#Free Write Fridays

[becca-e-barnes]

Bucky pinning you down so you can’t squirm and he’s just sitting inside you while he tortures your clit feeling you clench around him. He makes you cum over and over until he finally cums.

Overstimulation + super soldier stamina = …

- 🍯

Dear God, I know I just don't have it in me to behave during cock-warming. When it comes down to it, I genuinely have no patience at all 😵‍💫

"You..." Bucky begins, pressing you down onto the bed before gripping your ankles and forcing you to flip over onto your front. "Have a problem with control."

With your face turned away from him, you can't help but smile to yourself. No one has ever said it out loud but you know he's right.

Being in control is where you're most comfortable. No hands are safer than your own. Except maybe his. You know he won't fuck this up.

"And you..." He continues, gathering your wrists behind your back, holding them tightly with one hand. "Need to learn how it feels to have control taken from you. Do you understand?"

As soon as you begin to nod your head, you feel him start to tape around your wrists, holding them together behind your back. Once he's content they're secure, he sits on the edge of the bed, facing the mirror before he pulls you onto his lap.

"Legs spread over the top of mine." He orders and you do as you're told, not because you have to but because you want to.

You notice the way your cunt is already glistening in the mirror and you're almost embarrassed because he hasn't even touched you yet.

"Fuck, you're made for this." He groans, lining his cock up to your slick entrance and you wonder if he's holding his breath too while he slides into you, as deep as your bodies will allow.

You're obsessed with the sight in front of you; your own naked body, with your legs spread so far apart you can see how your cunt is stuffed full of him.

Being shorter though, your feet can't touch the ground like this. There's no way you'll get enough leverage to fuck yourself on him but as soon as you start to tell him that, he silences you with two thick fingers between your lips.

"I'm not letting you fuck me." His free hand roams over your body, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples and then settling between your spread thighs.

"I'm going to play with you. I'm going to see how much you can take. I'm going to work out exactly how you like your clit stroked and I'm going to do that until your legs are shaking and your body won't let you cum any more. Maybe then I'll fuck you but sweetheart, that will be hours from now." His breath is hot against the side of your face, his fingers slipping from your mouth to your waist while he starts to flick gently against your clit.

"I'm going to start slowly. I'm going to do everything I can to drag this out as long as possible. I can feel every clench and flutter of this pretty little cunt and I'm going to enjoy it until you're dripping over my balls." At this rate, it won't be long until you're dripping onto the carpet, never mind over him. You dreamed he'd want to take control like this but you never imagined the way your body would respond.

"And then, when you've cum more times than you can handle, I'm going to tell you that I love you while I fuck you like I don't."

Update: Part 2

[frownyalfred]

Things you might not realize are affecting your ao3 readership:

Putting unrelated fics into one compilation instead of series or collections

Not tagging your fics/“haha I’m so bad at tagging!”

Tagging all of the ships in a fandom instead of the relevant ones to the story

“This is my first fic ever”/ “I’m really not a good writer” / “sorry if this is crap”

Summaries that say “sorry don’t think I will update much” or “might be abandoned idk”

Tagging “r@pe” or “unaliving” etc instead of the actual tag so people can filter/exclude

NOT tagging major, relevant tags or kinks without using the “creator chose not to use archive warnings” option

Telling people how bad your writing is and how you hate it so much and how they shouldn’t even be reading your fic (self deprecation)

Weird punctuation: not starting new quotes or descriptions on a new line, and/or putting extremely long blocks of text on the page without a break

[radioactivepeasant]

Free Day Friday: Trespasser

(From the poll: "In Which the Demolition Duo made it to the Wastelands without being banished because They Are Trespassing)

Damas was not, by and large, a religious man. He didn't worship Precursors -- there were some who insisted that his ousting from Haven was divine punishment for his arrogance -- nor spirits. If spirits could be killed, so could Precursors. That made them oracles, elders to be respected for unique perspectives on time, but not gods in Damas’s opinion.

Which made it an oddity to find him in the temple.

He sat on the shallow steps, staring up at the six carved heads meant to represent Precursors. More insectoid than Oracles, or perhaps just more elaborate. They seemed to wear headdresses over their bizarre masks.

"If you, by action or inaction, let Mar die, then at least have the decency to tell me," he whispered into the empty air.

"You always foretold a future moment of need that my House would answer. Has that need passed unnoticed that you stay silent while my bloodline ends? Or does my son live?"

The masks were silent, of course. Carved stone could neither hear nor speak.

Ungrateful wretches. Damas had a fleeting thought that perhaps they'd allowed -- or even orchestrated -- the abduction of his little son because he wasn't servile and "pious" enough for their tastes.

Damas wondered if spirits could harm Precursors. If perhaps the "Good Grandmother"*, She-Who-Hears-Them-Cry, might take an interest if something in this temple had been directly involved in bringing Mar to harm.

Má took her payment even from the hides of fellow spirits, after all.

"Even if you were capable of bringing him back unharmed, I very much doubt you would," Damas whispered harshly to the open air. His throat bobbed with a painful, bitter anger.

"But if you took him, you owe blood-debt to my House, old ones. So grant closure or sit in your realm knowing that I will seek answers among others as old as you."

Was it wise to threaten the Precursors? Damas neither knew nor cared anymore. Two years he'd barely survived having his heart metaphorically ripped out of his chest.

What more could they do to him? Really, what could they possibly do that could be worse than not knowing?

No answer arrived, not that it surprised him. Damas sighed and braced his elbows against his knees, head in his hands.

Stone grated against stone and metal to his left, and he turned his head swiftly.

There was a door there, one heavily fortified with traps. A hovering Sentinel eye kept watch for movement, designed to activate a spike trap if anyone tried to enter the lower levels without permission. And if someone managed to somehow get past that, the door would still be sealed. Whether by an enterprising ancestor of his or by meddling Precursors, that door could not be opened without an Heir of Mar. Damas was the only one who had ever been beyond it.

It should not have opened even an inch.

And yet Damas was witnessing the two mighty halves forcing themselves apart with a tortured groan born of idleness.

He was on his feet in an instant, ready for a fight. There was no chance that this heralded anything good.

"Whoa!"

That was a hu'men voice.

Damas’s hand hovered over his sidearm, ready to draw the moment he saw a face.

"And I thought this place was huge before!"

It was a young voice. High and a little squeaky.

"It just keeps going, doesn't it?" laughed a second voice, deeper, but just as young.

And then the doors were open wide enough to see the silhouette in between them.

And more importantly, to see the object glowing faintly in his outstretched fist.

Damas’s mouth was dry as he fumbled for the pouch between belt and leather armor where he kept his own amulet of Mar. He knew the shape by heart: twin comets orbiting each other, over stylized hands.

Thief-!

Pure, outraged, fury burned through his veins for a moment. Who had this scrawny figure stolen that amulet from? Heaven forbid it be Mar's amulet, lest Damas murder this boy before his very next step.

"Identify yourself!" Damas shouted, raising his gun.

The figure stepped into view. He was small, so thin his clothes hung loosely on scrawny limbs, but he held himself like a warrior.

"People!"

The animal curled around his shoulders sat upright and spoke.

"Jak! There's real people in here! We're saved!"

Odd reaction to a man pointing a gun at them.

The boy eased a step forward, hands raised as if soothing a frightened animal. He still held the incriminating amulet in his hand.

"Whoa, okay, put the gun down. I don't want to hurt anybody-"

He took a step too far and the sentinel flashed. The spikes shot up out of the floor with a faint shunk!

With a yelp, the boy leapt back -- he was surprisingly light on his feet for someone wearing boots two sizes too big. Then, as if the nearly fatal encounter was no more than a slight inconvenience, he backed up, got a running start, and launched.

He kicked off the wall, seeming to find handholds in the tiniest of crevices as he bypassed the spikes entirely.

Once on the ground again, the boy dusted himself off.

"You okay, Dax?"

"Just peachy, considering you almost dropped me!"

"Did not!" the hu'men boy protested in annoyance.

He really was small.

The general gangly sprawl of his limbs suggested he would gain an impressive height, but for now he just looked..small.

And entirely too excited.

"Who....do you- Where did you come from?" Damas demanded.

The boy pointed back down at the steps and shrugged before scratching his head.

"Exploring?"

Oh that green hair hurt to look at. It was filthy, and matted, like it hadn't been correctly washed in years. He couldn't even determine the age of the trespasser, what with the layers of grime embedded into every crevice of his face. The clothes were just as stained with sweat, dirt, and what looked to be bloodstains. From traps?

"Exploring."

Damas repeated the stranger's explanation incredulously. "How did you even get in here?"

The boy and the orange animal looked at each other for a curiously long moment. They seemed to be having a conversation merely by narrowing and widening their eyes in turn. Then, seeming to come to an agreement, they shrugged and turned back to face Damas.

The boy pointed down a barely visible flight of rough-hewn stone steps, lit by torches.

"We came up through the catacombs."

There were catacombs? He hadn't seen anything like that down there, and Damas liked to think he'd made it pretty far! He examined the stranger more closely, avoiding his eyes -- they're not familiar, you're just projecting your grief -- and avoiding looking at the talking weasel thing. He saw sunken cheeks drawn tightly against sharp cheekbones. A pale, barely visible scar across the bridge of his nose. Deep, deep shadows beneath his eyes. How large was the temple, altogether? Were there more people living below their feet?

"How...long were you down there?" he asked after a few seconds.

"Trust me pal," the weasel-rabbit said, "he smelled like this before we got in that zoomer."

"Hey!"

"What zoomer?!" Damas asked, feeling more confused than before.

"The one we took through the lava tube to the catacombs."

Damas was beginning to wonder if he'd somehow inhaled the monks' incense by accident.

The trespasser cringed as if only just noticing the bewildered and only barely softened hostility on Damas’s face. He shoved his amulet -- not his, it can't be his, there aren't any more of us left!*-- into his pocket and waved his hands placatingly.

Was there another Heir all this time? Is that why I was given no chance to protect Mar? Were my child and I expendable?

"Didn't mean to bother you," the kid apologized, "We'll just uh- huh. Actually, where are we?"

And then he looked to the door rather than Damas.

"Hey Oracle!" he shouted, and Damas was glad no monks were present to hear this and faint at the impertinance.

"Where the rot are we?"

Alright. This was now officially more of a problem than he'd first thought. Not even the monks were supposed to have found that Oracle down there.

One of the past Heirs who never inherited the throne had sealed it up the moment he discovered it long ago. After all, the discovery of light and dark eco being opposite poles of one energy might have thrown society into chaos and they didn't want to deal with the fallout. Even Damas was leery of reintroducing that knowledge outside of the Arena yet. Apparently this trespasser had no such thoughts.

He spoke to Oracles -- or pretended he did.

He held and used an amulet.

The boy was a mystery. And Damas hated not having the answers.

"You," Damas decided, wearing anger like a shield, "are coming with me. You have questions to answer."

The boy balked.

"No!"

He dodged before Damas could seize his arm, stumbling back amidst the columns.

"Uh-uh, I'm not falling for that."

"Falling for what?"

Damas was genuinely confused, and more than a little irritated.

The boy continued to back away.

"No, no I know how this goes. You're gonna take me back to the Haven Council, aren't you!"

*

"Haven?!" Damas sputtered, "Why the bleeding rot would I want to go there?! I'm taking you to my city!"

That didn't reassure the kid, who apparently was not fond of the leaders of Haven City.

Well, that was at least a bare minimum of common ground.

"You ain't takin us to no secondary location!" the orange one declared, pointing a skinny digit at Damas.

"The last time I got transported to a new place, I got kidnapped and experimented on for two years," his friend agreed.

Embleer Frith.

Damas stared at the boy. He squinted, as if that would give him insight into the unsettling response, then shook his head.

"You what?!"

What was he talking about? Experimented on?! That would explain the sudden shift from curiosity to distrust. But why-?

Damas knew. Deep down, he thought he knew.

If the boy was an Heir -- and he didn't even want to entertain the thought, but it had to be acknowledged as a possibility -- then that alone would be motive for someone like Praxis to torture even a young man -- or young boy?

If he was still obsessed with creating the ultimate war-sage, then an unclaimed and unattended Heir of Mar would be invaluable.

But if Praxis had been so focused on an older Heir, then perhaps it at least meant that he'd never gotten his hands on Mar.

That there was a stab of shame to follow that whisper of relief was an unsettling proof that he had not successfully hardened his heart as much as he'd thought.

"You came here from Haven?" he asked.

"Yeah?"

Thoughts of a breach in their defenses sickened him.

"And others will follow in pursuit of you?"

This time both trespassers scoffed.

"Only if they feel like sharpening their reaction time enough for a volcanic subrail," the hu'men said. He almost smiled.

The orange one nodded. "Jak here's the best driver there is! Also the most demolition-happy, but nobody's perfect."

Jak?

Now that was a name his spies had been mentioning a lot in their reports. An alleged juggernaut who had turned the Baron's own secret project against him and -- rumor had it -- even destroyed the metalhead nest.

Damas had been expecting someone a little...older.

* the "Good Grandmother" Damas is referencing is a spirit I made up for the Wasteland called Má Crocadeer. Fairly grisly figure with a crocadeer skull wreathed in flowers for a head, and a crocadeer's legs and tail. Her purpose is to punish those who deliberately cause or inflict harm on children. There's a lot of people in Haven who should avoid the desert for this reason.

[aseelayelia99]

Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade

Pro-Palestinian Protestors disrupted the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade to advocate for Palestine and the reactions on the internet has been interesting. A couple of sentiments have been expressed on the internet that I think we need to think over for a little bit.

“Don’t bring politics into a national tradition”

Are y’all babies?

This is not a holiday tradition. This is a capitalist tradition in which they gloat over how much they made and remind you to buy from their upcoming sale by creating a parade on a street that police had to clear the homeless people from to not break the illusion for you.

Being nostalgic and refusing to acknowledge its implications is okay if you are twelve. Politics rule your life. Stop running from reality.

“I am all for protests but don’t disrupt normal life.”

Do you have a two digit IQ?

Do you have the critical thinking skills of a two years old?

The point of protesting, is to disrupt normal life. The point is to give the powers to be enough of a headache that they will do what the people want. Protests are first, and foremost, a form of disruption.

I understand that people are seeking their comforts, but when people are actively dying as you speak, don’t you think that maybe, just maybe, stopping their death should take precedence over your comforts when your taxes are funding said killing?

[jeezypetes]

Are you looking for a blood-drenched beach read? Check out my summer camp slasher novella, EARTH CAMP!

It’s Friday the 13th… in the 27th century. Rabbit was looking forward to her last summer as a counselor at Camp Washington, despite the recent scandal that almost shut the camp down. She and her friends were supposed to spend the summer enjoying Earth’s wilderness before they return to the Moon for college. But when counselors start dropping dead, Rabbit realizes she’ll be lucky if she leaves Earth alive.

Cover art by the incredible @grendel-menz

[b0amagination]

Tastes of Whumptober: Day 10

Is it anything novel? No. But did I fist fight the prompt today? Yes. This is what happened and sometimes you gotta embrace the traditional.

Passing out from Pain

“What was that?”

“Aaaaaagh!!!”

“Use your words, scum!”

Blurred vision could hardly make out the man across the table before another blow came from behind. The stool tilted when they fell to the side, but strong hands forced them back upright and steady. Just minutes ago this had been a sane conversation.

“I don’t know, I don’t-hhhhhhh-” The sound of cane against bone was sickening.

“Your own little investigation? You don’t know who helped you?” He tapped a pen against the wooden desk. Impatient. But held up a hand to stop the barrage from his assistant. “Take a look at this.”

Shuddering breaths ghosted over the desk. Their desk. They duly noted that their head was in their hands. Then there was a hand, gripping onto short strands of hair, and pulling them back up. 

In his hand was a USB drive that brought their heart to their throat.

“You see, we may not have told you the entire truth earlier. We know exactly what you’ve gathered. And we know a conspirator leaked this to you. All I need is your help in figuring out who that was, and then you can go free. After I smash this drive, of course.”

“Fucking bastard- AAAAHH!” A rib snapped loud enough for the entire room to hear, even over their scream.

“Oh, do that again. I had no idea you cried so nicely.” They couldn’t believe their boss was speaking to them like this, after years of working under him completely unaware… And now to be interrogated and tortured in their own office, their blood probably splattered all across the floor, the order to cause that pain again!

“Get- get away from me!” Running hadn’t worked before and there was no escape with the handcuffs around their wrists, but they couldn’t take that all over again. 

A smashed fibula had them on the floor, writhing on their hands.

“Fuck! No-!” A foot on their back now and their broken rib creaked under the pressure. “You’re just going to torture them too!” 

“You silly thing.” He wasn’t stepping on them, but his voice came from above. “I’m not going to torture them. I’m going to kill them.”

More weight, they could’ve sworn they felt another rib crack. 

“I-I can’t even think, please, I couldn’t- nnhhhhhh- I couldn’t answer you if I wanted!” A bold-faced fucking lie: that name was the only thing on their mind right now. Seven letters. First and last name. And it would be over.

The cane on their leg again. Shattering the break. Life faded out of focus.

“Oh, you don’t want to pass out. We’d have to keep you here with us.”

“It hurts- it-”

“And you can stop that. We’ve had you for, what, an hour now? Look at yourself. You’ll never walk right again, for one.”

A violent sob wracked them. It wasn’t true, he couldn’t do that in one night, he just wanted them scared enough to say- they forced their lips shut. It almost fell out then at the mere thought. 

The foot fell away from their back and they gasped in relief.

“I know you can’t see it right now, my little wreck.” The tone was detached, despite the words. “But my assistant has their foot over that precious leg of yours. Imagine what damage that could do if you refuse me yet again.”

The rule of sealed lips didn’t exist when cold panic flooded their heart, labored breathing turning short and desperate. Their head was shaking in disbelief.

“No? Don’t say I never warned you.”

White hot agony, screaming, then nothing.

[propertyofkylar]

rescue - whitney x gn!pc

"Fuuuck."

Being attacked was nothing new in this town, obviously, but that didn't mean it didn't suck every time. You sucked in a raggedy breath as you leaned your head against the wall, trying to remember if you were supposed to tilt your head up or down when you had a nosebleed.

You'd manage to kick your attackers off and send them scrambling away, but you didn't leave without injuries of your own. Your ankle hurt too much for you to move right now, so you sat in the alley and hoped it would feel better soon so you could hobble home before someone else came after you. At least you still had another pepper spray canister - Kylar was good for some things. You almost wished that he would find you here. He had that knife, and he was sort of caring in an insane way...

It was then that you heard more footsteps coming down the alleyway. You tensed up and held out the pepper spray. "Don't fucking come another step closer," you called out, hoping your voice wasn't shaking as badly as you thought it was.

"That's so cute that you think that could stop me," a familiar voice came. You almost jumped up in surprise, but your ankle gave out and you crashed back down to the pavement.

"You could just say hi for once, Whitney," you groaned, turning your head so he wouldn't notice the nosebleed. It always felt humiliating for him to see you like that, especially because he enjoyed seeing you so weak.

"Wouldn't be as fun," you could hear the smirk in his voice. "You look like shit, slut."

You groaned again and turned to face him, feeling blood drip from your nose. "Thanks. I had no idea."

A brief look of what seemed like panic flashed on his face before his expression settled into his normal smug look, making you wonder if you were just seeing things. "The fuck happened to you?"

You didn't answer. You thought it was pretty obvious.

"Who did it? Where'd they go?" He looked around, as if the attackers were still right there. "Messing with my fucking property..."

"I don't fucking know. It doesn't matter," you sighed. You really weren't in the mood to deal with him at the moment for obvious reasons.

He paused for a moment. "Stay right there, slut."

"Whitney -" you started, but he was already gone. Fucking great. And not like you were going anywhere in this state anyway.

It wasn't too long before he came back, gripping a bunch of crumpled-up napkins in one hand and a cup in another. Whitney squatted down next to you and set the cup on the ground. It was a milkshake.

You tilted your head, silently asking him why. He rolled his eyes.

"You've got blood all over your face. Grabbed napkins from the cafe, and thought I might as well get something out of this," he moved the cup so it was pressed against your ankle, providing sweet relief. At the same time, he leaned in and took a hold of your chin, gently wiping your face.

"Be a good slut and hold still," he murmured. The intensity of his stare made you feel frozen in place, anyway.

The tender way he touched you reminded of you of when you were little and Robin would fall and skin his knee. You would sit next to him with a damp towel and gently wipe at the injury, soothing his tears. It was a nurturing sort of action - not at all what you would expect from Whitney.

Once Whitney was finished, he grabbed the milkshake and leaned against the wall, taking a sip. He wrapped one arm around your shoulder and with the other, offered you the cup, which you took with a small smile.

"Where are your friends?" You asked. It was rare to see him without a gang following him.

Whitney shrugged. "Ditched 'em. Looked like it might rain." That seemed to be all you would get out of him on that topic.

You sat and idly chatted as you shared the milkshake. When it had been drained, Whitney stood up.

"Alright. C'mere. Let's get you home," he said, reaching out a hand.

"Huh?" You blinked in surprise. Whitney rolled his eyes again.

"I'm not gonna leave my best slut alone and injured in an alley. The fuck would that do for me?" He hoisted you up and wrapped his arm around your waist. "Put your arm around my shoulder. And don't put weight on your ankle."

You did as he asked, considering there wasn't much else you could do. Besides, his arm felt nice around you.

Luckily, you weren't too far from the orphanage, so the walk wasn't awful. Resting had helped a lot, and your ankle honestly was barely hurting anymore. But Whitney still held you up, and you let him.

He paused out front and gave you an odd look. Suddenly, he sighed and looked away. "Just...be more careful next time. I can't be your knight in shining armor all the time."

You frowned. "I mean, it's not like I asked you. You kinda just showed up."

He shrugged. "You were in my alley." He paused again before leaning in to kiss you. His lips tasted like vanilla and stale cigarettes.

Then he pulled away and slapped your ass. "See ya tomorrow, slut," Whitney smirked as he walked away. "I'm expecting an extra good thanks for saving your life and shit."

You couldn't help but smile as you watched him leave.

[thewolvesof1998]

Fuck it Friday

Here's a little more of my Christmas Fic they don’t know (your name is already mine):

They all pile into the elevator, Bobby and Athena last, as the doors close he whips out his phone to send another text to Buck. Bobby: Doc says Eddie’s going to be fine but he’s staying the night, please call me when you get this.  He watches and waits for the three dots to appear but they don’t and it only causes the feeling in the pit of his stomach to widen. He tucks away his phone and grabs Athena’s hand, she immediately squeezes reassuringly and it helps ground him. “How’d you even know we were here?” Bobby hears Chim ask from somewhere behind him. “I-Me and Ravi were having…drinks,” Albert says, Bobby shares a look with his wife, apparently her hunch about that had been right, her smile is a small ‘told you so’ one.  “Without the rest of us?” Chim asks outraged and oblivious to the blatant lie. Bobby fights back a smile.  “Chim,” Hen says and Bobby can practically see her head shake without turning around, “Maybe there was a reason why they didn’t want us there.” “It is because we’re old? Because I’ll let you know I can still-” -The elevator dings as they arrive on the third floor, interrupting Chimney's rant and reminding them all why they were there.

Previous snippet first snippet

tagging: @wikiangela @wildlife4life ​ @eddiebabygirldiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @spotsandsocks @try-set-me-on-fire @jesuisici33​ @bekkachaos @buddierights @spagheddiediaz @911-on-abc @hippolotamus @shitouttabuck @911onabc @exhuastedpigeon @malewifediaz @your-catfish-friend @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @watchyourbuck @king-buckley @chaoticgremlinwholikescheese @daffi-990 @fortheloveofbuddie @steadfastsaturnsrings @mangacat201 @theotherbuckley @hoodie-buck @eowon @rainbow-nerdss @nmcggg @pirrusstuff @evanbegins @giddyupbuck @sammysouffle @smilingbuckley @jamespearce9-1-1 @carrierofthepaperclips @jeeyuns @callmenewbie @thosetwofirefighters @monsterrae1 @princehattric

[wikiangela]

fuck it friday

tagged by @jamespearce9-1-1 @daffi-990 @disasterbuckdiaz 💖

haven't written much lately bc I got too into oth and it's day 4 of watching and i'm like halfway through s2 lmao so I don't have much more of the married buddie fic (which is currently my priority) I can share without sharing everything haha - so, fuck it, here's a non-buddie snippet 🙈 i'm writing this just for me so like, who cares but also figured i'd share bc fuck it haha it's a ryan/taylor fic from the oc - they had an open ending where they weren't explicitly together, so in this fic they both go to college and keep in touch but aren't officially dating until she visits for christmukkah and they talk 🤣 it's very slowly coming together bc I deleted what I had and started from scratch lol

___

It’s hard to coordinate phone calls with a nine hour time difference, especially since Taylor is… well, Taylor is Taylor. She takes up any extracurricular activity she can, gets involved in the social life of her university, and always has her schedule fully packed up. Sometimes when she tells Ryan about her day, he needs to ask if she's taking breaks and has time to breathe. But that’s Taylor. He can’t help but smile as he thinks about her restless need to do it all. He wishes he could be there to make sure she rests, too. 

He wishes he knew where they stand, as well. They’re kinda in this weird limbo right now. They talk at least a few times a week, they spent the last hour before she left making out on the train, but he’s still not sure if they’re dating, if they’re exclusive… He doesn’t think so, and it’s annoying to have to wonder. Taylor is usually so blunt and honest, and she’s always been the one needing reassurances on where they stand. But she’s not saying anything, and it’s slowly driving Ryan crazy.

He picks up the phone and throws his book to the side.

“Hey.” he whispers, falling back against his pillow.

“Hi, Ryan!” he hears her bubbly voice that instantly makes him feel all warm inside. When he closes his eyes, he can see her adorable smile and those piercing hazel eyes that always seem to look straight into his soul. 

“Hey.” he repeats, a smile forcing itself onto his face.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @911onabc @housewifebuck @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @underwater-ninja-13 @eowon @loserdiaz @evanbegins @ladydorian05 @pirrusstuff @theotherbuckley @wildlife4life @fortheloveofbuddie @nmcggg @diazpatcher @lover-of-mine @exhuastedpigeon @king-buckley @monsterrae1 @thewolvesof1998 @hoodie-buck @spotsandsocks @jeeyuns @callmenewbie @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @weewootruck @hippolotamus @steadfastsaturnsrings @malewifediaz @honestlydarkprincess @buckaroosheart @spagheddiediaz @rainbow-nerdss @giddyupbuck @jesuisici33

[miyamoratsumuu]

just got to make it to friday just got to make it to friday just got to make it to friday justgottomakeittofriday justgottomakeittofriday justgottomakeittofriday

[paninicupcakke]

Another Masked Freak🪓

(Tf2 crossover x Friday the 13th fic)

(In honor of my favorite Halloween slasher movie of all time, I decided to write this crossover fic :3 this started off as a silly draft but it spiraled into way more then I thought)

(TW/CW: spiking drinks/canon typical medic behavior)

🪓

“I-I think there’s someone on the back porch.” Medic firmly stated. Hesitantly pointing out the window leading to their base’s backyard. Medic, Engineer and Demoman all anxiously huddled around the window. Examining the tall, ominous figure slowly walking around the wooden porch. Rain droplets soon began drizzling down from the night sky and onto the masked killer.

“Great, another masked freak.” Demo added then took a quick swig of his scrumpy. Engineer walked away from the window to grab a shotgun that was stood up against the wall nearby. Medic and Demo continued watching the large killer’s movements. Jason grabbed his drenched coat sleeves and began peeling his first wet layer off. A soaked white t-shirt was underneath, revealing the undead man’s surprisingly muscular torso. He began ringing out his soaked coat over some dead grass nearby. Medic couldn’t help but fixate on the killer’s massive forearms and hands as they worked together. Jason paused for a moment, flinging his coat over his shoulder. He suddenly knelt down and began gently petting a small frog that was sat in a puddle of water. Such a small gesture spoke volumes. The salacious doctor couldn’t contain his infatuation with this fascinating specimen any longer.

“I think we are overreacting a bit. Should we go say hello?” Medic suggested while clearly ogling the killer’s visible muscles.

“You’re outta your damn mind. I ain’t goin’ out there!” Engineer stated sternly. Medic stood up from being crouched over the window, he swiftly adjusted both his glasses and tie.

“Suit yourself.” Medic said while confidently walking over to the back door.

“It was good knowin’ ya doc.” Demo added. Medic swiftly unlocked and opened the backdoor wide open. Both of the other mercenaries flinched in fear. Jason perked up at the sudden noise of the metal lock unlatching. The frog he had been mingling with scurried off at the sound.

“Hallo! You seem lost, would you like some help?” Medic kindly asked. Jason stood back up slowly. Silently towering over the doctor stood in the doorway. The doctor became instantly flustered once noticing their drastic height difference. Jason understood the doctor’s question but wasn’t fully aware of how to respond considering he was mute. They both stood there silently for a few seconds. Medic then anxiously adjusted his glasses before speaking again.

“Why don’t you come inside and get cleaned up? It’s filthy out here.” Medic offered while reaching out his hand. Jason hesitated for a moment before shaking the doctors hand.

“Bloody hell, he’s befriending it.” Demo said in disbelief. Engineer let out a frustrated sigh and walked over to the open doorway, shotgun in both hands. Jason let go of the doctors hand and looked over at the short Southern man.

“Engineer! Put that gun away will you? Go fetch me some towels please.” Medic sternly ordered as he spun around to face him.

“Come on now doc, you really trust this creature?!” Engineer asked while lowering his shotgun.

“Ja. If he truly wanted to kill us he would’ve already done so. Someone of his stature could have easily broken this door down.” Medic explained while grabbing the killers wet hand and leading him inside of the doorway. Considering his height, Jason ducked as he walked in the entrance. The undead killer was slightly baffled and confused. Normally humans were not this welcoming. Although, he assumed these humans were clearly not aware of his infamous brutality. Engineer let out an anxious sigh, he set down his shotgun and left to go fetch a few towels. Demo took a couple steps closer to the massive killer, he gently shut the backdoor behind him and Medic.

“Ya want somethin’ to drink?” Demo casually offered. Jason stood there silently, examining the bottle of scrumpy the man had offered him.

“I believe he might be mute. Here, go have a seat. l’ll make us some hot chocolate.” Medic offered and gently patted Jason’s back while pointing over to the living room. Jason walked along with Demo over towards the sofa. Engineer walked back into the living room with a few folded towels in his hand. Demo grabbed one and draped it over the leather seat. Jason slowly sat down onto the towel, making himself comfortable. Engineer set the bundle of folded towels onto the armrest of the sofa and hurried over to the kitchen.

“Listen doc, I don’t know what’s gotten into you but letting a complete stranger in here is never a good idea. You know that.” Engineer sternly said. Medic spun around with a metal tray of mugs in his hand.

“Ja, I know. Would you mind taking this over to the coffee table for me?” Medic asked in that angelic tone of his. Engineer lightly grumbled as he took the tray from him. The Southern man walked back over to the living room and anxiously set the tray down. Jason was preoccupied with drying himself off with the various towels. Demo excitedly reached down and grabbed one of the mugs of hot coco. He poured a shot of his scrumpy into the mug before taking a big sip.

“Here, this one’s for you big guy.” Medic spoke up as he quickly entered the living room. He brought over a mug of hot coco with whip cream and a straw sticking out of it. Jason perked up at the sweet, foamy drink. A familiar, nostalgic scent he hadn’t smelled in a very long time. Medic sat down right beside him, handing him the mug of warm coco. Jason gently took the mug from his hands and stared at it for a few seconds. Admiring the small flakes of cinnamon on top of the whip cream. He stuck the straw through one of the holes in his mask and took a big sip. After a few swigs, he set the mug down onto the coffee table. A few silent minutes had passed of Jason continuing to dry himself off. Medic appeared to be drying off one of the killer’s hands, when in reality he was scanning every detail of the living dead’s unique flesh. Jason’s eyes suddenly began to feel heavier than usual. He inevitably slumped over onto the sofa and comfortably passed out. A devious grin crept across the doctor’s face.

“Did he just fall asleep?” Engineer anxiously whispered.

“Yes. Both of you, help me carry him to mein lab. Quickly.” Medic suddenly instructed. Demo and Engineer both looked at each other slightly confused, then back at the deranged doctor.

“So…ya drugged him up?” Demo asked tilting his head.

“Ja, I want to restrain him and run some tests. Come on, we only have a few hours before he wakes back up.” Medic eagerly explained while grabbing one of Jason’s limp arms and swinging it over his shoulder. Demo quickly walked over to stabilize his other side. Engineer let out a frustrated groan as he went to pick up and carry the killers massive legs.

[baejax-the-great]

I've seen a lot of posts about orphaning vs deleting vs posting anonymously and people exhorting authors to never ever delete their work, and I think they always make me cranky because of this:

Whatever emotional attachment a reader has to a fic will never be stronger than the emotional attachment the writer has to it.

Maybe it's not true of every fic (and I have orphaned a couple fics in the past), but writing is frequently an emotional task. The act of putting your own creations out there is an emotional act, and one that can leave you feeling very vulnerable.

I struggled for a while wanting to delete some of my works. Knowing that people would read twenty of my works in a day and move on without so much as a word made me incredibly uncomfortable. Those twenty fics comprised an entire year of my life, an entire year of daydreaming and imagining and composing. Those were all my bus rides, what I thought of as I fell asleep, where my mind wandered when I did chores. It felt like having strangers walking through my brain, looking around silently, and leaving.

I'm not going to say everyone feels that way, because I know many people do not. My point is that in putting their work into the world, authors are putting pieces of themselves into the world, an act that can leave them feeling very vulnerable, and therefore it is their right to delete it when that becomes too difficult for whatever reason. It's not a moral failing, and it's not even really taking away something from readers. Sometimes the things we enjoy are ephemeral. Easy come, easy go.

Fandom really needs to ease off on people who delete their fics.

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets: Free Day Friday

Prev

Trespasser, In Which Jak Gets Another Bad Idea

When he'd hastily redressed and stumbled out of the garrison locker room before anything else could happen, Jak quickly found himself confronted by that Strom guy again.

"An hour? Really?" Strom pursed his lips disapprovingly. "You think we have some magic supply of water to spare?"

"Lay off, we weren't washing for an hour -- much as I'd love to," Daxter argued, "The big guy fell asleep!"

"In the shower? Isn't that dangerous?"

Jak shrugged. "How would I know?"

Strom decided after a moment that this fell under the category of "none of my business". He sighed and waved for Jak to follow him.

"The king says we're to put you up in the barracks for now." He eyed Jak's face, somewhat startled by how much younger he looked under the dirt. "How old are you?"

Jak shrugged. "Midway through seventeen-ish. I think. My "guardian" wasn't exactly a reliable source."

More things to file under "none of my business"

"Oh...kay..." Strom did his best to move past one or two odd questions surfacing in his mind. "Well that narrows down which dorm you're in, at least."

"How so?"

They stepped back out into the late afternoon heat, onto the main road through the Gate District. The burning sun barely touched Jak, deflected by his wet clothes as if he were wearing his own air conditioning. He decided to pretend it had been intentional. Just in case someone asked why his clothes were all wet.

They were led towards the end of a row of houses built into the city wall, leading to an impressibly high flight of stairs into some kind of coliseum. Strom did his best to explain as he led them up the stairs, but he wasn't usually the guy they called for rookie orientation for a reason.

"It's um. So- okay look. The Arena sublevels are divided into three floors: the hospital, the armory, and the barracks. Barracks are split between militia, citizen candidates, and teenage Squads."

He didn't explain Squads.

"You're going to end up in that last one -- probably Dorm 4, that's where they put orphans or unregistered foundlings."

"Orphans?!" Daxter chirped indignantly. Then he paused. "I mean. I guess it's accurate, but you didn't have to say it!"

They didn't end up in Dorm 4.

The Resident Advisor took one look at the slightly dusty, slightly soggy, boy and ottsel and assigned them to an empty bunk in the second hall, Dorm 2. Jak was handed a canteen and a folded set of sheets before being unceremoniously ushered down the hall and into a sparse dorm room holding two bunk beds. For the moment, it was empty.

"Lights are out at 9 bells, no exceptions unless you got a case of the screaming meemies," the RA said gruffly. He pointed at a bottom bunk without sheets -- Jak's, apparently.

"You're responsible for keeping that bunk at least clean enough to pass weekly room checks. Check the schedule on the wall if you want to know when mess hall is open. If you miss that, you can hit the markets, but you're on your own for paying for it."

Jak eyed the bunk uncomfortably. He was responsible for maintaining this bed? He probably wasn't even going to be here that long! He cringed when the RA pushed a twelve by six metal box across the floor with a terrible scratching sound.

"That's your footlocker. If you want a lock, get it yourself. You kids keep losin' em and now we're out." The RA snorted. "But most of the squad in your room is on home rotation this week, so you only have to worry about maybe Sam stealing your stuff. He won't, by the way. Too busy training."

He turned to go, then turned back quickly. "Oh. Gotta confiscate your gun mods, so don't lose your marbles when you get your gun back plain."

"The rot you do!" Jak protested, "I earned those!"

"Don't care." The RA shrugged. "None of your dormmates have and I don't want 'em getting ideas about "borrowing" em."

With a stern warning not to start any fights, and to not miss allotted mealtimes if he didn't want to go hungry, the RA keft Jak alone with Daxter. They stood in the center of the room, blinking incredulously.

"Well..." Jak said after several seconds, "It's not a cell."

"Or an alley," Daxter agreed.

He hopped down and examined the mattress. Nothing fancy, but it was miles better than they were used to.

"Here, gimme the fitted sheet."

"What's a fitted sheet?"

"The one with the stretchy corners." Daxter pointed. "That's the one that goes on the bottom. Wraps around so it don't get pulled off if you roll around a lot."

"...oh. Weird."

Jak handed the thing to Daxter and watched in fascination as his friend set about attaching one corner at a time. It looked difficult.

Before he could offer help, his talk-box activated. That was a bit of a surprise. They'd been traveling for two days already and nobody had made a peep. Daxter had thought they'd have noticed the first time he turned off the location tracker!

"Jak! Jak, where are you?!"

Samos. Jak's stomach churned.

"Don't know," he answered flippantly. "I think we just got put in an orphanage."

"Don't be ridiculous! Get out of whatever nonsense you two knuckleheads have walked into and get back to Main Town! Something is going on, and I need time to investigate without those blasted Deathbots shooting at me!"

"Life's hard."

"What did you just say?"

Jak scoffed, feeling a little of the bubbling anger of dark eco in his core.

"You can't handle a little gunfire? You didn't have an issue making a couple kids walk into it daily. You'll figure it out."

"How can you say something so horrible to me?! I raised you to be a hero, Jak! You sound like that mercenary!"

Jak snorted."Well good. Sig's the only adult in that city I still trust."

Samos sputtered for several seconds in helpless, bewildered anger. Then he gathered himself.

"Get over yourself, Jak! Lives are at stake! I don't care what you're playing at, you turn around and get back here before something worse happens!"

Jak rolled his eyes. The sage sounded like Ashelin. He tossed Daxter the top sheet and studied the foot locker, wondering if he should use it.

"Nah, can't."

"What do you mean "can't?"

Jak shrugged as if Samos could see him. As if Daxter hadn't placed a piece of tape over the lens when he got tired of the spying.

"Oracle says I'm not done out here. Wherever "here" is. Lay off, wouldja? The Precursors sent me out here!"

He listened to Samos's stunned silence a moment before dryly asking, "Did you think they only spoke to Onin, or-?"

"But-" the old sage stammered, "But why would the Precursors send you from us when our need was greatest?"

"Probably because yours isn't the only city in the world? There are other people out there, Haven can get over itself," Jak flung the sage's words right back at him.

"What makes you think there's anything beyond the walls other than ruined wastes?"

"Those eco shipments for Praxis were coming from somewhere," Jak reasoned. Then his voice darkened to match his mood.

"There's no law that says I can't investigate. Sandover may have turned into Haven, but that doesn't mean I'm chained to it. You people already tried that, remember?"

"Jak!"

"I think the Precursors want me to find out who else survived," Jak said, though he wasn't sure that was it at all.

"I'll let you know if I find any sages."

"But Jak-!"

"Have to go, Samos. That hall monitor guy didn't say comm calls weren't allowed in the dorms but I need this thing, so I'm not taking chances."

He ended the call before Samos could make more than an outraged cough. When he looked down, Daxter was watching him with a funny expression.

"What?" he asked, a bit defensively.

"Nothin," Daxter said, unconvincingly. Then he gave a bittersweet grin. "Just never heard you stand up to Loghead like that before."

Jak looked away. "Should've been fighting him from day one. Like you. You knew he was bad news from the start, didn't you?"

Daxter rubbed his arm ruefully. "I um. I don't got a lot of memories of my folks. I was pretty little when the shark got em. But I remember my old man saying "Never trust a man who won't apologize to a kid", and then Samos came through dragging you. An'...an' you cried that whole first day, kept pointing to the sky and making a circle with your arms. And Samos ignored you."

Jak swallowed hard. "I don't remember that," he said softly. "Or much of Sandover at all now."

He sat down on the floor next to Daxter. The thanks he'd given Samos just weeks ago sat sour in his stomach. The real person he should've thanked had been right there beside him and he'd overlooked him just like Samos always did.

"Daxter?" he said gravely, "Thank you. For everything. All of it. I wouldn't be here without you."

Daxter leaned against his shoulder. "Well duh," he joked, trying to lighten a somber moment, "Heroes don't leave their sidekicks with weirdos! It goes against the bro code!"

Then he sobered.

"For the record, I don't blame ya for not knowing he had his hooks in ya. He um. I mean, you were real little, y'know? I think you maybe stuck with him at first because he was the only familiar face, and he used that against ya."

Jak laughed bitterly. "I wonder if I'd have had the guts to say all that if he was actually here?"

Daxter recognized the beginning of a spiral and elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Well he ain't! And we're not gonna will that into existence with what-ifs!"

He scurried up onto the bunk and spread out in the middle of the mattress.

"Ahhhh! Hey, are you gonna know which morph gun is ours when we get the key to that gun locker?"

Jak pushed him to one side and, after a moment's debate, unlaced his boots.

"The stock on mine looks striped because of all the tally marks on it. The others are completely blank."

"Oh! Didn't see that!"

Reluctantly, Jak took off his goggles and gauntlets and dropped them into the foot locker. At least if it didn't have a lock, he could get them back out at a moment's notice. His knife and amulet he kept on him.

The Call hadn't subsided. He still felt it, and he still didn't know what it meant. So for now, that seemed to mean staying in this hostel/barrack/orphanage combination with more Wastelanders than he'd ever known existed. At least they were Wastelanders and not soldiers. He would've slept on the streets before letting them put him in a dorm with soldiers.

The wall schedule said that the cafeteria didn't open until 6 bells after noon. That left roughly an hour before they could find out if they were allowed to take anything from it.

For a time, Jak occupied himself by polishing his channeling ring with his damp scarf. Daxter tried and failed to braid Jak's hair, but the condition it was in was just too poor.

"Pal," Daxter said reluctantly, "I don't think these mats are comin' out."

Jak sighed in resignation. He'd wanted to avoid this -- the only haircut he could remember had been a traumatic buzzcut because a KG accidentally spread bugs through the cell block -- and got himself a spot in the cell two doors down from Jak when the bugs spread to Errol. (Who was absolutely hideous with a buzz cut, and was in utter anguish about his "beautiful hair". Couldn't have happened to a nicer person. It had been the absolute highlight of Jak's entire year.)

Jak took his knife, sheath and all, from the back of his belt and held it out to Daxter.

"Do what you gotta do," he groaned, "Just don't cut it all off."

The roommate who wasn't on "home rotation", whatever that was, came back midway through the haircut. In his state of exhaustion, he didn't actually see Daxter.

"Your...hair is falling off," he mumbled in confusion.

"It's on purpose," Jak said.

"Oh."

Sam leaned against the door to pry off his boots, then blinked.

"Wait, what?"

"He's getting a haircut, doofus!" Daxter sniped.

"Ohhhhkay, the kangarat is talking." Sam dropped his boot and stared with very wide eyes. "Cooooolll coolcoolcool everything's cool."

"Ottsel, not rat," Jak corrected. "Daxter is sensitive about that."

"...uh-huh..."

Sam swung a gear bag up over the top of the top bunk bed post. With little effort, he swung himself up the ladder after it. Apparently he shared the bunk Jak had been assigned.

"Are you new? I don't remember you," he yawned.

"First day here," Jak admitted, "still dunno what's going on."

Silence for a few seconds. Then, "So...does that mean you came from Outside?"

"I guess? Don't know how I got here from Haven, but I'm not complaining."

"Oh."

Sudden Sam was leaning over the rail of the bunk, spiky blonde hair falling in his face.

"No kidding? Me too! I mean, I ran away from Kras, but. Stowed away on a cargo ship and got caught at the docks."

Kras. The name was familiar. Something to do with racing, but Jak hadn't been paying attention.

"So you planning on the Arena too?" asked Sam.

"I still don't know what the Arena is," Jak said pointedly. "Is it for races?"

"See, that's what I thought at first!" Sam exclaimed, "But apparently the only races they do in there are Leapers. It's kinda a community place? Big meetings, festivals, executions, games, theater, combat trials-"

"Festivals?" Jak was mildly intrigued.

"Executions?!" Daxter was not.

"Yeah man. Though to be fair, there's so many ways to die normally outside the walls that it takes a lot to get the death sentence around here. You have to do something really bad for Lord Damas to kill you himself. Like "engaged in the slave trade" or "abused a kid" or "betrayed the city to enemies" kind of bad. Stuff that dishonors a warrior's name for life. Otherwise he gives you a chance for pardon in combat trials."

Jak squinted up at their temporary roommate. "How...does that work, exactly?"

Sam rolled back onto his mattress with a noncommittal sound.

"Depends on whatcha did I think. Smaller offenses you gotta fight a metalhead. Bigger offenses get you more than one metalhead. If it's bad but not death sentence bad, you fight other Wastelanders who already know how you fight."

"Remind me not to get on these guys' bad sides," Daxter stage-whispered.

"So then why would I enter the Arena if I didn't do anything wrong?" Jak pushed.

"Oh yeah, that's the other thing. Civvy candidates who want to be permanent residents gotta prove they can survive the three main dangers of the Wasteland: enemy shooters, treacherous terrain, and lava. So the king makes us do combat trials simulating those conditions until he's satisfied that we won't like. Immediately die if he lets us outside."

Jak considered this for a moment.

"Fair enough," he decided.

"No??? It's not??" Daxter finished slicing off the last mat and gave Jak an appalled look. "Precisely none of that is normal!"

Jak swept the clumps of hair onto the floor and leaned back to let Daxter continue braiding what was left.

"So...you prove you can handle yourself, and they let you stay?"

Sam reappeared over the rail. "Well, you also gotta prove you're willing to work. They don't like lazy people out here, everybody does at least one thing that keeps Spargus operational, even if it's just sweeping the sand out of the stables -- which is about all they let me do on account of last time-"

"What happened last time?" Daxter asked as he finished tying off three fishbone-braids.

They could almost hear the wince.

"I...kind of...failed so hard at wall patching that I dropped an entire bucket of wet clay on a district representative. He got a concussion. It was bad."

There was a chagrined silence, but then Sam rallied. "So yeah, I'm not allowed near construction equipment anymore and I can't switch chores yet. All kids get maximum one job a day, but you get to pick what you do once you either turn nineteen, or get through the third trial."

Wheels were beginning to turn in Jak’s mind. He'd never given much thought to the future, but what if he just. Didn't go back to Haven? What if the crisis ended and he didn't go back? Might be nice to have a place like this on standby.

"So that what the grouch-in-chief said you're training for?" Daxter asked.

"Yep! Already got my first amulet and gun mod!" Sam said cheerfully. "First full trial hurts like a son-of-a-cob, but at least Scatter rounds are non-lethal."

"No they're not?" Jak sputtered.

"Yes they are?" Sam wrinkled his nose. "Scatterguns are what they give kids and civvy candidates because it's not live ammo?"

"No," Jak argued, "You can definitely kill with Scatter rounds. It just takes like six shots."

Sam stared at him with wide eyes.

"What the rot, dude," he whispered.

"What?!"

"You're telling me you've killed people with a practice gun?!"

"Well- well Haven doesn't know they're practice guns!" Jak defended.

"Okay..." Sam grimaced. "Well. Don't do that in your first trial. Only way anyone is supposed to be able to die is if they try to prioritize hunting an opponent over avoiding lava."

"None of this is making me want to try this Arena thing!" Daxter complained.

"What's the second trial?" Jak ignored Daxter's complaints.

Sam looked a little unsure suddenly. "Yellow eco trial. That's um. That's going to be my first combat to the death. And not many candidates signed up for this month's trial so it's just me and three others against a Marauder crew they captured."

"Marauders?"

"Colonists from the mainland," Sam explained. "They're wannabe Wastelanders and I'm pretty sure they're all insane because they run around out there with no shirts, ever. They also run most of the slave trade between Haven and their colony."

Jak's eyes darkened.

"They're slavers?"

"Yep." Sam shuddered. "I've seen some of the survivors brought back when the Wastelanders raid their camps or when Marauder defectors start a riot. They've been through it. And like half the Arena Guard are survivors of the Marauders, so the ring isn't where you wanna end up if you're a blood merchant."

"It's not the guards they should worry about," Jak muttered darkly. Before Sam could ask what he meant, he looked up. "So if you get through three trials, then what?"

"Full rights as a citizen, same as if you were born here."

There was a glint in Jak’s eyes that only Daxter could see, and it Concerned him.

"Ja-aak, nooo-" Daxter groaned, but he knew it was useless.

"I'll go in with you, when they do the trial," Jak offered. "World could always use one less slaver."

"For real?" Sam raised his brows. "You've only been here a day, dude. You need to do some training before you're ready for that."

"Haven's an active warzone," Jak retorted, "and I got forced onto the frontlines for a year. I'll be fine."

"I mean. If you're sure," Sam relented, "I wouldn't mind the company."

"I would," Daxter grumbled under his breath. "I have some objections!"

So, it turned out, did Damas.

[fresh-snow]

Zionists are really claiming the natural resources like rain is theirs too. This is what happens when delusion is let loose unchecked. The audacity! First they claim the land as theirs, now they're claiming rain water? What's next? The air? This is why they need to be checked. This is why decolonization is needed.

[officialkendallroy]

THE ORAL EXAM WENT SO WELL OMG

[mollyrolls]

genuinely irate how dare people exist in the same space as me