This is absolutely beautiful- I love it, baby,” your striking boyfriend declares the impact your gift has had on him, "Fuck me, this is-- first the rings, then the new gauntlets, now this?"

"Well, anyone can see those first two in broad daylight,” you sass… then softer, “This one's just for you, Kats..."

"Damn right it is," Bakugou leans down, eyeing you before laying a euphoric kiss on the tip of your hipbone.

Heated lips kiss the same spot again, slower this time. Then another, further down. And again, and again- covering the art with wet lovemarks. You've moisturized the tattoo expertly, treating it with an essence of mango and verbena filling his senses– and a light coconutty taste, as he'd learned from the last time you'd gotten one done on your shoulder. 

Passing over the wolf’s claws, Bakugou bared his teeth ever so much, rumbling a happy growl to make you laugh- then moan. Pleasure, adoration, obsession.

With a flash of crimson up to you,  Bakugou hungered low and deeper still,

"Sounds like torture, angel. Don't know how you invite that sorta pain over and over…” 

Affected by his slow worship along your leg, you subconsciously tuck that leg in; anything to give him more space to cover, make sure nothing is missed.

“I keep tellin’ ya, it's not too bad. You’d look pretty hot with some ink, yourself.”

While the man disagrees with a playful sarcasm, his respect for both your thoughtfulness -and pain tolerance- is enough to get him hard.

Bakugou fantasizes about the whole process: taking a wildly rapid pen to you, laid on your side naked from the waist down, drawn u[on as a living, breathing canvas… all with the sole intention to be marked for his eyes only, forever. 

Three whole days.. Bakugou mulls over the work you’ve done. The statement you’ve made with this gift. The proud look in your eyes that doesn’t regret a single stroke, and has chosen to celebrate its claim on your body by giving him full rights to every inch of you…

“Wasn’t even ‘ere to hold your hand through it…” Bakugou offers sweetly. He would have been at your side, had he not been off saving the world yet again. 

A touch of dominance comes through his observation, eliciting a delightful reaction he knows will follow. You affirm; giving a sweet, pliant moan of agreement, while you shake your head in a ‘no’ for your past loneliness. You’re ordinarily plenty self-sufficient even in his absences, but play the role of the left-behind lover adorably well.

While one powerful hand teases needy fingers over the seam of your underwear with the intent to rip them off and another reaches for your ankle with plans to chuck it over his shoulder, the birthday boy relishes in the sights, sounds, and feel of you already–

“...I should make up for your troubles now, shouldn't I?” Bakugou rumbles like spring’s telltale thunder in front of your core, ready and waiting to taste, “Gotta thank you properly, yeah?"

[fadedin2u]

hi rose toy, could you write about ellie comforting reader with body insecurities? love your writing and have a good day!!

here’s a little drabble!! this was super therapeutic to write, thank u for the lovely request anon!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“i just- i don’t like myself, ellie. i don’t like anything about how i look,” you finally admit, sick of your own thoughts plaguing your mind.

ellie’s eyes are full of heartache as she says, “but i do. i like everything about how you look.”

the response makes your heart bleed more, and your lip trembles.

“you have to say that. you’re my girlfriend.”

ellie shakes her head, “hey. that’s not true. i’m not gonna say anything to you that i don’t mean, you know that.”

you look down, not wanting her to see the tears building in your eyes. “i just… i can’t help but notice how many fucking things are wrong with my body. with my face. with me.”

ellie frowns, “what makes any of it wrong? where’s the guide book telling you how you’re supposed to look?”

you get irritated in spite of knowing ellie’s good intentions, “everything tells me i’m supposed to look different than how i do, ellie. you’re the fucking beauty standard, no offense, but you have no idea what it feels like to not be.”

ellie’s eyes flash with hurt from your words, but she covers it well.

you sigh, ashamed, wiping your face, “i’m sorry, els, really. i’m not trying to pick a fight with you or make you feel like shit too, i just hate living with how i look everyday.”

ellie smoothes her hands over your sides, “do you want to know what i think?”

you take a breath and slowly nod.

“not everything about you fits the beauty standard. that’s true. but the beauty standard was created by rich, white men who are trying to make a goddamn profit off of women fucking hating themselves. so women just perpetuate this bullshit standard, because they feel like it’s attached to their worth as a human being, and everyone feels like shit, except for the dudes who’s pockets are getting fuller each time someone goes in to get a fucking lypo treatment or a nose job.”

you stay quiet, listening, even though this isn’t necessarily new information to you.

ellie takes a breath, “so, maybe not all of you fits into that stupid model of a fake woman, but how the fuck does that make you less beautiful? i love how you look naturally, because you’re fucking real, gorgeous, and human. i don’t want a fantasy girl that fits perfectly into a porn-brain infected, white, straight, limp-dick’s wet dream. i want you. i want how you look naturally, when you’re healthy and happy. because that’s when you look the most beautiful to me, no matter what.”

you take a breath. “so you’re honestly saying you wouldn’t prefer if i was more stereotypically attractive?”

ellie rolls her eyes, “that doesn’t fucking mean anything to me. i’m very fucking attracted to you, and that’s all that matters. i wouldn’t change a thing about how you look, ever.”

you nod slowly, and she pulls you into a tight hug.

“it makes me sick that you feel like you’re innately wrong in some way, because that couldn’t be further from the truth. if you’re giving yourself enough food, taking care of your body, and you’re happy, that’s exactly how you should be looking. okay?”

you know that ellie’s words don’t take away your feelings of insecurity, but it helps soothe some of the sting, the hurt.

“i’m sorry for making you preach self-love to me,” you say, smiling a little, trying to lighten the mood.

ellie looks serious as she says, “i will again. anytime you need it. i cant stand the thought of the most perfect thing in my life hating how they naturally look. i’ll say it a billion times if you need it, i promise.”

she kisses your forehead.

“do you think take-out would help you feel better? because i think it would.”

[jarate-pissman]

Silly Doodle of TF2 if they were dogs. I wanted their accessories to resemble their human counterparts, but it can be difficult because putting a dog into human clothes is hard to draw.

Scout: A Boston Terrier. A breed known for being lively and happy, it's friendly and open to strangers. Scout as a guard dog would show you where his owners keep the valuables if you give him even a crumb of attention. Also, they can be bug eyed and derpy at times.

Pyro: A Dalmatian. Duh. With a bag on their head that resembles pyro.

Soldier: Solly is an American Pitbull Terrier. The fact that it's a controversial breed makes it an even better fit! ABPTs were used in combat missions in WWI and II. In WWII they appeared often on war propaganda posters. One of the most well known ABPT was named Sgt Stubby in WWI, and he earned himself numerous medals. Stubby is probably the deciding factor. Soldier has an American flag bandana and his food bowl over his eyes. He smells faintly of rotten bbq ribs.

Heavy: An Ovcharka (Caucasian Shepherd) while originally the breed hailed from Georgia, the USSR pushed to have the breed standardized. The huge dog breed was originally bred for guarding purposes, and has a serious and protective nature. Perfect for guarding his medic. He greatly treasures his Sandvich, a stuffed squeaky toy from the bargain bin at the pet store.

Demoman: A one-eyed Scottish terrier with a sturdy body and a manly beard. My personal experience with Scotties as a dog groomer is that they are absolute assholes who are wary of strangers squeezing their ass glands. I'm pretty sure Demo would bite me too if I touched his asshole. Demo has a squeaky bouncy ball that resembles a sticky bomb, one eye, and a hat that looks like a beanie.

Engineer: An American Bulldog. Mainly this was influenced by their stocky body and their friendly personality. Bulldogs are also a very intelligent dog breed that possess high endurance, agility, and strength. American Bulldogs were bred with the intention that they would be a farm dog. I would have gone with the Blue Lacy, but it didn't feel very Engie, despite being the only breed outta Texas. Engineer dog has doggles.

Spy: A french bulldog. Both the French Bull Dog and the Boston Terrier both descended from the Bulldog, so in a way they are related. While a poodle would have fit Spy as well, Frenchies are pretty expensive in their own right, and the cost of their medical bills might as well cost 5 poodles. They're like the luxury bulldog, and I feel like the fact that Spy and Scout's breeds resemble each other makes it better. Since dogs don't usually wear balaclavas, Spy-dog got his face stuck in a pair of red/blu underwear and started wearing them ever since.

Medic: What dog is more demanding, bratty, and sadistic than a Pomeranian? Pomeranians are extroverted, lively, alert, and highly intelligent dogs of German origin. They can be aggressive to humans and dogs to try and prove themselves. They don't seem to realize how small they are, and somehow wind up ruling the house anyways, even if there are other dogs. I can just imagine Medic-dog commanding Heavy-dog, and Heavy-dog going along with whatever he says. Medic has tiny glasses and a stray hair curl.

Sniper: A dingo. Aloof, mysterious, and a bit scrawny for his size, he's an excellent hunter who can brave the scorching bush and all Australia has to offer.

[honeytabbies]

OKAY. HERE WE GO. my black bulls doggies!!!! :D

there's definitely a noticeable difference in style/quality of some of these just due to time between each design and/or how i was feeling at the time of drawing them (these hot and rainy summer months have been super rough on me)

ALSO they were all done symmetrically so that i wouldn't burn out and could actually finish them LOL . OK EVERYBODY BELOW

starting off with asta, a husky/coyote mutt!! :D in my au, devil users end up becoming hybrids of whatever their devil is. so since liebe is a coyote, that's what asta is too!! (also, i haven't drawn him yet, but yuno is a malamute :D similar looking breeds but different since they're not actually related!)

(here's liebe too hehe, scrappy lil coyote!!)

then of course, noelle, who's a saluki!! a very regal breed for a very royal gal!! i thought making her pigtails into her ears was a fun idea HEHEHE

(+ an alternate design version!)

here's finral, he's a shetland sheepdog!! gentle and sweet and always trying to herd his people together :) you might notice that with some of my designs, i end up doing extra scarring; that's usually just personal headcanons, as i think some injuries would be too grievous to fully heal. though some (for instance, gauche) don't have a canon story behind them, i just think they're fitting

vanessa, who's a cavalier king charles spaniel!! her ears sorta blend into her hair lol, i had an alternate version where they were the same darker brown as her fur but i decided that them blending in looked better and fit the breed standard as well.

gauche, the ever wary american akita!! being a fiercely loyal and protective breed, but aloof and suspicious of strangers.

then there's grey, who's a long-haired chihuahua!! sweet and skittish HEHE, also i haven't drawn it yet but i've always imagined her big transformation disguise that she's first introduced as to be a rottweiler LOL

next up is luck, a jack russell terrier!! i've always thought this was a very fitting breed pick, intelligent but highly energetic and a little mischievous !!!

and of course, magna is never far behind luck; he's a dobermann pinscher!! similar to luck in energy and intelligence, but even more fiercely protective of his loved ones.

GORDON!!! actually one of my favourite black clover characters, he's a dalmatian not only because of the fitting aesthetic, but also because of his kind and sensitive personality!

the masked supermage zora, a german shepherd! watchful and sometimes stubborn but loyal nonetheless made this pick fairly easy to come to. though, before getting to see more of him, my initial pick was actually a kai ken!

charmy's design is one that i'm the most proud of for sure; i mentioned in an earlier post that the different peoples are different species of animals. well charmy is a half toy poodle, half american badger!! i thought a badger was a VERY fitting pick, as they are generally unbothered by much unless their food is threatened LOL

and finally, lastly (for now) is nero!! she's a bull terrier, but i really wanted to keep her twin tails from her anti-bird form! her outfit is definitely the one i edited the most, i just wanted to give her something more practical out of personal preference.

additionally, henry is an old english sheepdog, nacht is a black norwegian elkhound/fox, and yami is a wolfdog!

I HAVE SOME OTHER CHARACTERS DOODLED HERE AND THERE but nothing else really finished yet. if there's a specific character anyone would like to see i would be SO happy to draw/doodle them to show off!! i honestly have a huge list of dog/cat breeds picked out for every character i could think of; i just am hellishly indecisive and can never pick who to start on next AHDSJAGDJSDK

THE POSITIVE RECEPTION TO MY ART SO FAR HAS MADE ME SO HAPPY BTW AUAGGHHH i have no idea how/if im able to reply to people directly but just know that i keep reading over everyone's reblog tags and stimming like crazy IM SO HAPPY THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH AUHGHFEHGGRH

[nicksbestie]

hi!!! im not sure what kind of prompt tbh but can u pls write a jake webber x agere fem reader fic please🥺

absolutely!!!! i love these reqs so much :)

Naptime

warnings : none

pairing : jake webber/reader (romantic)

word count : 930

Jake was a wonderful person. He was a kind, loving, sweet, considerate human being, and all of that was reflected tenfold in his relationships. He always made sure that his partner felt valued and supported, loved and cared for, and should there ever be a doubt in that, he would do everything that he could to fix it. He took every new adjustment in stride, always being willing to hear out someone else’s side of the story, knowing that while he may not agree, it was important to hear them out. He was someone who always kept an open mind, and because of that, his partners had always felt comfortable coming to him to have conversations about many different things. And you had been no different. 

You had been through a lot in a very short amount of life, and because of that, there were a lot of different coping mechanisms you had tried to use to help with everything, but there were very few that actually helped you, and only one that positively influenced your healing. That mechanism was regression. It was a perfect fit for you, as the events that you had been through made you grow up too fast. It gave you an escape, for you to heal the inner child that had been harmed by the years of pain, but it also gave you an innocent space to enjoy quality time with people you trusted. And you were a very lucky little, because your partner had taken the information with an open mind and little to no hesitation. 

Your regression wasn’t something you broadcasted to a lot of people, not because you were ashamed of it, but because it was something incredibly personal to you, and you wanted to keep it that way. You didn’t want to run the risk of it becoming tainted in any way, as it truly helped your life for the better. However, when you and Jake really hit it off, you were transparent, and told him exactly what you were looking for. You didn’t think you could handle being in a romantic relationship without your partner being your caregiver, and because of this, when it got serious with Jake, you were open. You still couldn’t believe just how lucky you were to have found such a sweet person that loved you so much.  Which was what brought you to this point. 

You were cuddled up under Jake’s arms, wrapped up in a soft blanket wearing one of his shirts. A cartoon was playing on the television in front of you both, and his chin was gently resting on the top of your head, periodically placing soft kisses there. You had a small fidget toy clutched in one hand, and a stuffie tucked under your other arm. That was how you had spent the majority of the morning, just having a softer day and relaxing instead of bouncing around and playing a lot. You hadn’t slept too great the night before, and because of that, you were more tired this morning, so Jake did a lot more to help you than he normally did. 

You were a very independent little, at least by the standards, because you could do a lot of things for yourself, you just normally didn’t want to. And Jake never minded helping you more, knowing it made you feel smaller, more safe. But today you were too tired to do most of the things that you could normally do alone, so he helped. With simple things like picking out your clothes, lifting you onto the chair at the counter so you could eat breakfast, and even feeding it to you. He was endlessly gentle and kind, and that was reflected in all of his personality, not just when he was caring for you. He made sure that you never felt unloved, not even for a minute. 

When lunchtime came around, you walked over to the kitchen, your hands gripping his, and stayed right up against him while he fixed your food. It was always something that could be made quickly, paired with a fruit or a vegetable, and you always got a little treat afterwards. He filled up a sippy cup with juice, and once your food was fixed, he got you situated back on the couch, making sure the coffee table was close enough that you wouldn’t spill anything. And if you did, he’d just clean it up afterwards anyways. It was rare that he let you eat on the couch, knowing that more times than not there would be a mess, but he knew today was a sleepy day and you’d probably want him to feed you anyways. 

Once you had finished eating, you curled back up into Jake’s side, and he knew that you were about to fall asleep, probably within the next ten or so minutes. He shut off the tv, picking you up and placing you on his hip before cleaning up the plate and cup, setting them in the sink to wash off when he got the chance. He walked to your shared room, softly laying you down and tucking you in before laying down next to you, letting you curl up in his arms. You were a little who would never fall asleep without your carer there to hold you, and Jake knew that perfectly well. He always enjoyed naptime, considering it a wonderful period of quality time, and he was more than happy to rest with you. The rest of your day was soft and sweet, as it always was.

[millenianthemums]

i watched jacob geller’s video “Time Loop Nihilism” for the first time today. i love jacob geller but for some reason i skipped this video til now, and i’m so glad i finally found it, because weirdly it gave me some big inspiration for Bill Cipher characterization.

rambling under the cut

so, like, when a character’s trapped in a time loop for long enough, they stop seeing their actions as having any consequences, because they don’t have any lasting impact on the world. they start seeing the world they live in like a speedrunner sees the video game they’ve been running. they start seeing the people around them like neutral objects that make noises and do things but don’t really matter. they’re toys to play with. and you can break them as many times as you want, in as many ways as you want, and then they fix themselves and it’s like nothing happened.

but still, most time loop stories end with the loop breaking and the character just… moving on. returning to normal life. but how could someone ever do that, really? after all that time, all those things you did? even if no one else will ever know about it, YOU will. you will know that you are a person who did those things. that will never not be true again.

Bill wasn’t in a time loop, but he has been alive for one trillion years. one trillion years is a REALLY LONG TIME. like, our universe has existed for 13.8 billion years. a trillion is 1,000 billions. in a trillion years, Bill could have lived from the beginning of our universe to right now about 72 times. who knows how many universes he’s lived from the beginning to the end of? not even to start on the galaxies, the planets, the PEOPLE in his life. i’m genuinely not doing the math on how many people Bill might have known in his life because i will get nauseous.

Bill is like Ama from the Through The Flash short story, but on a totally different level. how could you possibly internalize the idea that hurting people matters at ALL when you’ve lived through eternity a million times and watched everything you’ve ever done disappear into the abyss of time over and over? a trillion years. he likes killing people and he hates getting bored. how many new, creative ways of torturing and murdering people do you think somebody like Bill could dream up in a TRILLION YEARS?

and then this AU is like, welcome back to survival mode buddy! things matter again now! none of that crazy stuff you got used to doing is gonna fly anymore! also this is your last chance. fuck this up, and you’re dead forever. have fun!

i imagine for a while he’s just dead set on finding some kind of loophole. he can’t accept the idea of going back to caring about things again. he wants creative mode back and he’d gonna find the cheat code, dammit.

but then he makes friends with Mabel. and now suddenly, whether he wants it to or not, something in his life really, REALLY matters. he cares about this kid. this human kid who’s gonna live like 65 more years tops. and now he has, by his standards, an infinitesimally short time period to get his shit together and become somebody who can actually be a genuine friend to another person, despite all the terrible stuff he did, in the show and in the incomprehensible eternity that came before it. how is he gonna do that?? i don’t know. i’m still figuring it out. it’ll be fun!!!

but yeah, i was struck, hearing the summary of Ama’s conversation with her neighbor. it just fit, in my mind, with everything i’ve been thinking about. no matter how much he changes, Bill will never again be somebody who didn’t do terrible things. whether or not the effects of those things exist outside him anymore, they weren’t free of consequence. he is still the person who killed and tortured and exterminated billions of sentient people, even when he’s laughing at Mabel’s silly jokes or being terrible at video games. all he can do is keep moving forward.

thanks so much if you read all of this. <3

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ Breathe through it ❞

Touya Todoroki x ftm!reader x Tomura Shigaraki | Taishiro Toyomitsu x ftm!reader x Shota Aizawa| AU, Dabi & Tomura works as a body piercer & tattoo artist | nsfw, smut, p**n with plot | sub. bttm. reader | wc: 4k

warnings: dub. con. (the reader is mostly being a brat), daddy kink, d. penetration (one hole), overstimulation, AFAB terminology (clit referred to as dick though)

masterlist: pt1; pt2; pt3

They want you without the commitment, so you decide to show them the roster full of people you could choose from.

There's an incessant buzzing on your bed. The screen of your phone lights up with 'Dick for Brains' as the caller ID and you watch as it eventually fades, casually drying off the nape of your neck as the wisps of steam from your bathroom whisper against the small of your back. The screen lights up again. You roll your eyes, reaching down to turn it over. You drop the towel around your waist onto the floor, stepping over the puddle of cloth to open your closet doors. Standing there in all your naked glory, you begin humming as you eye the array of clothing before you. A ruffle of fur brushes your fingers and you fight a scowl as you realize what jacket it was. "Fuck them" you mutter distastefully "Treating me like I'm some goddamn prostitute". You rummage with sudden vigour, reaching for your neglected articles of clothing.

You, out of all people, should know that when it came to fuckboys there's no time to feel regret at their lack of commitment. Most would call you a variation of a fuckboy yourself - though you don't regret being your flirtatious self, ever. You were transparent in your disinterest in a relationship (with someone you weren't attracted to outside of the bedroom). But Dabi and Tomura? They were slutty fucking bastards. Perhaps they knew how well you could fit into their lives, which scared them. It didn't take a genius to know the two of them had a particularly strong case of abandonment issues. Anyone could claim you were being an armchair psychologist but the way they act has you itching to make an appointment with a therapist. Conniving, shitty, man-children. It was one thing to turn your less-than-innocent rendezvous into just...three dudes hanging out (truly, your standards had lowered because why did Dabi and Tomura sharing food with you make your heart race when they've swapped cum in your mouth?). It was another to chase off potential bedmates from you when you three were out in a club — of which prior, you had expressed your annoyance at their want to have you exclusively while they had more flings.

A sheer material flutters by your knuckles. When you pull the garment out it's a beautiful, oversized, button-up shirt. The cutting of the shirt was nothing special, however, the design was breathtaking. Holding it up to the light, you chew on your lower lip with a gleeful twinkle in your eyes. It was see-through though the darker colour of the design was meant to mimic a cinched waist while the outer lavender hue nearly disappeared in the light. You lay it down on your bed, grab your still buzzing phone and reject the call from 'Daddy Issues Central' before calling up your friends. "Well, well, well".

You land on your bed with an 'oomph' stroking the chosen top with a giggle pouring from your lips. "Look who came crawling back, your new boy toys finally bored you?" "Something like that" Your bed creaks as you roll onto your back, touching your lobes as you ponder which piercings to decorate it with. A thrum of musing came from the phone.

"They lasted a while, did they shatter when you left? I need details" they sang and from the sound of movement, you figured they were getting ready as well. "Haven't dropped them" Your sigh makes the sounds halt then a series of 'nonono'. They groaned, "God - (Y/N), don't tell me this is going to be another repeat of Mirai Sasa- whatever the fuck that guy's name was". "He wasn't that bad" you defended. "He quite literally got on his knees and begged for you to 'return back to your rightful future' with him" They shift the phone from their hand to their shoulder and your giggle makes them snort. "Trust me, these guys are not the grovelling type" an idea of a full outfit pops into your head. Raising from the bed, you bounce towards your closet. "Where are you going?" you ask. "Why are you assuming I'm going out?" "It's a Saturday night and you," a grunt leaves your lips as you toss a pair of unworthy shorts over your shoulder, "Just posted something about your boss' son getting the promotion you wanted on your Instagram story". "...Fine, I'm going to the Boy Toy Club in like 25 fucking minutes. You think you can get all dolled up in time, (Y/N)?" Your chuckle makes them roll their eyes fondly. "30 minutes? Pleaseee" "You better be glad I fucking love you". "Who fucking doesn't?" your friend groans and you end the call with a smile. Though it disappears as Dabi's calling you for what feels like the 500th fucking time. "Ugh".

Tomura's seen Dabi irritated before. Despite his cool-headedness, he knows better than anyone that underneath is a simmering beast that bares its teeth at the slightest provocation.

Right now, Dabi's lower jaw is jutted forward and Tomura sees his cheeks being sucked in as he chews on it, brows centred and hooding his eyes with a brewing storm. Tomura doesn't fare any better. He's been scratching at his neck, sighs of displeasure escaping him while he bounces a knee. The store had long closed, the humming of the AC muffling the men's obvious annoyance as it thickens in the air. "You pissed him off" Tomura accuses "He was the perfect fucking lay and your stupid mouth pissed him off!"

"Oh, can it, Shiggy!" Dabi warned, pushing himself off the couch and running his fingers through his hair. "They're other sluts, other 'perfect lays' Just get the fuck up and wear your jacket" Tomura's face scrunches in an incredulous expression as he throws his hands in the air. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!" "It means we're going to a club, dick for brains" Dabi has his leather jacket over his shoulders, Tomura's jacket in his hand while the other was holding a box of cigarettes and a lighter. "You're a loser but you're still handsome" Tomura mocks him under his breath, eyes settling into a glare as Dabi holds firmly onto his chin to tilt his head up. Blue eyes flicker to his crotch and Tomura shoves Dabi away with his palm against his navel. "Cock's nice too - there'll be bitches slobbering all over it so come on." He turns to the entrance, lighting the cigarette and shouldering the door open while Tomura bounces the store's keys in one hand and slips the other in the arm of his jacket. "You're drivin' us there, we don't need him".

Dabi's sorely mistaken. Tomura's pressed against his side, cock being pleasured by a hand that's not yours while Dabi's was in a mouth that was, also, not yours. The only thing that was keeping both of them hard was the fact they were shoving each other's tongues down their throats.

"Shit" he hears Tomura hiss, peeking his eyes open to see him push the redhead away from his side. "What the fuck, dude?!" he exclaims. Tomura pants, pulling away from Dabi to stuff his dick back in his pants. "Who the fuck taught you how to give handjobs? A sheet of sandpaper?" Tomura sneered, making Dabi groan as he shoved the guy sucking his dick off, though keeping him drunk on its taste by letting their lips hover by the side with his thigh cushioning his cheek. "Fuck you, I've been jerking you off for 15 minutes — It's not my fault your dicks are broken!" Tomura tells him to fuck off and they do with a string of curses. Dabi taps the one on his lap, earning hazy eyes looking oh-so-sweetly at him. The problem is, they're not that fiery (E/C) colour framed by your pretty lashes and further complimented by your eyebrow shape that Dabi somehow finds attractive. As he looks at the tongue peeking out from lips that aren't yours he clicks his tongue at the lack of metal that's supposed to be there. "Get off" he pushes them onto the floor and Tomura only half-pities them as they yelp, wiping their wet lips and watching as Dabi coldly walks over them and towards the wall of windows. Seeing as Dabi's a regular and one that pays well, he's given privileges. These rooms, with a wall of windows that face each other in a circle and overlook the lower level of the dance floors, were a privilege he'd been given.

Tomura grabs the bottle of champagne and drinks a mouthful. They (Dabi) had been gifted this for free due to his long absence. The pale-haired man pretended not to see Dabi's cheek twitching while he suppressed the bitter taste of regret. The man leaves, scampering almost, and the only sounds left are the muffled bass of the song playing below. Tomura raises to stand next to Dabi who takes the bottle from his hand. "Your dick's still out" he comments. "So?" Tomura observes the clear views of the other VIP rooms around them. He sees bodies, bodies, bodies in all sorts of positions and if the lights weren't constantly shifting or so dim, he was sure they'd be able to lip-read their throes of pleasure.

"...Admit it" Tomura grunts. "You first" Dabi replies. "He put a fucking spell on our dicks" Dabi's eyes roll so far back it threatens to lose those striking blues. "M'not fuckin' joking. That boy sucking your dick was your exact type and you couldn't even get it up if I didn't suck you off first" Dabi turns to Tomura, whose brows are cocked up righteously. "That redhead was your type too, rubbed you fucking raw and for nothing". They stared at each other in silence but Tomura inched closer and soon their kissing. It turns steamier, with his pierced nipples now against the window as Dabi kicks his ankles apart.

This is good, this is great. They're familiar with each other, an unspoken bond stitching their lives together in a way that could never be undone. Both wouldn't say it but only because the words boyfriends didn't quite fit the bill — they were more. They didn't need others. Not in a way that would last. It just complicated things in the long run — so they'd have flings (the other fully knowing) and share their flings but never had trouble falling back into sync. Their sex was great. Their jagged pieces just fit. So Tomura groans and grasps at the smooth glass as Dabi's pierced dick finds a home inside of him. He lets his breath fogs the glass up, arches his back to meet Dabi halfway in his thrusts and kisses Dabi when he feels his breath on his cheek. But his dick only twitches when his red eyes catch the sight of you. You. You were across from them, in the same pose as Tomura was and in the same room but instead of Dabi behind you, it's a blondie with yellow eyes and a considerable size difference to you. He goddamn towers over you and with the way your eyes are squeezed shut he knows his dick is splitting you open just right. Another shadow lurks behind you and this time a guy with long black hair comes to your side, kneeling as he ties his hair into a bun and Tomura's tongue envies his when your eyes shoot open from his mouth. "You're distracted" Dabi gruffs, nibbling at Tomura's ear so he reaches to grab a fistful of Dabi's hair to let his eyes focus on you. His dick twitches inside of him. "Fuck" they moan.

They need you.

"Fuck, you're so fucking big," Taishiro chuckles at your whining which turns into a silent scream as Shota sucks your dick. Taishiro can feel Shota's fingers rubbing on whatever parts of his dick that still isn't sheathed inside of your writhing body. You've always known your body and soul were greedy creatures. A pair of hands weren't enough. You needed more love bites, more bruises; just more moremoremore — As Shota pushes the hood of your dick back to blow his hot breath on it your thighs twitch and Taishiro inches more of him inside of you. This is exactly what you need. These two were ever attentive — courteous despite the less-than-innocent club they were at. The cologne they had smelled expensive, and the watches they wore confirmed it.

You'd hit the jack-pot.

Taishiro and Shota were making you see stars with every flutter of your eyes. The sheer material of your top was now pushed up and bunched by Taishiro's fist as he used it to bring you back towards his hips. "Just like that, baby".

Shota whispers, voice deliciously gravely as he looks at you with his gunmetal grey eyes. It slips out of your moan before you can stop yourself.

"Dabi" Taishiro pauses as he thrusts in while Shota cocks a brow from below you.

"T-Tomura" your eyes are hazy, Shota recognizes it even if you try your hardest to ground back to them. Taishiro pulls out and your knees buckle. His large hands hold you up while Shota stands so you can lean on his chest, gently stroking your hair out of your face as you babble on his shirt.

"Why", you gulp as your thoughts finally slither between your ears. Peeking up at Shota you frown, then turn to look at Taishiro whose offering you a glass of cold water. "Why'd you stop?" Shota presses the rim of the glass to your lips and you petulantly gulp it down. Your legs were still shaky so Taishiro effortlessly picks you up so you could sit on the seats instead.

Between that and here, mortification runs down your spine like ice. You curse, hiding your face in your hands as you curl in on yourself.

"Fuck, I'm really — I'm really sorry, guys" Taishiro rubs your shoulder, his sunny smile making guilt swallow you whole. This was a guy that would actually take care of you. Not lead you on with false expectations or monopolize you.

"Don't sweat it," Shota says as he wipes his mouth with the napkins in the room. Look at him, so reliable. So...responsible. Those broad shoulders were more than just for show.

These two would've made every worry you had to fade off. Probably spoil you rotten — but you don't feel anything with them.

You craved sweltering heat, the taste of metal in your mouth and on your skin - calloused, inked, hands and red-rimmed eyes staring you down.

You craved for those assholes.

"Exes?" Taishiro asks as you huff and try to calm your racing heart. "No, I guess? I dunno!" He offers you a grimace and fixes the wrinkles on your shirt while Shota gives you another glass of cold water.

"I really am sorry" Taishiro assures you but the knock on the door makes all three of your heads turn. Shota wonders if either of you had ordered another bottle of champagne but the dubious looks in everyone's eyes make him stand to open the door — he was the only one still fully clothed after all.

"Can I help you?" You're squeezing into your pants when Tomura's voice echoes.

"(Y/N), is he here? Just need to...talk to him" Shota's grey eyes ask you a silent question but you nod and stand so he opens the door wider.

Dabi's leaning on the wall across the door. Moody, disgruntled and cock so hard the tent in his pants casts a shadow on the leather. His arms are crossed over his chest, his biceps on display.

Tomura's half-dressed. Their shirt falls off one shoulder as his low-waisted jeans unabashedly show the happy trail he has. His messy hair is somehow even messier, his red eyes hungry.

"...Hey, baby" you could almost cringe at Tomura's words. You offer Taishiro a kiss on his cheek along with Shota as a way to ease them and thank them for your failed rendezvous.

The act has Dabi and Tomura's brow twitch.

The door closes behind you, The three of you stand in the hallway — tense.

A guy stumbles on the three of you, the drunken giggles die as he eyes you before he bursts into another fit as he stumbles past. Embarrassment dust on your face and you sigh, scratching the back of your neck in irritation. "What the hell do you want?" Tomura replies; "Those two made you cum pretty fast, huh? Or did they even manage to?"

His eyes widen as you snarl in his face, looking equally as handsome as you were scary. "Ugh! Why do I even give you two the opportunity to try and be anything but a dick!" taken aback, Tomura blinks as you shove him back before turning on your heels to stomp away.

Dabi grips your wrist and your yell gets swallowed by his lips. Tomura watches as he wrestles you to the wall, cushioning the slam with his body as he grabs onto your wrists to keep them from smacking Dabi.

"You — Mphf! Motherfuckers!" you mumble between the kissing, breath hitching as Tomura's lips trace your neck. Your hips buck between theirs and since Dabi's are free he grips your waist and spreads your ankles apart to put his knee right between your legs. The friction it creates has your heart racing all over again.

"Tomura" you whisper, head tilted back to let his pierced tongue in your mouth. You squeeze your eyes closed, hoping to push away that whisper of floating off to pleasure so you could at least show them that you weren't easy.

But all that resolve disappears when Tomura's hands sneak to unbutton your pants and Dabi's unzipping them. Their inked hands working in tandem, like a well-oiled fuck machine intent on making you lose all your senses in the goddamn hallway of a gay club.

"Daddy's got ya'" Dabi groans as he feels your wetness drip on his fingers. "Ain't that right, Shiggy?" Tomura mumbles that Dabi's daddy kink is dumb but unbuttons your shirt next.

"Yeah, yeah, daddy's got you, baby" Tomura plays along anyways. You would scoff in his face at his denial that he was totally into the kink himself but he's tweaking your nipples between his fingers and you're feeling your eyes roll back as your back arches away from Tomura but into Dabi.

He's between feeling impressed and annoyed at how easy you take three of his fingers. You can see it in the way he licks his teeth —

"Taishiro...fuck, his dick is so big, Daddy". It makes Dabi's eyes shine brightly under the dim lights. He's staring at you from his furrowed brows and Tomura grumbles as his magenta eyes glow in jealousy.

No — not jealousy. Envy?

Not quite, you think (how you manage to do that surprises even yourself) but something more primal.

Dabi slips another finger in and you sigh, breath hitching as Tomura's pierced tongue trails spit down your neck.

"Left me gaping, Shota made me so fuckin' wet too — He's so fuckin' good with his tongue".

Dabi is quiet "Couldn't fit him all the way but Shota helped - Ah, oh fuck, Daddy" Tomura's cupping your chest in his hands and grinding his hard-on on your ass.

"They felt so good" you groan.

When Tomura clicks his tongue and switches you around to face him you finally put a word on the emotions in their eyes.

Possessiveness.

"Yeah? They felt good, baby?" Tomura is forcing your jaw open with his hand and Dabi is pulling your pants down. Drool is slipping past your smudged lips and Tomura thinks you look like some sort of modern art piece.

A modern day Achilles or something.

"They did such a good job making this cunt ready for us, Daddy," Dabi says to Tomura as he pulls out his cock, leaning down to grab your leg and lifting it to the side, and thrusts his hip forward which makes yours jerk forward.

Glistening cunt twitching and inviting.

"Both of us could fit no trouble," Your eyes widen at the very idea but before you could speak Dabi's filling you up and all you manage is a whorish yelp.

Tomura watches as Dabi unbuttons his pants, moaning out his name as he strokes his hard cock then adjusts his stance as Dabi lines up his dick to your sopping cunt.

"Rub his dick a little," Dabi chuckles but complies as he rubs Tomura's cockhead to your dick which makes you shudder.

When Tomura does slip in, tears prick your eyes. Dabi shushes you as you whine and try to move your hips away. He rubs your swollen dick while Tomura licks your tears away.

"Don't hold your breath" he grunts. "Breathe through it, yeah, that's it — S'fucking beautiful".

The pressure of them inside you has your thighs twitching.

Anyone could walk in on you. Could just see you taking their dicks like some sort of sex toy with diamond tears running down your cheeks just like the slick running between your thighs.

"Feel us here, (Y/N)?" Tomura asks as he presses on your navel but you're too gone to respond. Your eyes are blanketed with nothing but pleasure and sin leaking from them.

"Daddy" Dabi calls out, hips shifting. He's calling for Tomura, calling him daddy as he tells him to set the pace.

Footsteps briefly register in your head, and a few startled gasps come from the group of men that walked in. They speak, laugh, probably leer even but you're just angry that their cocks make you feel this fucking good.

Taishiro had made you feel good — his dick was huge.

Shota's tongue and fingers that worked you open for Taishiro had made you nearly rip his hair from his scalp.

But Dabi and Tomura?

"Fuck!" you moan as Dabi thrusts into you. He's talking to the group of men walking past, panting through his words but that asshole has the gall to act as if he wasn't fucking you within an inch of your life.

Why was that so hot?

As Tomura's dick slides in, Dabi's pulls out - a steady but harsh rhythm that has your cunt fluttering and your brain fogging even more.

The men walk past, laughing as they give you a last glance. Somehow, their thrusting gets harsher as Dabi lifts you off your feet while Tomura spits on your cunt and rubs circles on your dick.

"Cuh-Cummin'! M'cumming! I'm - Ah! Shit! Shitshitshit" Tomura muffles your cries by kissing you, sucking on your tongue while Dabi's thighs tense as he shoots thick ropes of cum inside of you. Tomura is not far behind, the patch of pubic hair flushed against you as he catches his breath.

They carried you from the hallway. Your ragged breathing was the only thing being shared safe from a few murmurs of 'you alright?' the few seconds after they came.

You're in their private room now, sweat making your clothes absolutely disgusting against your skin. Thankfully, Dabi's there to strip you and Tomura's naked body is between your legs just as he's done.

"Wha —" you throw your head back as Tomura's mouth is licking the globs of cum escaping your abused cunt, squealing as he teases your asshole with his tongue. "Daddy!' Tomura hums, barely paying attention as he makes sure to erase any trace of that Shota-whatever the fuck his name is - from his hole.

"Daddy!" Dabi answers this time, somehow always knowing who you're actually calling just from the way you whine so there's no confusion.

"He's makin' you feel good?"

"Too muchhh" You try to push Tomura's head away but Dabi shushes you and holds your wrist to pin them on his naked thigh and makes you grasp onto his pierced dick.

"Our good boy can take it — If his daddies say he can, he can, right?" You sob but merely squeeze your eyes as Tomura's tongue piercing teases your dick.

"Missed our baby so much" Tomura pants out, licking his lips as he stares at your winking hole.

"Mhm, never gonna let him go...he's all ours now". Your fiery (E/C) eyes look up at Dabi so sweetly as he speaks despite how your sinful hand is teasing his cockhead like a true professional.

"All yours? Promi — Fuccck" Dabi chuckles as Tomura meanly sucks on your dick but nods, leaning down to kiss you.

"Promise, baby." He reaches to interlace his fingers with Tomura with one hand while Tomura does the same with your empty hand.

"All ours baby".

The sensor going off tells you that you should get off of Dabi's lap and greet the customer but he tightens his grip which makes you roll your eyes.

"Shiggy!" he's in the break room but responds with a 'I got it!'

He peeks in the room as he passes by, shaking his head at the sight of your boyfriend, Dabi, sketching on his iPad with you in his lap. "He's making a tattoo design for us" you muse as you reach for your boyfriend, Tomura, to plant a kiss on his lips.

"He sucks at that — I can do it better" and although it is true, the evidence quite literally on Dabi's skin, Dabi scoffs haughtily.

"Shut the fuck up and see who walked in" Tomura does so but not without an eye-roll.

He greets the customers but freezes as his eyes land on their figures.

Taishiro and Shota's eyes widen as well.

"Oh," Taishiro says. The sound of giggles comes from the hallway and suddenly Dabi and you are spilling into the room as well.

Taishiro and Shota couldn't hide the way their eyes look you over as they drink you in. They couldn't forget about you — they could hear every moan and squelch from your impromptu fucking in the hallway right in front of the door of their room.

All five of you shuffle a bit, cheeks warm.

Dabi chuckles and everyone's eyes are on him.

"We could flip the Open sign to Close and get to know each other better" he purred and you squeeze your thighs together as all eyes land on you.

Oh fuck.

[adobe-outdesign]

Best toy neopets?

Toy is a newer colour, having been released in 2018 as the runner up of a "new colour" poll (so no UC/styled art to compare in this one). The original toy pet used in the poll, Lenny, seemed to be a good example of what to expect from the colour: plastic parts, bright colors, and maybe one or two minor changes to the anatomy where appropriate.

However, while some toy pets stick to the action-figure formula to varying degrees, some go off in completely different directions by being based on random specific real-world toys. On top of that, some of those pets are based on very specific brands (the iDog, Furbies, etc.) while some are just based on generic classic toy concepts.

This can also lead to problems regarding overlap with other colours; the toy Kougra, Lupe, and Bruce are all effectively just plushie Neopets, albeit in a very different style than the standard plushie colour.

I point this out because I feel like either a colour should be 100% coherent across all species, or it should vary wildly by species. Toy straddles this weird middle ground of being part licensed toys, part generic toys, and part action-figure toys where it simultaneously has coherency and no coherency at all. I feel like the best toy pets are the ones where they stick to the plastic-y look but manage to put a fun species-specific twist on it.

Favorite Species:

Mynci: Speaking of which, the toy Mynci is basically perfect in this respect; it keeps the hard jointed plastic look while also being based off the classic cymbal-playing monkey toy, which fits the 'pet for obvious reasons. The colors also look quite nice, and as an added bonus, the clothes are removable (though I do wish the base removed the out-of-place head hairs).

Gnorbu: This one falls into the "generic IRL toy" category, and while it's not the most coherent thing in terms of the overall colour (I'm hesitant to even think of a piñata as a toy), it's such a fun concept and it looks great. There's a lot of colors used but they're all balanced well, the concept reads super clearly, and the subtle inegration of thigns like the mane are just perfect. My sole nitpick is just that the black outlines on the eye look out of place, and something flatter to match the papier-mâché look would've been nice.

Jetsam: Based off a pool toy, this one kind of plays with the action-figure concept by keeping the plastic idea but not being hard plastic or jointed. It's perfect for a water-based Neopet, and the inflatable plastic is spot-on visually, complete with seams. Only issue with it is the weird handle on the side, which might be a thing with shark pool toys but isn't something I've ever seen in-person.

BONUS: The toy Bori takes a similar route to the Mynci, keeping the hard plastic idea but putting a twist on it by making the back plates into an xylophone, which is a fantastic concept. The multi-colored plates really draw attention to the concept and the rest the palette is a simple yellow with a few blue accents.

The only issue with it, and the reason it's a bonus, is that weird bone in its mouth. According to Jellyneo, it's based off a [checks notes] Toddlerz Toddlin' Tunes Puppy, which is just weird because Bori aren't dogs or even dog-adjacent. What was wrong with just making it a regular non-branded xylophone?

Least Favorite Species:

Koi: I absolutely love the idea of this being a bathtub wind-up toy; however, the problem is that the key, which should be the focal point, is so tiny and hard to see that I only noticed while doing this review that it's even there. Even putting that aside, there's way too many colors going on here, and the addition of stripes over the body is strange and does nothing but clutter the design. It's also strange that the back fin is a solid color and one piece while the tail is lobed and multi-colored; feels like those two should match.

[heliads]

Your other Strollonso fic was AWESOME so can I request a Strollonso mafia!AU maybe? Like maybe it’s an arranged marriage so mob boss Nando can keep his alliance with Larry Stroll and they’re super awkward around each other at first but get closer and then Lance gets kidnapped and hurt by a rival and Nando just flips his shit and tears apart the city to find him and they have a really nice lil kiss once Lance is safe and ok? Thanks so much 💕💕

'not just one of your many toys' - fernando x lance

masterlist

It is Fernando Alonso’s own wedding day, and he’s already half an hour late. It’s not a good look, certainly, but no one in their right minds would ever say that the head of the Spanish mob has ever been good, so, according to Fernando, this just fits right in with the rest of his grim reputation. It’s all about appearances, isn’t it?

Today, though, it’s not beyond Fernando to admit that he should have done better. Today matters. Fernando is not stupid enough to have actually fallen in love with someone, so he doesn’t have to worry about disappointing a heartsick fiancée. Besides, if he wanted someone like that, he would have managed to twist his way inside their mind enough that they would forgive him for this tardiness the second he asked.

No, today isn’t a matter of love. Rumor has it that the Spanish mob had their hearts cut out in an expensive procedure when they turned eighteen, and although that’s an obvious fabrication since they’re all still bleeding rich red, it’s true enough by emotional standards. If you love, you die. Fernando Alonso does not accept weakness. If he ever fell in love, he would kill the object of his desires first so they could never drag him down again.

This, then, is yet another business transaction. Fernando has been courting the Stroll family for years now, eyeing their billions ever since they made their first killing, but now, he’s finally managed to force his way in. A young man is waiting on an altar somewhere across the city; Lawrence Stroll’s only son, Lance. Fernando and Lawrence cut this deal a month ago, and it took far too many pulled strings for Fernando to fuck it up like this now. If he were smart, he would have been there early.

Instead, his knife is halfway inside another man’s chest cavity, and Fernando is no closer to wrapping this up than he had been fifteen minutes ago when he realized he was late in the first place. He can’t afford to rush this, though. Traitors never flourish in the mob, least of all with Fernando’s men. Fernando has a reputation to uphold, his marital status be damned. If he doesn’t make this guy a prime example of what happens when you cross Fernando Alonso, his whole business will be riddled with holes until it all comes crashing down.

Still, Fernando can’t afford to piss off the Strolls more than he has already. Jerking his knife out of a partially deflated lung with a hiss of annoyance, Fernando turns to his second in command, Carlos Sainz. The younger, that is. The father is somewhere getting rich off of his son’s bloodlust, as all dutiful parents should be. “You’ll have to carry on with the rest. I was needed thirty minutes ago.”

Carlos swears under his breath. “Shit, I forgot about the wedding. I can make Alguersuari take over if you want me there. It can’t hurt to have backup, I don’t trust the fucking Canadians not to pull some shit.”

Fernando shakes his head. “Stay, I need a guarantee this is handled properly. Besides, I’ll have others there. This isn’t the day that I die.”

Carlos doesn’t look convinced. “You’re going into their stronghold. All of their guys will be there.”

Fernando chuckles. “It’s not a death trap, Carlos, it’s a church. Even Lawrence isn’t bloodthirsty enough to off me en una iglesia.”

Carlos makes a snorting sound that lets Fernando know just what he thinks of that, but one sharp look from Fernando silences the last of his objections. Carlos is a good kid, and Fernando trusts him the most out of anyone here, but in the end, it’s Fernando’s show, and he’s got to make sure none of his men are bashing his soon-to-be husband’s father any more than absolutely necessary.

Fernando cleans off his hands with a rag, grimacing at the spots of purple and green already starting to flower over his knuckles. Bruises on his hands don’t exactly add to the wedding atmosphere, but everyone there already knows what he’s capable of, so this should be no surprise. He exits the building and directs his driver to the church. They get there as fast as they can, but, judging by the stony expression on Lawrence Stroll when Fernando arrives at last, it wasn’t fast enough. He’s only thirty-five minutes late, though. By all accounts, it’s not even that bad.

Lawrence takes him by the arm, leading him casually yet forcefully to one of the small rooms in the back of the church used for the wedding party to prepare themselves before the big event.

“Where have you been?” Lawrence glowers the second the door closes.

“Traffic,” Fernando muses. “It’s terrible in these parts.”

Lawrence arches a silver brow. “You have blood on your cuffs.”

Fernando glances down at his sleeves and fights a wince. It’s only a few drops, but the copper stains still manage to stand out against the fine material. “Really bad traffic. Tourists should have their licenses revoked if they go more than ten below the limit.”

Lawrence doesn’t seem to be in the mood for jokes, which is good, because neither is Fernando. None of them like this deal, but they have no better options, so here they are. “Do not forget what rests upon this agreement,” Lawrence intones. “This is not some pretty spring wedding. I must admit, I was relieved when I signed my son over to you because I thought you of all people would understand everything that depends on this. And then you showed up late.”

Fernando tilts his head to the side slightly. “I know exactly what this means. I signed the contract. Let me be the first to assure you that I have no second thoughts. I was merely handling business.”

The air in the prep room is damn near icy. Lawrence is good at the scary act, but Fernando has been inspiring fear in the hearts of better mob men for decades now, and he isn’t the type to back down. Fernando may have coveted the Stroll money, but Lawrence wanted something too, or he never would have agreed to this in the first place. Fernando has had a long and bloody climb to the top of the Spanish mob, and Lawrence wants the notoriety and security of being forever associated with that kind of success. What tie could be better than a marriage? Lawrence had already married off his daughter to a lesser gun of the Bulls, but, well, there was always the other heir.

The legalization of gay marriage did a lot for mob patriarchs. One piece of paper, one actual legal thing about their whole enterprise, could genuinely complete an union between two families. Now, when searching for tenuous threads on which to conduct alliances, wealthy fathers with bloody hands wouldn’t just have to pray for daughters, they could also marry off their useless sons. 

Fernando knows for a fact that there’s been talk of Charles Leclerc from the Chevaux Rouges getting married off to one of the other dime-a-dozen Frenchmen. Pierre Gasly’s father has been pushing that agenda since both young men were boys, but Fernando also knows the way that one of his own best men, Carlos, has been eyeing the Monegasque, so maybe the deal wasn’t yet set in stone after all. Fernando should get after Carlos for that. Pretty boys aren’t worth toppling alliances. He’ll get himself in trouble faster than a sports car can accelerate. 

After all, this was supposed to be about politics, not actual affection. Fernando is the perfect example of this. He could count the times he’s seen Lance Stroll on one hand. The boy lingers in the back of his father’s meetings, pulling exaggerated faces when he’s certain nobody can see him, but Fernando isn’t even sure he’s actually talked to him more than forced interactions conducted in an effort to make it seem like Fernando is a team player. Then again, he doesn’t actually have to enjoy Lance’s company. He just needs his hand in marriage.

One of Lawrence’s men hurries into the room, holding his phone aloft. “A body was just discovered across town. Strung up by the church spire.”

Lawrence eyes Fernando coolly. “Traffic?”

Fernando just sinks his teeth into a matching icy grin. “Traffic,” he agrees.

Lawrence reaches forward, taking hold of Fernando’s hands like he’s praying the rosary. “Do not put any further stains upon my family,” he intones. “Waste the money I give you, fine. Kill your enemies on my own dime. But do not misuse my son. And do not keep him waiting any longer.”

Lawrence squeezes abruptly, causing the rapidly forming bruises on Fernando’s knuckles to twinge with fresh pain, then pulls away. Fernando follows him into the sanctuary of the church. Men in varying shades of black suits watch him like hawks from both sides of the aisle, women most of them probably don’t know lingering on their arms. At the front, Lance’s best man eyes Fernando with particular hatred, but Esteban Ocon has despised Fernando ever since a certain deal went south last year, so Fernando doesn’t pay him much attention. It’s very easy to ignore the Frenchman, which makes Esteban even more irate.

Fernando studies his fiancé. He’s not even certain that Lance was in the room when Lawrence and Fernando agreed on the marriage union, but it’s not like it would have mattered anyway. Lawrence makes the decisions for the Strolls. In a way, Fernando feels like he’s been courting the Stroll patriarch more than his son, but it’s all in the interest of a pawn to move around. Both Lawrence and Fernando can agree on that, apparently.

Lance considers Fernando with vague interest, eyeing him up and down with a lifted brow. He’s not bad to look at, all things considered. He supposes it could have been worse; for a while, that Russian upstart, Mazepin, was thought to be someone to coerce into a marriage, but then his family was revealed to be a bunch of rats and were subsequently driven out of the business. Fernando feels he dodged a bullet there.

The ceremony is conducted without much difficulty. Lawrence insisted on an extravagant reception so they can at least pretend this is a wedding and not just a job reassignment, and Fernando has been dreading this part all day. Carlos turns up an hour into the reception, matching bruises dotting his knuckles. Fernando tells him to enjoy himself as a reward for his good work, but not to have too much fun. Drunkenness and debauchery on a night like this would condemn Fernando even more than showing up late to his own wedding.

Fernando completes circuit after circuit of the event hall, shaking hands with Stroll associates and hearing congratulations from his associates. Many mob men are here as a sign of respect; Esteban brought Pierre as well, so the French are adequately represented, plus young Mick from the Germans. 

Nico Rosberg usually turns up to these sorts of things, so Fernando is sort of surprised that he didn’t show, but then he notices Lewis Hamilton talking with his fellow Silver Arrow George Russell by the bar and the pieces click together again. Now that had been a split to remember. Lewis and Nico had run things together since they were kids, but when Lewis switched sides overnight, Nico had been left without a right hand man when he was about to consider a major deal. It was a stab in the back from the one person Rosberg had thought was his most loyal ally. All of the informants had been simmering for ages afterwards. Talk about a scandal.

After greeting both Arrows, Fernando has to steer Carlos away from the Chevaux Rouges again– he’ll have to have a conversation with the younger man about that later, it does no good to make it so easy to tell what you want– and spoken to Charles Leclerc once he was alone again. Lawrence Stroll has been satisfied by the turnout, so he’s actually in a good mood when he and Fernando talk lightly about business later on.

By the end of the reception, Fernando has managed to have a conversation with everyone but his new husband. When the lights are turned off at the end, they’re both in the same car heading to Fernando’s mansion, but Fernando has to take another half dozen quick calls from regretful allies who were otherwise occupied tonight, so they don’t say a word until they arrive at the door.

Fernando lets them in, muttering something under his breath about needing to get Lance a set of keys. He gives Lance a rough tour of the estate, essentially just enough to know where to sleep, work, and take meals, but when he’s done talking, Lance still stands there expectantly in front of the door to Fernando’s office.

At first, Fernando hardly even notices that he remains. He would have assumed the younger man would want to go to bed. It’s late, and although Fernando still has plenty of work to be done, Lance is likely used to a life of comfort, so he’d want to catch up on sleep. It isn’t until he starts grabbing files from a cabinet at the far side of the room that Lance coughs pointedly.

Fernando glances up as he stacks papers on his desk. Now that he’s got access to Lance’s funds, he’ll need to go over potential expenditures for the coming months. There are a couple of business ventures he’s been waiting to accelerate until this windfall, but now he can race towards whatever he pleases. So long as it turns a good profit, of course.

“Do you need something? There should be servants down the hall if you require anything.” He says, glancing back down at the files in his hands.

Lance shakes his head. “No, I was waiting for you.”

Fernando frowns. “Whatever for?”

It’s strange to see someone so high up in the mob who still hasn’t yet learned the value of a good poker face. Fernando can actually see the incredulity appear in Lance’s eyes and spread to his dropped-jaw stare. “It’s our wedding night, Fernando.”

“I am aware,” Fernando says. “I was there at the wedding.”

Lance scoffs. “Yes, but– come on, man, do I have to say it?”

Fernando looks Lance dead in the eyes for what might be the first night all evening. “You don’t have to say anything, Lance. I’m not oblivious, even if you seem to be. This is not a normal marriage. We are wed in name and fortune but nothing else. If your bed is cold, turn up the heat or imagine someone else is there. I have work to do.”

Lance’s brow furrows with indignation, but when he speaks again, his words are tight and controlled. So he can manage his anger, at least. That’s a start. “I see. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight,” Fernando says, just barely managing to keep his mouth from twitching into a disbelieving smile when he says it. Are they children? Should he offer Lance a nightlight? Wishing him goodnight. Please. Fernando is a professional killer. They do not tell each other soft goodbyes when they wipe out entire bloodlines.

Fernando has no idea what his husband ends up doing, but he stays up late to sift through more ledgers. The second his mind begins to cloud from exhaustion, he goes straight to bed, and wakes respectably early into the morning. He works out with the same base routine he’s used since he first entered the business, of course adding a few repetitions or new drills here and there where he can sense the weakness in his muscles. 

By the time he’s showered, dressed, and entered the kitchen for some coffee and breakfast, Lance has just begun to stumble downstairs, hair flattened by his pillow and half sticking up. He’s still in his pajamas, which consist of sweats and a shirt for some tennis player Fernando doesn’t recognize.

Fernando arches a brow at him. “Sleep well?”

“Wonderfully,” Lance grumbles, the syllables turning into a yawn halfway through.

Again, Fernando feels the need to swallow a laugh. He doesn’t think anyone’s spoken to him without an undercurrent of fear in a very long time, yet here Lance Stroll is, oversleeping and walking around his mansion in leisure wear. Technically, it is Lance’s mansion as well now, but still. Fernando doesn’t even think his sister dared to wear anything other than business casual when she visited.

Fernando does need Lance to feel valued, though. The last thing he needs is Lance complaining to his father that Fernando keeps judging him or something, then this whole thing could go up in flames. Fernando can be a dutiful husband even if it kills him.

“Would you like something to eat?” Fernando asks politely. “We have fruit, eggs, anything. Our chef can make it.”

“A bagel, maybe?” Lance says, yawning again.

Fernando nods. “I’ll ask the chef to prepare some.”

Although Fernando does his best to keep his true emotions in check, Lance, apparently, is beyond the same need to not laugh at his spouse. “Dude, it’s a bagel. One ingredient. Surely you don’t need the chef.”

Fernando scowls. “I just wanted to ask him what types we had in stock. I am aware that bagels are a simple food to serve.”

Lance chuckles again. “You’re telling me the head of the Spanish mob knows every one of his enemies but not every one of his bagels? Terrible priorities, man.”

Fernando is starting to realize that marriage might be difficult. See, if Lance could just be properly nervous around him like every other son of a mob boss Fernando has met, they wouldn’t have to have this terrible interaction, but no, Lance seems immune to everything. Delightful.

He extends a hand towards the extensive pantry. “Feel free to check by yourself. I’m sure it’s incredibly important for the sons of mob bosses to be able to verify their own information. Even on bagels.”

Lance grins sarcastically. “Technically, I’m not just the son of a mob boss, but the husband of one, too. If you’re going to mock me like everyone else, at least do it well.”

Fernando frowns. “I’m not trying to mock you.”

Lance spares a disbelieving glance towards Fernando, then turns back to his search for breakfast. “Really? Is that why this is the longest you’ve ever spoken to me since you realized you could get my dad’s money by marriage?”

Fernando can’t entirely argue with that, so he doesn’t. “You don’t have to hate me, Lance.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Lance says cheerfully. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. Seeing as we’re going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future, I would advise you to do the same. And in case you were curious, you have both plain bagels and cinnamon raisin.”

With that, Lance breezes back out of the kitchen, carbohydrate prize secured. Seconds later, Carlos files into the kitchen, glancing curiously back in the direction Lance had gone. “Sorry to bother you, I just had the information on Verstappen that you wanted. What the hell happened there? And since when have you had bagels in the house?”

“No idea,” Fernando says tiredly. It answers both questions well enough.

Lance Stroll proves himself to be more and more of an enigma as the days go by. He joins Fernando for meals only when Fernando asks, but then he seems disappointed that they don’t do anything else together. He zones out when Fernando talks business, then always gets annoyed when Fernando so much as alludes to the conditions leading to their marriage. Fernando can’t decide if Lance is actually happy with the arrangement– or, as Fernando is beginning to suspect, if he had any say in the matter at all. Strange for the heir to the Stroll legacy to have grown up with so little sway over his father’s business. It is as if Lawrence expected to live forever, so he never bothered teaching Lance the ropes.

Fernando tries to make it work. A little. Not enough. He’s busy, that’s all, he doesn’t have time to babysit a husband who seems compelled to fuck with him on each and every turn. It’s like Lance gets joy from being a nuisance. And yeah, sometimes when Lance’s attitude is directed towards Carlos or anyone who isn’t Fernando, it is pretty funny, but Fernando has not made a career of getting laughed at and he doesn’t intend to start now. 

Once, Lance insists that his room is far too cold to be slept in, so he’ll just have to sleep in Fernando’s room instead. Fernando personally walks into Lance’s room to check it out himself, but it’s actually freezing in there despite adjusting the thermostat, and Lance refuses any other solution, so they spend a silent night on polar opposite sides of Fernando’s bed. The next day, Fernando is informed by the staff that a wrench was discovered in the heater that led to Lance’s room, jammed perfectly so that the temperature could not be changed. Neither of them mention it again, and Lance goes back to sleeping in his own room.

Carlos asked him once why he puts up with it– Lance’s teasing, his sarcasm, everything– but it’s not like he has any choice. If Fernando truly gets desperate, he goes to the printouts of his bank account and just stares at the numbers. Solace can be found in deposits of numbers followed by many, many zeroes.

Over time, the good moments start to crop up like a five o’clock shadow. Fernando takes Lance on a drive to visit some allies and they drive through glorious countryside in a sports car more expensive than any of the land as far as the eye can see. They play a couple of rounds of tennis in a court on Fernando’s estate. Lance’s sister visits and everyone’s in a good mood.

Somehow, though, something always happens to sour each and every small win. Lance squirms in the passenger seat of the car Fernando bought with his father’s money and picks a fight about missing Sebastian, who was the second best marriage candidate until Fernando put his name in the ring. When they’re out on the courts, Fernando asks why Lance seems far more passionate about tennis than business; Lance doesn’t realize it’s a joke and asks how long until Fernando gives up on him, just like Lawrence. Fernando is walking through his mansion late at night when he overhears Lance talking to Chloe in hushed voices about what she did to make Scotty like her, as if Lance needs coaching to even handle Fernando at all.

They fight and they make tentative peace. The ground gets shakier before it solidifies. Eventually, they manage to keep a respectable truce that varies throughout the week. They drink together, they talk together. Lance keeps lingering at the door of his room in a way that makes Fernando want to do something he regrets, but he never commits. Somehow, he knows that even one mistake is all it will take to destroy him forever.

Fernando is in between conference calls one day when Lance pops into his office. “I’m going to be back late tonight,” he announces. “Meeting Esteban.”

Fernando nods. “Want me to drive?”

“You’re in meetings,” Lance points out.

Fernando shrugs. “I can skip them.”

This makes Lance grin triumphantly, like he’s somehow proved himself far more valuable than even Fernando’s beloved ledgers and printouts. “That’s so unlike you, I’m charmed. I’ll be fine, we’re just grabbing drinks. See you later.”

Fernando lifts a hand in farewell when Lance does the same, and watches the man disappear back down the hall. Although it seems strange to say, Fernando swears the mansion seems emptier that evening. It’s just one person gone, he reminds himself, and besides, he and Lance don’t see each other all that often anyway. Too busy. Still, Fernando feels like his steps echo up and down the hallways in a way that they haven’t in a long time. Since before the wedding, perhaps. Since before he got used to having someone else around.

Fernando hadn’t intended to wait up for Lance, but he’d also assumed that the man would be back before too long. A few hours past midnight, Lance still hasn’t returned, but this probably doesn't mean anything. Maybe Lance is on a hell of a bender and he’ll find his way downstairs the next morning in even more disarray than usual. The thought makes Fernando smile.

Fernando wakes up the next day and decides to check that Lance had actually made it back, just in case. A bit of paranoia, but that’s how he’s made it this far, hasn’t he? Fernando drifts by Lance’s room, but the door is wide open, revealing– an empty bed, the sheets untouched. Wasn’t even slept in. Ignoring the skip in his heart rate, Fernando pokes his head inside, but he doesn’t see any evidence that Lance had been there.

Maybe he was drunk and passed out downstairs. Fernando can’t pretend like he hasn’t pulled that move before. However, after conducting an extensive sweep of the mansion, Fernando still can’t locate Lance. The questioning text sent to Lance’s phone goes unanswered. Fernando gives it five minutes before giving into his panic and calling him. Three times, it goes unanswered. By the final ring, Fernando is genuinely starting to panic.

Esteban does not sound happy to have Fernando calling him, even though it’s not even that early in the morning, all things considered. “What do you want?”

“Where’s Lance?” Fernando asks, abandoning all pretense.

Esteban sounds confused. “What do you mean?”

Fernando wants to throttle him. “He was out with you last night and he hasn’t come back. Is he with you or not?”

There’s a pause over the line, and when Esteban speaks again, his words are very deliberate. “What are you talking about? Lance was never with me.”

Fernando feels his heart drop. “That makes no sense. Lance told me he was meeting up with you for drinks. Did he never show up?”

“No,” Esteban says, and finally he sounds just as nervous as Fernando feels, “I never texted him at all. It must have been someone else impersonating me.”

Fernando swears. “Who? The Strolls have plenty of enemies, but who would go to the trouble of luring him out of my estate just to take him?”

Esteban is silent for a while, and then he speaks again in a rush of static. “Do you remember the BWT incident?”

Fernando lets out a low breath. “Of course I do. It’s half the reason I considered the Strolls in the first place.”

BWT was a sizable mob family of their own back in the day. Although they’d never been at the forefront like the Spanish, the Chevaux Rouges, or, hell, even the Bulls, they’d been there, and that’s more than most wannabes can say. Then Lawrence Stroll had gone and fucking bought them out. It’s unthinkable. Imagine having the money to purchase an entire black market ring. The Strolls were on the up-and-up, but after that, they solidified their place among the elite. That’s when Fernando had started looking at them in earnest.

“Nice one,” Esteban harrumphes. “Way to appreciate Lance.”

“I do,” Fernando insists, which feels strange. He’s never bothered to defend himself against Esteban’s feckless complaints, but he has the overwhelming need to exonerate himself from this one.

Esteban sighs. “I know Otmar Szafnauer signed the deal to give the Strolls control over BWT, but his right hand man, Sergio Pérez, was furious about it. He never forgave Otmar, and he’s had it out for Lawrence ever since. Everyone else in this goddamn city wouldn’t pick a fight with Lance, especially not so recently after they were all at the wedding, but Pérez wouldn’t care about something like that.”

“He’s probably been biding his time for a while now,” Fernando realizes. “Waiting until he could get back at Lawrence. This was his chance.” He stands up, signaling to one of his servants to rally his men. “Where is he? I need an address.”

Esteban tells him the location of his estate after some searching then hangs up, but not before reminding Fernando to get Lance as soon as possible, a sentiment that Fernando has no problem following. Carlos shows up just in time, the best killers under their employ with them. He starts to ask Fernando what the plan is, but Fernando silences him with a single glance. There is no plan. Fernando’s only want is to get Lance then burn the whole damn place to the ground.

Fernando Alonso is no stranger to killing. This is not the first time he’s gone after a rival. Still, he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted it like this in a very long while. Every bullet in the head of one of Pérez’s guards is one closer to getting Lance back. From the moment Fernando’s cars show up at Pérez’s property, he hopes the man is terrified.

They break down the gate, smash through the double doors, and everything goes to hell. The constant ricochet of bullets is like a drumbeat in Fernando’s ears. He is methodical, tactical, going from room to room. There will be no survivors. Blood starts to coat his shoes, his clothes, but Fernando does not care. 

He’s hardly aware of what he’s doing at all until he breaks into a locked room somewhere in the basement and he finds a figure tied to a chair.

Lance.

The guards don’t stand a chance; they fall before they even get a chance to fire their guns. Fernando races to Lance’s side, undoing the bonds. Lines of dried blood arc across Lance’s face, his arms, and Fernando feels a bout of rage descend upon him, even stronger than when he first found out that Lance had been kidnapped.

“I’ll kill him,” Fernando pledges, “I’ll kill him, and I’ll make it long. He’ll be begging for mercy at the end, but I won’t give it to him. Not when he did this to you.”

Lance reaches up a trembling hand. Fernando catches it at once, pressing it between his two palms. “Fernando?” He asks uncertainly.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s me. You’re alright, Lance. I’m so sorry.”

Lance shakes his head. “Not your fault. I should have seen through it.”

“No,” Fernando insists. “He tricked all of us. I’ll put a bullet in his mouth to stop his lies.”

Lance stands up slowly, unevenly. Fernando catches him, helping him to the door. “I just want to go home,” Lance tells him. “You got your revenge. Let’s just go.”

“Okay,” Fernando says. “Let’s go home.”

On the way out, he passes Carlos, who tells him in terse Spanish that they have Pérez waiting for him. Usually, Fernando would insist on handling the matter himself, but Lance looks up at him and Fernando knows he can’t put this off any longer. He tells Carlos to handle it quickly, then leaves without waiting for an answer.

They get into a car together, Fernando driving and Lance in the passenger seat. The low light from occasional street lights shines on Lance’s face, reflecting the dim planes of his countenance.

Lance catches him looking and smiles softly. “I’m alright, Fernando.”

Fernando still isn’t entirely convinced. “I’ll get a doctor to look at you. I wouldn’t put anything past that coward. And I’ll get more guards on the estate, just in case. Around the clock.”

Lance scoffs. “We don’t need that. He’ll never touch us again. And besides, I know you’ll handle him if he does.”

Fernando is well used to being a source of fear, a reason not to attack. Hearing Lance’s sincere trust in him, though, even after being kidnapped, makes his frantic nerves finally start to settle. “Why would you have such faith in me?” He asks quietly as he parks the car in his garage, sitting in the stillness of the car now that the engine is off.

Lance actually smiles. “Let me prove it to you,” he says, and leans forward to kiss Fernando.

It explains a lot.

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[seecarrun]

There’s a lot of commentary going on out there about men and boys and masculinity and acceptance, etc etc, and I’m not an expert is any of that, but one thing I do have insight in, as a kindergarten teacher and mom to a toddler boy is that that we NEED to be better about how we are raising our boys.

By the time the kids get to me in kindergarten, usually aged five, sometimes 6, the different behavior in boys and girls is immense. It’s not 100% every student obviously, but more often than not, a majority of my girls have no problem listening, following directions, respecting their peers, using their words, and striving to do well.

The boys? Not so much. The majority of my boy students come in and talk over everyone, don’t follow directions, choose to fight or yell or tattle immediately if there is any conflict, they are the ones breaking down into tears if they don’t get called on, and throwing tantrums if we do an activity they don’t want to do.

These kids are FIVE. What is happening in these five years that are causing this??

Well, I have a two year old now. “Boys will be boys” is rampant when it comes to parents.

Billy broke a vase? Boys will be boys.

Billy isn’t listening to the story? Boys will be boys.

Billy is throwing a fit because he got in trouble? Boys will be boys.

Billy is yelling and running screaming through the house? Boys will be boys.

It goes on and on. And that is IF! IF parents are taking their boys to play dates or classes or play grounds or daycares and introducing them to other kids. My son is in the most amazing little music class where they sing and play instruments and dance, and his class is overwhelmingly little girls. Every single time.

We need to give boys more credit. They are capable of being kind and caring and emotionally intelligent. They can be soft and sweet and love butterflies and flowers and dancing. They can listen and clean up their toys and be flexible and sensitive, AND they can play in the dirt and love trucks and think farts are hilarious. Little boys can be held to the same standards as little girls, and still be little boys. The two are NOT mutually exclusive.

Treat little boys like they can be great, and maybe, juuust maybe, they’ll start rising to the expectation.

[gaysheep]

Touching is Good: A Retrospective

My trusty Nintendo 3DS, which has held out since I was gifted it for my 15th birthday, has turned one decade old with my 25th birthday this past November. Given new life with custom firmware and nds-bootstrap via TWiLightMenu, the 3DS is stellar for visiting any past handheld title or console title up to (and somewhat including) the N64. (Quick plug for the CFW/hacking community for the less popular PS Vita, too, which has accomplished some pretty crazy-cool stuff this last year.) I use my 3DS more often than I use my Nintendo Switch most weeks.

The Nintendo DS (minus the three) launched in late 2004. The second display and stylus support were novel tools for developers to experiment with, and the NDS is best remembered for its robust catalogue of RPGs and visual novels. Where it lacked in power, narrative-focused games flourished under its technical limitations.

That being said, while browsing the ROM archives on Vimm's Lair to pick up some titles, I was reminded of what an interesting era the mid-to-late 2000s were for games. While Sony and Microsoft were fighting over the "core gamer" demographic, who had outgrown Nintendo mascots, Nintendo led a series of wildly successful marketing campaigns for its hardware after the light failure of the Gamecube, where the Nintendo DS and then the Wii were targeted at...everyone else.

[Image source. Image description in alt text.]

If you look at ads for the DS and the Wii, you'll see that adults are featured much more prominently than children, especially women and seniors. (This did not go unnoticed, as I found this ancient relic of misogyny while looking for images for this post.) A Nintendo handheld was already an easy sell to parents with small children (though I think it's also notable that ads which do focus on children often prominently feature girls. Munchlax is pretty hot...), but Nintendo's angle for the DS and Wii was that their hardware wasn't just for children. The Wii was a way to get up off the couch and to play board games with grandma. The DS was a great gadget for a working woman to keep in her pocketbook.

This worked. The Wii and DS were two of the best-selling consoles of all time. In particular, the DS's marketing campaign only worked because it came out in the perfect window of time. PDA-phone hybrids had been around since the 90s, and the Blackberry had been kicking around for a few years, but the iPhone wouldn't be introduced until 2007, and the 4G LTE standard wouldn't be released until 2009. While the Blackberry was popular with businesspeople and the PDA was out of style, smartphones were luxury toys for several years; they wouldn't become near-ubiquious until the mid-2010s. I didn't get my own smartphone until probably around the same time I got my 3DS, a full handheld generation later.

Browsing the software library for the Nintendo DS and DSi with that in mind is really interesting. Many titles released for the platform serve the same purposes that would be fulfilled by simple smartphone apps less than a decade later: planners and diaries, fitness trackers, calculators, language learning and SAT prep software, even a guide to the then-most-recent version of the driver's test in the UK. These proliferated with the release of the DSi's virtual store, but they existed even with the base model. You could go to a brick-and-mortar store and buy them on physical cartridges. (You might be wondering, "Why would you bother carrying those around over just buying a Blackberry?" You can't underestimate how expensive the service bills for a smartphone were before companies realized they were the most powerful spyware tool in history.)

There was never a time where every single businesswoman in New York carried a DS Lite, but adults did buy and use them, and a not insignificant portion of the DS's software library is aimed at a casual adult audience. Another niche covered mostly by smartphone games these days—games designed to be picked up and played in short sessions on-the-go, in places like waiting rooms and subway commutes.

Nintendo made crazy bank in the seventh console generation. Publications of the time talked about a console war between Sony, Microsoft, and Nintendo, but the real battle was between the PS3 and the Xbox 360 over the gamer demographic. Nintendo was producing hardware for a niche who would quietly disappear once smartphone sales began ballooning by hundreds of millions per year over the course of the early 2010s.

After the failure of the Wii U, Nintendo's marketing strategy pivoted again, though I doubt they'll ever completely abandon their family-friendly image. Currently beat out only by the PS2 and the DS, the Nintendo Switch may very well climb to a status as the best-selling console of all time before the end of its lifespan, but the "gamer" demographic is much bigger than it was two decades ago at the dawn of the DS. As more and more devices become consolidated into the Swiss army knife the smartphone has become, consoles can only carve out a role as dedicated gaming machines.

I'm not sure we'll ever see anything like the Nintendo DS or the Wii again. I think they're worth looking back on for their uniqueness in that way as much as they are for the more celebrated parts of their libraries.

[dangermousie]

Do you like triumph of evil in your kdramas? A small rec list for the pessimist in you

If, like me, you got into kdramas way back when or like older kdramas, tragic endings are not a particular surprise - endings where one or both members of the OTP die were pretty common and even unsettling endings that remind you of the world being rather unjust (Bad Guys) also happen.

But I am talking about something more than that - an ending that really socks it to you, by making you feel the villains won, it was all in vain. I confess when well-done, I love the bleakness of that type of ending. So here are my five favorites for this sort of thing:

Hong Gil Dong (2008)

This story of a rebel fighting to overthrow the mad tyrant and bring justice to the people has the most thoroughly bad ending on the list. Who dies? EVERYONE EXCEPT THE BAD GUYS! I don't mean the OTP, I don't mean your fave secondaries, I mean everyone. The sheer realistic bleakness of the ending is breath-taking. Gil Dong, his OTP Yi Nok and the rest of the rebels are murdered by the forces of the king they put on the throne. The last shot of the story proper is them standing watching a shower of arrows coming towards them, staring at their death. The only survivors are the King and the secondary girl and both are monsters. The king is the man they put on the throne with so much effort but who cannot allow them to live because what they want is not to replace a bad absolute ruler with a different one (that he may have coped with) but to replace the system itself - to hold the king accountable, and he cannot have that. In the end, a mad tyrant has been replaced with a sane tyrant and the class system and the injustices of that society that wrecked Hil Dong, Yi Nok and the rest continue unabated. And secondary girl betrays Gil Dong because - for all her sort of crush - she never truly saw him as human, just a fancy peasant toy that should be thrown away and punished for not behaving as he ought. In the end, the good guys, the heroes, who fought so hard are killed and it's not easy acceptance for them either (there is a scene where Gil Dong, knowing they are all dead once spring comes, admits to Yi Nok how terrified of death he is that has haunted me for a decade plus) and the monsters continue on happily. Sure, the people recite stories and new fighters will rise in their place but it's very much of a "no happy ending in our lifetime" message.

At the time this drama came out, the Hong Sisters were known for their romcoms and this started out pretty goofy - watching it live as it got darker and darker was a hell of a trip and the ending made the fandom insane. But the more I thought about it, the more I loved it, the more fitting it seemed. I love all the other takes on rebels against the crown a la various other HGD and Iljimae adaptations but this one has, to me, by far the most fitting ending.

IRIS (2009)

Talk about bleak. This drama starts as your standard if high quality actioner about competent glam agents of a secret CIA type agency. And then it all goes to hell in a handbasket for our mains as it turns out a secret evil organization is the one that's pulling the strings, and our protagonist Kim Hyun Jun (played by Lee Byung Hun in my favorite of all of his performances) is sacrificed for complicated reasons that are only gradually revealed and begins his descent into hell. He starts the story as a competent, cocky sweetheart and transforms into a PTSDing shaking hands wreck. And you watch him fight so hard - fight through all the torments inflicted, fight to protect his loved ones and to keep his sanity, and fight to take the evil org down. You watch him slowly rebuild himself, and to slowly find happiness again with the woman he's loved all this time, Choi Seung Hee (played by Kim Tae Hee in my fave of her performances, who has unknowing ties to the org) and to fight over the org and inflict damage on it.

And then we get that ending, as he's finally found some peace and safety, and he's driving to propose to Seung Hee and as he sees her, he's shot in the head, point blank and he lies there, dying, seeing her but not able to reach her, tears falling out of his eyes as she waits oblivious for a man who will never come and it's made so clear that the org goes on, that nothing has been defeated and that it has all been for nothing - he's been killed as a punishment to him but also as a message to Seung Hee that nobody ever escapes - for her to find his body and realize it was all for naught. And it is also made clear that there was NOTHING he could have ever done to avoid this fate except if his parents made different choices before he was born (!!!) Talk about bleak. I sobbed for hours.

Ja Myung Go (2009)

I've just posted about this one so I am not gonna re-do the comments but yeah, it ends with the OTP death, the kingdom destroyed and the one winner is King Daemushin, the bad guy. The God of Battles wins again. Sure he lost a son but he's got other sons. Worth it, would think the old monster.

My Country: the New Age (2019)

The rest of the dramas on this list are older. This one is not. Our two main protagonists die in the end but that is not what makes it so bleak - what makes it so bleak is that nothing of what they wanted came to pass. In a way, it's a bit of a Hong Gil Dong redux situation - there is a new ruler on the throne but he's not any better than the old ones and he's cleaning up the people who put him on the throne. Hwi especially fought so hard for a place and then just to have some peace and he gets neither, the man he fought so hard to put on the throne being his murderer.

What Happened in Bali (2004)

Ooof, this drama! We have four main characters and at the end, two of them are dead, shot by the third one who turns the gun on himself. The only survivor is the ice cold secondary girl who would probably not pause sipping her morning coffee when hearing the news.

This is a story of people damaged and ruined by a bunch of monsters who suppress any hope and anything good and cause more and more damage - we watch the three mains claw at others and at themselves hoping for happiness and connection and love and it all gets dismantled and set on fire repeatedly and in the worst way. It's perhaps the starkest with Jo In Sung's Jung Jae Min - who you watch taken apart and driven to extremity slowly and gradually over the course of the drama. And his monstrous family ends up triumphant at the end - even in death and murder he was not monstrous enough for them to fit in - and now they will continue their lives.

PS The scene where he shoots Ha Ji Won's character right as she's just finishes telling So Ji Sub she loves JIS and wants to go back to him and she tells him "I love you" for the first time ever as she lies dying - that lives in my head rent free forever.

[posttexasstressdisorder]

Donald Trump’s Dancing Shows Just How Crazy He’s Become

FRIGHT NIGHT

Trump’s weird dancing episode may finally bring his mental decline center stage for voters—and reveal him as the worst possible choice for president.

David Rothkopf

Updated Oct. 16, 2024 4:50PM EDT Published Oct. 16, 2024 11:35AM EDT 

Photo Illustration by Thomas Levinson/The Daily Beast/Getty/Reuters

This is the week Donald Trump’s fitness for office finally became an issue.

It wasn’t, as we all have been shocked to discover, the treason or the rape or the 34 felony counts or the impeachments that did it though. In fact, the moment Trump crossed the line from extremist maniac to extremist maniac who appears to need round-the-clock care, soft foods and an early bedtime, was not caused by any of his traditional acts of recklessness or mayhem.

Perversely, in fact, what ultimately did him in may turn out to have been the fact that most Americans didn’t think he could get any worse as a dancer than he has been all his adult life…and then he did.

And oh, the way he did it.

‘Morning Joe’ Baffled by Trump’s ‘Bizarre’ Rally DancingBEATS MEDan Ladden-Hall

This is a guy, after all, who was known as a true pioneer of the white man’s overbite back in his Studio 54 days. More recently, his Grandpa Used to Know How to Dance Dance, was even more cringe but candidly, I’m not that sure we’d be much more comfortable seeing Joe Biden or Mitch McConnell dance these days either.

But as we discovered this week, his skills have, almost impossibly, faded further. Appearing at a rally in Pennsylvania on Monday, he resembled nothing so much as one of those battery-operated dancing Santas you might see on the counter at your local hardware store at holiday time. But one whose battery was nearly dead. Who twitched and stared blankly into space.

While such rogue electronic toys have been a scary standard in movies since Close Encounters of the Third Kind, this was something even more chilling. Trump’s spasmodic rocking and peculiar arm movements were the centerpiece of one of the weirdest incidents in modern American political history. As the Washington Post described it in a Tuesday headline, “Trump sways and bops to music in a bizarre town hall episode.”

By now, thanks to countless Internet memes and social media commentary, or an airing of the full nearly 40 minute incident on Nicolle Wallace’s MSNBC show Deadline: White House, you have probably seen what happened.

Unaccountably, in the middle of what was advertised as a town hall, Trump briefly stopped the program to enable care to be given to two attendees who had medical incidents and then decided he didn’t want to change things up a bit, “Let’s not do any more questions. Let’s just listen to music. Let’s make into a music (sic). Who the hell wants to hear questions, right?”

And for the next 39 minutes as an eclectic variety of hits played over the arena loudspeakers (many apparently without necessary permissions from the artists who recorded them), Trump did his failing battery operated Santa dance. His team encouraged him to take more questions via teleprompter. But he ignored them.

The moderator for the evening, South Dakota governor and noted pet murderer Kristi Noem tried to wrap up the event. But Trump ignored her too. And when she could not persuade him to wrap up, she tried half-heartedly to dance along with him. Hands to the left. Hands to the right. Repeat. She looked pained, like she was hoping someone would put her out of her misery. And for most of this awkward display, Trump stared into the middle distance, alone in a strange and distant world we can only imagine.

It was too strange to ignore. It went on for too long. His flacks tried to spin it as a “lovefest.” But no one who saw it will ever be able to wipe from their memory banks the image of the addled and lost former president unaware of his surroundings or it seemed, just what a candidate for president is supposed to do at a rally.

The optics were made worse by the fact that the next day, Wednesday, Trump cancelled not one but two scheduled media appearances without explanation. Rumors started to spread that even his staff was freaked out by this lengthiest of Trump’s increasingly frequent meltdowns.

Then, he did an event at the Chicago Economic Club at which he could not maintain a thought for all but a few questions and proved unable to answer even the most basic questions much to the consternation of the moderator, Bloomberg Editor-in-Chief John Micklethwaite who was forced to fact-check and challenge the loopy ex-president throughout.

Republican presidential nominee former U.S. President Donald Trump dances during a town hall campaign event in Oaks, Pennsylvania, U.S., October 14, 2024.

David Muse/Reuters

It was precisely the kind of thing that resonated with a quote that also garnered headlines this past week, from Bob Woodward’s new book War. In it, General Mark Milley, who served as chairman of the joint chiefs of staff under Trump was revealed to have described Trump as “fascist to the core” and as the greatest individual threat America faces.

It is fair to state that Americans have never seen such a public meltdown of a presidential candidate nor one that coincided with such increasingly erratic behavior. Trump’s niece, Mary Trump, a trained psychologist said that he was “decompensating in front of our eyes.” Other experts concurred.

Trump’s opponent in the presidential contest, Vice President Kamala Harris, embraced inventive tactics to drive home the message about how unsuited Trump is to be our commander-in-chief. She actually showed video of Trump’s threats to turn the army on the American people at a rally. In her remarks, she called him, without fear of contradiction, “increasingly unstable,” “unhinged” “a huge risk for America” and out for “unchecked power.”

Her campaign also acidly tweeted an account of the event with just the statement, “Hope he’s okay.”

Because of this confluence of events, although no doubt informed by the cumulative impact outlandish and destructive Trump behavior over the years, it seemed very possible that the seemingly comic episode on the stage in Oaks, Pennsylvania, might actually leave voters and the media concerned about Trump’s fitness to serve in a way that his leading an effort to overthrow the government or his alleged serial sex crimes had not.

The next three weeks will tell. But in my view, Trump’s mental decline will become an ever bigger issue during that time and in the end, will be cited by many voters as the reason they ultimately felt they could not vote for him.

It makes sense. A president can unilaterally launch a nuclear strike that could essentially destroy all humanity. He or she can do it in a matter of just a few minutes. And it is almost impossible to stop him. The fact that Trump is not someone you would trust to drive your kids to school, who seems more likely to be the subject of a silver alert than he is to handle a national security red alert, is a pretty compelling reason to cast your ballot for the experienced, capable, high-character, sound judgement of Vice President Harris.

If all that pans out that way, you may look back on the bizarre dancing episode as an unexpected turning point for the addled president. Indeed, it may be said that in the end the October surprise was that Trump himself revealed himself to be a candidate who would be surprised to find it was actually October.

An earlier version of this story said Kristi Noem is the governor of Idaho. She is the governor of South Dakota.

[sleepingdeath-light]

her majesty’s collection ; 18+

kinktober day fourteen

pairing ; hollyberry cookie x non binary afab!reader insert

fandom ; cookie run

masterlists ; fandom | kinktober | ao3

content ; dominant!hollyberry cookie, submissive!reader, vaginal sex, heavily implied!dumbification kink, praise kink, use of sex toys (strap on)

minors and ageless blogs do not interact

Hollyberry Cookie had collected quite the wide array of sex toys over her long and exciting life. Some were more traditional (vibrators to put against the clit, dildos to fuck into whatever hole they’ll fit into, blindfolds to spice things up, etc.) and others were a bit more exotic by the standards of her kingdom (all sorts of restraints, anal beads, cock rings, toys made for nipple stimulation, and even one rarely-used fuck machine that had left her so worn out after riding it that she’d been unable to walk properly for weeks), but the undisputed crown jewel of her collection had to be her strap-on.

Handmade and imported from a continent well beyond even the boundaries of Beast Yeast, it boasted an impressive size and a girth large enough to make even the most seasoned kinksters wince at first glance. And even looking beyond the phallus itself — as difficult as it may be to tear your eyes away from it — there were other features that made the toy more than worth the undoubtedly hefty cost she paid to have it crafted and sent all the way to her palace. The harness, for example, was made from a material otherwise unseen in the Hollyberry kingdom even with its bustling trade ports: as strong and sturdy as a heavy rope or chain yet still soft and silken to the touch, both comfortable enough for the queen to tie around her bare waist and thighs, and with enough give for it to not strain when her muscles flexed and relaxed under them during use.

She’d once joked about it being enchanted by one of the witches themselves and now that you were being given an extremely thorough lesson on just how well it could keep up with Hollyberry Cookie’s boundless stamina you were half tempted to believe her.

—————————————

Already three earth shattering orgasms into the night and you’d never been so blissed out and cock drunk in your life: every inch of your body from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet felt pleasantly warm and delightfully sensitive in a way that was slowly edging closer to unbearably overstimulating the longer things went on, your mind was so fogged with pleasure that everything sounded like you were submerged in water or like your ears were stuffed full of cotton until you could barely hear anything over your own breathing and racing heartbeat, your thighs trembled and quaked where she held them tightly against her hips as you struggled to keep them in the position she’d instructed you to get into at the start of the night, and you were barely able to keep your eyes open or even think about anything other than how good you were being fucked by your queen. Hell, the only thing you were capable of doing was crying out her name as she fucked you dumb on her strap.

Thankfully Hollyberry Cookie was more than capable of doing the talking for both of you and she had no qualms about letting you know exactly how she was feeling even as you became too delirious with pleasure to process what she was even saying. Switching between praise and teasing from one breath to the next as she leaned down and kissed every inch of your skin she could reach.

‘You’re doing such a good job, sweetheart,’

‘So sensitive…’

‘You’re taking me so well,’

‘Enjoying yourself, my dear? You certainly look like it,’

‘Can you hear how wet you are for me?’

‘It’s cute how easily you fall apart underneath me, dearest,’

‘If only you could see yourself… perhaps I should have taken you in front of a mirror,’

‘Your pussy is gushing, sweetheart… I could probably even make you squirt like this…’

‘Think you can cum again, my love?’

And you did. Again and again and again. Until you could no longer tell when one orgasm faded into another. Until you didn’t even have the strength to keep your eyes open as you sobbed and whimpered through your final climax of the night. Until the bedsheets beneath you were soiled completely through with your cum and drool and sweat. Until she’d had her fill of you and had deemed you spent enough for her to be satisfied with her work.

Only then did she finally grant you reprieve by pulling out of your puffy cunt and setting aside her favourite toy in favour of pulling you into her strong arms and laying with you to bask in the warm afterglow of an evening well spent as you ever so slowly started to come back down to earth. And after a session like that you certainly weren’t going to complain about getting to cuddle with your lover — even if that meant laying in a puddle of your own mess for a while longer.