#Freedom But At What Cost? (Aftermath)

[ask-the-friendly-ink-demon]

“mE aNd a CeRTaIN sOutHERnERr DeMon hErE WaNNa Wish Ya’LL aN hAPpy vALeNTine;’S dAy, DoN’T Be gLooMY If YA aloNE. tHeRe’s AlwaYS sOMeoNE oUT tHERe fOR yA, wHEneveR It Be PlAtONic, Or RoMaNTic, NobODY’s TrUlY AlOne, LoOk aT uS fOR eXaMplE, eY yEEhAw DeMON?” @ask-the-demon-of-joey-studios​

[i-heart-hxh]

I want to ask about your opinion on what tsubone meant when she said " killua was suffering less when he was being manipulated " , why would tsubone say its better for Killua when he was under his family's control?

I think what she said is so important and highlights things about Killua’s character, I'm sad its not discussed enough.

Hello! This is a great question, and it's definitely not something I see discussed a lot.

Killua under his family's control clearly suffered from abuse of all sorts, but at the same time what was required and expected of him was simple: They made all the decisions for him in the family tradition, had their own moral code (twisted as it may be), and all he had to do was obey and inherit the standards they set up for him without thinking about it too deeply. Accepting the destiny laid out for him would have made his life straightforward for him, even if it didn't match his own internal values or desires for his own life.

Liberated Killua, meanwhile, has to make his own decisions about his life and how to protect those he loves, all while fighting the programming he received throughout his entire childhood. Killua is a sensitive boy, and the choices he has to make aren't easy for him: Think of him deciding to leave Gon (likely for both Gon and Alluka's sakes), deciding what to do about Illumi when Alluka's life is in danger, when he tried to shut out Nanika for Alluka's safety, etc. Him being free to do whatever he wants means he has to make morally complex, emotionally fraught, difficult and painful decisions even at his young age, all while fighting off Illumi and trying to deal with the psychological aftermath of his family's abuse. It takes tremendous courage to face this all on his own, and Tsubone recognized the burden of this on him.

He could have had a far easier life--if not a particularly enjoyable one--had he just given in and accepted the fate granted to him by his birth, but instead he defies it--and that decision comes with huge costs to him mentally and emotionally. Of course, it's worth the costs for him to be able to control his own life, but Killua certainly has suffered as a result of his freedom.

[ask-the-friendly-ink-demon]

the moment the friendly ink demon heard an familiar voice AND someone calling him by his name, he instantly turned, and perks up as he felt the hug of someone familiar, before his eyes widened and sparkled upon remembering who it was, grinning widely as his tail sways slightly, the golden streaks on his neck, the yellowish spines running down his neck and his tail, the more dark colored clothing to his attire, minus the red bowtie and brown shoes and belt, along with an yellowish bade like logo shaped like his face along with now pure black and white colored gloves instead of the original green, all in all, he looked like an complete black and white coloration of his standard outfit, with some changes here and there, though, it was still the same old him, his piecut eyes widening as he remembered Modern "Mod!" he says, instantly giving the smaller demon an hug of his own, an bunch of explaination and hearts coming out of him as his smile beamed, genuinely happy to see an old friend once again, as it felt like FOREVER since he even seen him! more than forever even! as with the question, the Friendly Ink Demon perked up, humming softly as he shrugs slightly almost laughing for a moment "ah! things have been going great! well... uh... as great as things can be anyways! but im managing! as for new adventures? hm....." he brings a hand to his chin, an bunch of question marks popping up as he thinks really hard, before shrugging "can't say i remember any! been mostly stuck in the lodge for most of everything going on, but, it's good to finally actually be out! and seeing you again too!" Prowler said, grinning happily, of course their friendship goes way back, during the early days, but, just like how he thought, he thought of the other as a brother as well, if Modern needed him to back him up, he'll always be by his side no matter what

Welcome To The Show: @ask-the-friendly-ink-demon liked for a starter

"Well I'll be, if it ain't Prowler!"

The demon gave a big toothed grin and gave the other toon a good ol demon hug before pulling away and placing his gloves hands on his own hips, thoroughly examining the toon before him. How long had it been?

weeks? months? years? Okay maybe not that long, but it sure felt like a millennia.

"It's good ta see ya ol pal! So tell me, how things been with ya? What new 'ventures ya been on? Anythin new?"

He didn't want to start hounding questions at him but he was just way too eager, it had been so long since the last time they spoke that he just couldn't contain himself.

Bendy, or rather Modern in this case, and Prowler's friendship actually went a good ways back. They had the type of friendship where you could basically consider them 'brothers' in a sense. Maybe not ink related, but enough where he would be willing to fight anyone who dare even leave a scratch on him. If Prowler needed him, Modern was there to back him up.

[mariacallous]

Today, Aug. 31, Estonians and Latvians celebrate 30 years since the departure of Russian troops from their territories, which ended half a century of occupation. The ongoing war in Ukraine is a daily reminder for Russia’s neighbors that their freedom must not be taken for granted. History suggests that Russians only withdraw from occupied territories for one of two reasons: Either they are driven out by force or their own cost-benefit calculus compels them to leave. In the latter case, the only major territorial withdrawals in Russian history have happened when regime collapse has radically changed this cost-benefit calculus. If Washington fails to recognize this long-established pattern and continues to severely constrain Kyiv’s defense in hopes for some future reset in relations with Moscow, the next wave of Russian aggression is all but ensured.

The Russian empire—whether the tsarist or Soviet variant���collapsed twice in the 20th century: in 1917, when a communist coup dethroned the tsar, and in 1991, when another, unsuccessful coup was the final death knell for the Soviet Union. Both events created a window of opportunity for many smaller nations to break free. Moscow withdrew from many of its non-Russian territories not because it no longer wanted to have an empire, but because it no longer had the means to keep these territories under its control.

Russia is currently occupying more than 42,000 square miles—about the size of South Korea—or approximately 18 percent of Ukraine’s territory. Ukrainians aim at regaining all of it and see full restoration of their territorial integrity as an essential component of a just peace. Yet their hopes to reconquer much of their land have withered, not least due to strict limitations imposed, mainly by the United States, on the Ukrainians’ use of Western weapons. Ukraine’s surprise incursion into Russia’s Kursk region and quick capture of about 500 square miles of Russian soil has changed the outlook: Now, an exchange of territories may become an element of eventual negotiations. Russian leader Vladimir Putin’s calculus is still in favor of continuing the war, but the Ukrainians are finding new ways to increase the cost to Moscow and upend the narrative that Russia is marching towards an inevitable victory.

The historical experience of Russia’s neighbors provides some clues to Ukraine’s chances to regain occupied territories or achieve peace through territorial concessions.

The last Soviet leader, Mikhail Gorbachev, decided to let the Soviet satellite states in Central and Southeast Europe go and allowed an unprecedented degree of openness within the Soviet Union. But even the great reformer Gorbachev was unwilling to give up any of the Soviet republics, including the three Baltic states. A leader of the Estonian national movement at the time, Marju Lauristin, recalled a personal conversation with Gorbachev, in which she explained Estonia’s aspirations for independence and received a straight reply. He could not give away what the Russian nation had gained, she recalled him saying.

The Baltic states grasped the chaos and aftermath of the 1991 Soviet coup to restore their independence, but that was followed by a tense three-year struggle to achieve the withdrawal of Russian troops. Diplomatic efforts took place in parallel with the departure of Moscow’s forces from the former satellite states, including more than 330,000 soldiers leaving East Germany by 1994. As we know, Russia’s withdrawal from Germany was a most humiliating experience for the young Putin, who was traumatized by the East Germans’ peaceful uprising against their communist regime while he was stationed there as a KGB agent.

Estonia was the last European country to secure the departure of Russian troops through a July 1994 agreement between the two countries’ presidents at the time, Boris Yeltsin and Lennart Meri. Both leaders took considerable risks by agreeing to a deal that was unpopular in their respective countries. Many in the Russian opposition, diplomatic establishment, and security services were highly critical of Yeltsin’s decision. On the Estonian side, the deal involved painful concessions, notably allowing retired Soviet military personnel and their families, altogether more than 10,000 people, to stay in Estonia and enjoy social benefits. Similar unpopular conditions were also accepted by Latvia. Although the departure of occupying troops was a dream come true for Estonians, Meri faced criticism at home for the concessions. It took great diplomatic skills and political courage to achieve the final stage of de-occupation, which paved the way for Estonia’s accession to NATO and the European Union.

The motive for Yeltsin was most probably his wish to maintain good relations with the West—especially the economic and financial support on which Russia depended at the time—while the United States and Germany put friendly pressure on him to withdraw his forces from the Baltic states. Any such motive is utterly irrelevant for the current Russian leadership; there is no chance that Western countries could persuade the Putin regime to deliberately leave Ukraine in hopes of improved relations or economic benefits such as sanctions relief.

For some of Russia’s neighbors, giving up territory was the price to pay for independence. However, territorial concessions without being prepared to resist further Russian demands has not been a recipe for stability. In 1939, then-independent Estonia gave in to Soviet demands to establish military bases on its territory in the vain hope of avoiding war. The concessions did not help, and the Baltics were soon occupied and annexed. Finland refused similar demands for the stationing of Soviet troops and was attacked by the Red Army. Yet eventually, Finland sustained its independence after fiercely fighting for it. The Baltics learned a bitter lesson. Today they are prepared to fight back from the first moment of aggression.

Finland gave up one-tenth of its territory as a result of its two wars with the Soviet Union, but it would be wrong to present this as an example of trading land for peace. The Soviet Union did not stop fighting because it was content with the concessions; it stopped because it was unable to defeat the Finns and conquer more land. The Red Army became too exhausted to carry on, not least because it was also fighting on other fronts of World War II.

As part of the armistice agreement that ended the Soviet-Finnish fighting in September 1944, Finland leased to the Soviet Union the strategically valuable Porkkala peninsula, located just 20 miles from Helsinki. Although the lease was set for 50 years, the Soviets returned Porkkala in 1956, which looks like a rare example of a voluntary Russian withdrawal. The decision was part of the thaw under Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev, who succeeded Joseph Stalin in 1953. The case shows that a new leader who is critical of his predecessor may sometimes be favorable to new openings.

However, in subsequent years the Kremlin continued attempts to subsume Finland under tighter Soviet control, successfully interfering in its domestic politics and forcing it to align much of its foreign policy with Russia’s but failing to push the country closer to defense cooperation. Finland achieved Soviet recognition of its neutral status only as part of the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe held in Helsinki in 1975.

Another Russian neighbor, Japan, has also learned that Moscow does not give up territories under its control as a gesture of goodwill. Under former Prime Minister Shinzo Abe, Japan made extensive efforts in the 2000s and 2010s to foster friendly and mutually beneficial relations with Putin’s regime. Abe aimed to finally settle the two countries’ territorial dispute over the four southernmost Kuril Islands, annexed by the Soviet Union at the end of World War II. In the hope of splitting the difference and regaining two of the islands, Japan went to great lengths in courting Putin and avoiding any criticism of Russia, including after Russia’s illegal annexation of Crimea and the start of the war in eastern Ukraine. In March 2022, Russia announced that it did not intend to continue the talks and practically ruled out giving up any of its territories, with Russian Security Council Deputy Chairman Dmitry Medvedev stating that “negotiations about the Kurils always had a ritualistic character”.

So far, the West has been surprised by Russia’s ability to bear the heavy cost for its invasion of Ukraine. In Western societies, human life is priceless; in Russia, it is cheap. The Russian regime has been able to rely on seemingly endless waves of expendable soldiers and a harsh redirection of its economy to defense production in ways that would be far too costly for any democratic leader. What can be fatal for a Russian leader, however, is any perceived weakness and the failure to uphold Russia’s greatness. Most Russians want to live in a great country that dominates others, and they are ready to accept sacrifices for this cause, as documented in detail in books by Svetlana Alexievich, Jade McGlynn, and others.

Western leaders have talked a lot about the need to raise the cost of Russian aggression. But they have failed to effectively implement economic sanctions and have still not allowed Ukraine to use Western long-range weapons to attack military targets on Russian territory. By bringing the war to Russia nonetheless, Ukraine has proven that there is space to be bolder and more innovative in making the Russians pay a painful price for their desired greatness—a greatness that is built on invading and occupying other nations.

Russia is not going to withdraw from Ukraine unless it is forced to go—or to pay an unbearable price to stay. There is absolutely nothing in Russian history or recent behavior that suggests Moscow could be expected to negotiate in good faith to reach a compromise. Some territorial concessions from Ukraine may eventually be the price worth paying for peace and freedom—but this remains moot until Russia first gets to the point where it believes that further aggression can bring no gains.

Full restoration of Ukraine’s territorial integrity will likely require another collapse of the Russian empire. It may be years ahead, but Russia’s historical trajectory suggests that it will happen at some point, as the country has shown itself to be incapable of correcting course through evolution rather than revolution. A Western “reset” with the current regime will not be possible without sacrificing Ukraine’s independence and the core principles of the European security order, including the principles of sovereignty and territorial integrity.

Whether losing Ukraine will be the final death toll for the Russian empire, only time will tell. And even then, Russia’s neighbors will always have to be prepared for its violent imperialism to rebound.

[unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240]

Genuine question for those of you who say that you want the dissolution of all states. What do you envision in place of states in terms of:

Logistics (i.e. making sure every area has the basic resources it needs in order to function and people not die for lack of water, food, fuel, medical supplies, etc.) Like not assigning these things necessarily but literally just getting them to various far-flung places.

Security (how do you prevent people from outside the area coming in and taking everything including resources, land, people, etc.) How do you prevent authoritarian groups coming in and occupying your formerly peaceful, non-hierarchical society?

Supporting people outside of affinity networks or within rigid social systems (a lot of disabled people, queer people, and other people on the social, familial, and religious outs are gonna die without some kind of appropriate systems in place to meet these needs.)

Addressing major environmental challenges that require cooperation over vast areas of land, if not global cooperation.

Rule of law, especially when it comes to human rights, freedom of movement, freedom of religion/culture, dispute resolution between governing bodies of whatever variety that doesn't involve war, etc. but also just like, basic laws governing interpersonal relationships (preventing rape, murder, theft, etc. and addressing the aftermath of those things in a humane, just way.)

Peaceful transition from states to whatever it is you imagine taking their place, without hemorrhaging lives from the most vulnerable populations.

And like, there's more that I'm sure I'd have questions about too, but these concerns are so basic that I just cannot continue the conversation without knowing what the plan is for these essential tenets of an organized society.

Don't get me wrong: I don't love states and wish we had a better system too. I am also painfully aware that states are failing many if not most of these all the time. However, what I would need to know is how what you are proposing is better than trying to improve what currently exists and isn't going to come at the cost of catastrophic loss of human life, human cultures, animal life, and land destruction. And not in a pie-in-the-sky way, a realpolitik way.

[lexosaurus]

Everything Was White: Part 24

[see all chapters]

read on: [ao3] [ffn] (please read tags)

Summary: After being accidentally revealed to the public and taken away by the government, Danny deals with the aftermath of his time with the GIW.

****

Danny tossed a low-powered ecto-ball between his hands, letting it trail across his flowing aura before pushing it back the way it came. Back and forth, over and over again.

It was exactly the sort of monotonous task he needed while he thought.

The primary issue Danny had with his new partnership with Drew was that he, admittedly, was broke.

Very broke.

He'd spent the last of his measly savings account on Christmas gifts for his family. And even if he asked his parents to reinstitute a chore chart that he could feasibly do now, even then, his $20-per-week allowance wouldn't come close to what buying opioids from Drew was going to cost.

Which, as it turned out, was a lot. Danny had no idea how expensive oxycodone was, but as he found out, it was way more than he thought it would be. 

Thankfully, Drew seemed to be at least a halfway decent guy and informed Danny that hydrocodone or Percocet might be a little more in his budget. And sure, they weren’t as good as oxy, but right now, Danny would take anything.

But considering his current savings of zero dollars and zero cents, even a single hydrocodone pill was too costly.

It would have been so much easier if he could publicly be Phantom. Because then, he could just do what other celebrities did and host an occasional livestream on social media, giving bashful shoutouts when people donated money. With as huge of a celebrity as Phantom was, it wouldn't take long for him to get a month's supply of medication.

But no, Phantom was still a secret, and Fenton was pretty unemployable right now too. And that was a problem. A huge problem. It meant that neither Phantom nor Fenton could get money for drugs.

Which Danny needed. Badly.

He hadn't slept last night. It was his first night without in weeks, and he couldn't sleep. 

Drew had texted him that morning that he could come by anytime today and pick up as much as he wanted. The issue was, all Danny had to pay with was a blossoming headache and the whining of his increasingly angry nerves.

He couldn't just rob a bank. They all had so much anti-ghost security; they probably had ecto-signature readers and shields. Not to mention, if he got caught, he could kiss his freedom goodbye.

He didn't sleep last night. He needed those damn pills. At this rate, his heart was going to beat out of his damn chest.

Tomorrow was his IEP meeting where they planned to talk about switching him to a full school day with regular classes. He was going to be a normal student again, or at least partially.

There was no fucking way he'd be able to get through that meeting without support.

But what could he do? He had no money.

Then, a snake-like voice wormed into the darkest shadow of his mind and hissed, But your parents have money. They're famous now too.

His breathing stopped.

He stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling, the ecto-ball fizzling out in midair.

No. There was no way he'd just thought that.

There was no way he'd even consider it. His parents worked hard for their money, and stealing from them would be a new low Danny didn't think he'd ever be able to come back from.

But why? the voice asked. It sounded innocent in the most insincere way.

It disgusted him.

They were his parents. They were the ones that got him home! They cared about him!

All their money they have now? That's because of you, Danny. That's because you're their son. Why should they get all of it when you were the one who sacrificed his body, his health, everything to the Guys in White? Why do they get to profit off your fame while you get nothing?

No, people were buying their designs. He'd helped them become a recognizable brand, sure, but at the end of the day, people bought their tech because it worked.

And it works because of you. Phantom was their muse. Phantom was the reason they designed half the pieces they did. You deserve compensation for your work.

No.

No.

No.

But I'm right, Danny. You know I'm right.

The voice was right, but that didn't mean that he needed to stoop to that depravity and steal from his fucking parents.

He was a good person. He wouldn’t do something like that.

But did he really have a choice?

They owe you. You wouldn't need to do this if they’d let you be Phantom.

That was true…but still…

Why fight me? You've already made up your mind.

No, he hadn't. The voice was right, he needed to do this, but…but…

What if they caught him? 

They won't notice. You know how they get when they're all wrapped up in a new project.

That was true.

Just this once. Just until you can figure some other way out.

Okay. Just this once.

Danny released a shuddering breath.

Just this once.

He transformed and grabbed hold of his intangibility and invisibility, slinking through the floor into the kitchen. Hovering near the ceiling, he looked down, the knot in his chest only releasing once he saw the coast was clear.

Of course it was clear. His parents were glued to their work.

If they saw him, they'd hate him. They'd send him back to the hospital, or ground him, or do a mix of both. They'd install the new chip in him and never take it out.

He needed to be quick.

He darted to the living room where, on a side table against the wall, there was a fruit bowl containing a few key rings, a mini ecto-gun, and a wallet.

His dad's wallet, to be specific. Jack Fenton had a habit of misplacing his wallet and wasting precious time tearing the house apart to find it just when the family was in a hurry to leave, so this fruit bowl was installed. Now, upon entering the home, Jack always dropped his keys and wallet in the bowl.

It was just sitting there. Waiting for Danny to open it up and glimpse the goodies that lay inside.

He wrapped delicate fingers around the worn leather wallet, unfurled the sides, and almost cried with happiness.

A hundred and fifty dollars now rested in the palm of his hand. It wouldn't buy him much, but it would buy him time. And if he was smart and rationed appropriately, it might buy him enough time to figure out what to do about Phantom.

He was going to be okay.

Breathe.

It was going to be okay.

****

Rain pattered on the roof above him. Around him, voices hushed to a lull.

Danny relaxed into his chair. His head felt light and clear, and his previous nerves had been swept away by the passing breeze of two little white pills on his palm.

Glancing around the conference room, he recognized some faces in the dim light. Mr. Lancer and Ms. Perez settled into their chairs, exchanging pleasantries with his parents and a woman Danny didn't know.

Or maybe, he had met her. He wasn't sure. There was a lot from last fall he didn't remember.

Fatigue edged his vision, and he fought the yawn, losing briefly. He couldn't help it. It was rare that his body was just so relaxed. 

He hoped he wasn't being suspicious. He just needed to be convincing enough for these perceptive adults to place him in a normal classroom again. That meant no nerves, no shaky voice, nothing that could make them doubt for a second that he didn't belong with his peers.

The voices settled in the room, and a few people muted their phones and slipped them into their pockets. The woman Danny didn't recognize with frizzy brown hair and glasses nodded to the group and said, "Thank you."

The last of the wandering attention had snapped onto her now, and she began. “Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for being here for Danny’s IEP meeting. Today, our goal is to review the current plan and Danny’s progress in the learning center, and update his IEP for his transition into the inclusion setting."

Danny glanced around the table, and everyone else seemed to be nodding to her words like this were rehearsed. 

“Why don’t we start with introductions?” the woman said. “I’m Lina Fayed, the special education coordinator.”

“I’m Sam Morin, the school psychologist.”

“I’m William Lancer, Mr. Fenton’s homeroom and English teacher.”

“I’m Jocelyn Hill, the speech-language pathologist,” said a woman Danny had unfortunately become familiar with.

Although, he’d never known her name.

…and just like that, it was gone from his brain.

“I’m Yasmin Perez, Danny’s special education teacher.”

“I’m Maddie Fenton, Danny’s mother.”

“I’m Jack Fenton, Danny’s father.”

It was Danny's turn, but fatigue was pushing at his eyelids, and he didn't feel like speaking. He supposed he should have been embarrassed, but he was too busy enjoying the feeling of his muscles melting into the cushioned seat under him to feel much of anything at all.

"I'm Danny Fenton," he said with a buttery tongue. 

If only it could always be this easy to speak.

“Alright! Thank you, everyone, for the introductions, and thank you, Danny, for being here with us. We always encourage students to attend their IEP meetings when they enter high school. To begin, the purpose of today’s meeting is a reassessment of Danny’s IEP to determine his placements for the next semester. We will review Danny’s current levels of performance, which will also include his evaluation results, strengths, weaknesses, concerns from team members, progress toward goals, proposed goals, placement options, and services for access in the general education classroom. Before we start, are there any time limitations today?”

“None for us,” Maddie said. “And again, thank you all for meeting with us.”

“Of course. As I said, we all want the reintegration process to go as smoothly as possible for Danny. Just a reminder, if the IEP reconvene cannot conclude today, we will schedule another meeting as soon as possible. But with that out of the way, let’s continue the meeting!”

They didn't have to worry about that because they wouldn’t need a second meeting. Everyone was going to see how well he’d progressed, how calm and confident he now was, and they would release him into the normal, general ed classroom.

The coordinator was now discussing legal rights and handing some pieces of paper to Danny’s parents. It was probably a load of word salad, likely said to cover the school’s ass. Maddie had warned Danny that these meetings could get a bit official, and a bit boring.

But again, they didn’t need to stress about any of that. They could just shove him in a classroom, and he was sure he would adapt without any complications.

“…are there any discussion areas you would like to add to the agenda?” the coordinator asked, though more to Danny’s parents than to him.

“None that we can think of.” Maddie shot a questioning look at Jack, then to Danny himself.

It took Danny a second to realize they were looking at him expectantly. He shrugged.

“Alright, continuing, decisions about Danny’s placement and supports are made through a consensus. Although team members may have varying opinions on certain decisions, consensus is built when all team members come together for the final decision. Does everyone agree and support this?”

All heads around the table nodded.

The coordinator gave what Danny assumed was supposed to be a warm nod, though she looked slightly stiff doing it. Perhaps, she was nervous because of what he was. Which, if that was the case, she shouldn't have been.

Phantom was the town's protector. He was the good guy.

See? It was okay.

His core twinged in dissent, and it took him a moment to remember that he hadn’t actually done any protecting lately. But just when his brain began to spiral, the medication took charge, shushing him and lulling his fears back to sleep.

There was no reason to be stressing about that right now.

So, he tuned back into the conversation where the coordinator was now addressing Danny's parents directly.

"Here is a copy of your Parent’s Rights and Procedural Safeguards. Please remember that it is very important that you are actively involved in the educational planning for your child and that the IEP team will make no changes in your child’s program or services without your input, knowledge, and consent. Do you understand your Parents’ Rights? Would you like to review or discuss any part of them?"

She handed some papers to them across the table and said a few more legal buzzwords. Danny's parents responded, though Danny couldn't really hear them. Not because they were being quiet, but just because his brain had decided to take a small break.

They tossed words back and forth, at one point looking at him like they wanted something, though Danny couldn't understand what or why. So he simply said, "Yeah."

There was a pause, and then Maddie supplied, "Danny, you understand that you can provide input too? That since you're in high school, everyone at this table will consider your opinions about your education seriously?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course." He yawned.

He hoped he was conveying exactly how calm he felt about this meeting. He was all better now, he was all healed, he was truly a normal student and could be in a normal classroom.

See? Look at him, all confident and mature. If he were truly drowning in PTSD, could he be sitting here so nonchalantly with all these adults discussing his problems?

“Alright, so now diving into the drafted IEP, I'd like to begin by going over the current Transition Plan and update it with more of Danny’s input. The point of the transition plan is to look at the next one to five years and develop a vision for what Danny would like his life to look like after high school. Danny has begun working on his vision statement in learning center with Ms. Perez. Danny, would you like to share your current vision statement?"

Danny could only vaguely remember working on a vision statement in learning center, and he was pretty sure he hadn't finished it.

Still, he looked down at one of the sheets of paper placed before him, searching until he saw his chicken-scratch handwriting. Although he hadn't noticed it before, his handwriting had definitely improved since last fall. Where before it was barely legible, now at least he could read it without too much squinting.

"Um..." Danny's tongue felt heavy, but his head was light. "I'd like to get better at math. I missed a lot of math this year and I don't want to have to repeat algebra two next year. I'd like to earn my high school diploma and attend either a community college or a regular college after high school. I want to work in a field with space or engineering, but I'm worried that my—my current issues might prevent that from happening." He glanced at his parents, who at least appeared to be listening to him. "I'd like to be in all general education classes by the end of the year."

To his delayed surprise, his mother smoothed his shirt sleeve as she praised him. "Good job, honey."

Something stirred in his stomach, but he was drifting too far from his body to decipher what kind of emotion it was.

It likely wasn't important anyway.

"Thank you for sharing." The coordinator beamed at him. “It's really important for the team to remember, as we continue through this meeting, that ultimately, our decisions regarding Danny's placement next semester and accommodations should all be in service of helping Danny work toward his goals both in and after high school. Danny, we understand your situation and history, and we understand that this has made the transition back to an academic environment tremendously difficult for you. Our goal in both this meeting and through this contract is to help provide the tools necessary to ease some of that stress.

"So, now for the present levels of performance. With Danny's injuries still healing, as well as the benefit to the healing process that his, uh, ghost half gives him"—Danny was impressed that she was able to say it so casually—"much of our assessment data from the fall may now be out of date. Typically, we retest every other year, but because of the nature of Danny's injuries, we will be conducting a full re-eval next fall at the beginning of the school year. So this IEP meeting will be using the evaluations from last fall. However, we do have observational data from the BCBA that she's kindly summarized for us, as well as samples and reports from Mr. Lancer and Ms. Perez."

Danny didn't remember ever being observed. He wasn't even sure what a BCBA was or what she looked like. 

That meant that people were watching him while he didn't know. Hopefully, she had only seen the good things, the times when he'd been doing his work and paying attention and sitting still with a relaxed and calm face, just like he was doing now.

Hopefully, she hadn't seen those other times, like the other day when he took a nap in the middle of the learning center instead of doing his math work. Or that time when one of the footballers had asked him a question about Phantom and he'd been so thrown for a loop that he stuttered nonsense instead of responding like he normally would. 

Well, if she had seen those things, then everyone was probably really confused because his data may have painted him as emotionally unstable, but here he was, the perfect picture of mental health.

At this rate, his parents would have to give him the okay to have full access to his Phantom form.

"Presently," the coordinator continued, eyes glued to the sheets of paper in front of her, "Danny is a very bright young man receiving supports for health, academic, and social-emotional needs. Danny's able to come to school for half of the day to complete his schoolwork in the learning center with Ms. Perez. He's able to access the eleventh-grade core curriculum with significant modifications to his schoolwork, including a reduced workload, modified curriculum, and aide support for executive functioning. He is able to take his tests and quizzes in the learning center with an aide or Ms. Perez proctoring and assisting and redirecting as needed."

Ms. Perez took over, giving him a gentle grin as she did. "Yup, Danny's been working with me in the learning center for most of his current school day, and has been working both on his own, with a para, and with myself and various teachers who have prep and availability to visit our room during those hours. He’s been making steady progress catching up with the curriculum, but since he's only in school for half the day, he is behind on most subjects. Though, we have made some steady progress these last few weeks with the hopes that he will be able to finish out the year in the classroom."

"Yup! We're hoping Danno will be able to finish this year strong too! Right?" Jack turned to Danny, who had to remind himself that he was supposed to be making eye contact with the adults rather than studying how the scratches on the table were disrupting the reflections from the lights above.

"Huh? Yeah."

Jack beamed. "Atta boy!"

"That’s great!” the coordinator said. “And today, we’re going to discuss classroom placements for next semester, so I think a good segue into that would be to go over the current performance data we have on Danny. I'm going to go over both the evaluation scores and the recent data collected from Ms. Perez and the BCBA.

"In the psychoeducational eval, we assessed cognitive, academic, social-emotional, and behavioral functioning. Both Danny's parents and Danny's teachers reported global challenges across all areas of academic, internalization, externalization, and behavioral symptoms. According to the Weschler score summary, Danny's results indicate that verbal comprehension, processing speed, and working memory are all significant areas of weakness, although visual-spatial and fluid reasoning scored below average too. The academic achievement testing results showed that Danny could benefit from direct and explicit instruction across all subject areas, with areas of focus being reading and math..."

The coordinator's voice drifted off, becoming noise with the air vents and the puttering of raindrops against the roof. Danny could see her lips moving, he could see the other adults around nodding at what she was saying, but at this moment, he just couldn't find it in himself to care.

So what if some test results said something about how emotionally unavailable to math he was? Why should it matter? 

Life was short. There was no reason to waste it thinking about what a silly little test said.

And besides, he was Danny Phantom, wasn't he? Getting a job after high school would be a cinch.

He leaned back in his chair and let his head loll. It would have been such a nice day if not for the rain washing away the light dusting of snow they'd gotten the night before. 

It hadn't been a snowy winter. Maybe that would have been odd, but then again, it had been an odd year all around.

The woman was still talking. 

Wow.

It was kind of incredible how long people could talk for.

He wondered if he was supposed to be saying anything. But then, maybe it was better to remain silent because then maybe everyone would forget about those assessment results and his brain injury that was affecting his speech and making him sound more disabled than he was. 

So he sat there. The adults talked. At one point, his parents had looked at him in confirmation, and he'd nodded. They seemed pleased at that, which was great because pleasing his parents meant he was following their instructions, and following their instructions meant that maybe they'd realize he was mentally sound enough to handle having his ghost half back.

"...I've noticed that Danny tends to shut down when he encounters a difficult problem, or when he gets stuck on an assignment and gets frustrated. He does respond relatively well to redirection, although some days are tougher than others," Lancer was saying.

"I can get better at that," Danny interjected.

He must have been sitting in silence for a while because a few of the adults seemed surprised that he spoke. The speech counselor, however, gave him a thumbs up. She was always praising him for what she kept calling "self-advocacy." 

Maddie glanced at Danny. "His doctors believe this to be a side effect." 

A side effect of what? 

"And we agreed as well, which is why we chose to list that as one of the updated IEP goals. Do you agree, Danny?" the school psychologist asked.

"Sure."

See? Easygoing and calm.

"So, Danny will respond to redirection with no more than two prompts eight out of ten times as measured across a six-month period," the coordinator recited. "And to help with this, along with the other listed accommodations and goals, we recommend he receive aide support in his general education courses for the remainder of the semester."

Danny blinked at the coordinator.

He was pretty sure his brain was behaving a little slower than normal because, for a second there, it sounded like the coordinator had just said the words "aide support."

"We completely agree," Maddie said. To Danny's bewilderment, she put her hand on his arm and began lightly stroking his sleeve with her thumb. 

"As do I," Lancer said.

Danny's jaw opened, and he couldn't tell whether he should stare at Lancer in awe or betrayal. His brain was too jumbled to piece together any tangible emotions anyway. 

For a second, he almost wished he weren't high. But then, that was a silly thought. Because if he were sober right now, he might have started yelling.

Perhaps Lancer was worried about these diminished emotions in Danny bubbling to the surface and causing a scene, because he held Danny's gaze as he said, too seriously and compassionately, "This is not a punishment, nor is this a one-on-one. You will still be a normal student. There will be another adult in all your classes. She will help you when you need it, and she’ll leave you alone when you do not."

When Lancer put it like that, it was fine, wasn't it? Maybe that was the denial talking, or the fog shielding his brain from the shadows, but it was okay. 

“There are lots of students who receive inclusion support,” the psychologist added. “You’re not the first, nor the only student in the building.”

Yeah. He was still going to be a normal student attending normal classes. No one would have to know that the aide was there for him. Not if he did all his work in a timely manner and focused and took notes and raised his hand and always paid attention to what the teacher was saying and...and...

"Danny understands," Maddie said. She was still rubbing his arm. "Right?"

"Right."

"See? It's all okay!" Jack said.

And, right. It was all okay. Right now, he had nothing to worry about. 

He would be fine. He was going to be so fine. He was going to do good in classes—great, even! He was Phantom after all, and Phantom was cool, popular, and everything that Fenton had always wanted to be. Aide or no aide, he was going to be fine.

So, he let himself bask in that delusion under the safety of the fog, and he was very calm and behaved appropriately for the rest of the meeting. No outbursts, no crying, because everything was wonderful!

Everything was so wonderful.

If he just let the drugs take the wheel.

****

Danny lay on the roof, staring up at the partially cloud-covered sky above him. The air smelled of rain, earthy and electric, and felt of decaying humidity. He tried to admire the way the stars twinkled, he tried to differentiate the red ones from the white ones to play his old game of which was moving the fastest toward and away from Earth, he tried to find Mars and Saturn, usually visible in the sky.

But everything seemed so…

He didn’t know.

He never, never thought that he would seriously be the student who had to get…this. Whatever this was in that stupid, twenty-thousand-page contract.

Were all IEP documents that many pages? Or was it just Danny’s?

Ms. Perez’s learning center had a para. He remembered there being a para in his history class last year too. This annoying, mousy woman who joined midway through the year and kept harassing Danny to “stay in the classroom, please, don’t leave! Where are you going?”

But he never seriously thought that he would be the sole cause of an aide joining a class. Or all his classes.

Would the other students know? Would the aide always be hovering over his shoulder? Or would it be like last year, where the para walked around the room and spent most of her time with the rowdy boys in the back of the class?

Danny had so many questions. And so many fears. None of which could be solved by a white pill.

Which, judging by the steadily increasing burning in his chest, was just about due.

But that would require getting up. It would require going home. It would require turning back into his human form.

All things Danny didn’t want to do.

So he stayed there, trying to ignore the prickling in his chest, distracting himself with the preview of the night sky he could see through the clouds. He ignored the fact that he didn’t understand why he didn’t want to go home.

And he lay there until a slightly muffled voice, one that drove spikes into Danny’s stomach, piped up from behind him. “Phantom? Danny?”

Shit.

It was just his freaking luck.

He debated turning around and offering his friendly, signature Phantom wave that he used to give back when he was trying to win her over.

But he just didn’t have the energy for that tonight. And besides, there was no point. There was nothing left to win.

“Danny,” Valerie repeated, though not a question this time.

“S’me,” he responded dully.

She landed beside him, retracting her hoverboard, and from the corner of his eye, he watched as she twisted her gloves together and studied her boots.

Good. Let her feel uncomfortable for once.

“Hey. You have your ghost form back?” she tried.

“Yup.”

Despite his internal voice begging him to try a little, he did not sound enthusiastic at all.

“Oh. Um, that’s nice.” She took a hesitant step toward him.

Was she afraid of him?

“Sure is,” he said. If possible, his tone was even blander than before.

His chest was really hurting. And he was tired. Something dark was beginning to crawl in the corners of his eyes. He clearly wasn’t up for this, so maybe they could wrap this conversation up?

“Um…the tail…it’s—it’s—” she stammered.

His eyes narrowed.

“You know, I wasn’t sure—”

“What, if I’d have legs as a ghost? Well, I’m sure it’s really pleasing for you to see that I obviously don’t.”

Danny couldn’t see her expression under the mask, but judging by how she stepped back, he guessed he’d struck a blow to her confidence.

After all the shit he’d been through, she could take one measly little dig.

The silence stretched between them, dark and twisting, pulsing like a wave filling Danny’s hollow body with all the resentment he’d been burying for months and years. His skin prickled while shadows loomed over his eyes, and suddenly, it was too much. Hiding was too much.

He pushed himself upright to mimic a seated position, his glower snapping to her because really? After everything he’d been through, she was going to bring up his paraplegia? That was how she really planned on opening this conversation?

After she’d tried so long to eradicate not just his lower half, but his entire fucking body?

His brain quietly pinged that he needed to leave now. He didn’t feel right. It was going to get too dark soon. 

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to say that.” She held her arms up, placating. “I—I never wanted…”

Her voice trailed off, and for good reason. Such a good reason, in fact, that Danny snorted. “You’re such a liar, Val.”

His tone was a deathly sharp dagger slicing whatever clumsy air simmered between them. Raw emotions spilled out, ripping both their histories to the forefront and pouring them all on the ground between them. 

“I know!” Valerie slapped her helmet, her hand trembling as she exclaimed, “I know last year I was trying to…to…ugh!”

She crouched low on the gravel, and her fingers dug into her carbon-fiber head.

Danny didn’t say anything. Just watched. He didn't understand this emotion bubbling in his chest. Why it made him want to snap, lash out, hurt Valerie.

He didn’t understand why he couldn’t leave.

“You never told me who you were,” she said, her voice like sand on stone. “How was I supposed to know? I would never have hunted you if I’d known.”

If anything, her words further deepened the hole that leaked his stock of patience from his body. “If that was supposed to be reassuring, it sucked. Oh, so I’m sup—supposed to be thankful now that I have a human heartbeat, because if I—if I didn’t, then what? You would have no remorse killing me? Well, guess fucking what, Val, I don’t have a heartbeat in this form.”

He wasn’t supposed to say that out loud, but he really didn’t give a shit. Valerie was many things, but a snitch was not one of them.

Valerie dropped her gloves from her helmet screen, and Danny could imagine her dumbstruck face locking eyes with his.

Good.

He spread his arms out wide, giving her the best shot he could. “If you want to fucking blow my brains out, here’s your opportunity!”

But she didn’t move a muscle.

“Well?” he said, after the silence was beginning to turn awkward. “What the hell are you—are you waiting for?”

Another beat, then a quiet, “You were my friend. No, my boyfriend. I broke up with you because…because…”

“Because of Phantom."

“And you let me.”

“What, did you seriously expect me to just—just out myself to you like that?”

What should have been an easy “no” left Valerie in silence.

“Come on, Val, you of all people should know why I couldn’t say anything. You were at my fucking house. You saw…”

Danny couldn’t finish. You saw me, he wanted to say. You saw everything they did to me.

She finally sat on the roof. Not right next to him, of course. They weren’t ready for that yet. She gave him—or herself, Danny couldn’t tell—several feet of space. But she was sitting, where before, she would have been attacking.

“I was so mad when you were revealed. So mad.”

Darkness nipped at his cheeks, and he bit down the urge to snap at her again.

“I had made a whole speech I was going to give you when you got out. Had rehearsed it in the mirror and everything.” Her voice grew weak. “I was so stupid to believe what they were saying. That it was just an imprisonment.”

“You were,” Danny said, not kindly, because really, she should have known. “You'd heard them before. You knew what—what they were going to do to me. You wanted to do that...too, I bet." 

“Nothing like that,” Valerie snapped. “Even in my worst moments, I would never have done anything like that.”

The darkness slithered up his throat, and he didn't fight it when it took control of him and snarled, “Well, I guess I should—I should be flattered, then. You wanted to kill me, but at least you didn’t want to torture me on the way out!”

“You ruined my life, Danny. And your parents always talked about how evil ghosts were. What the hell did you expect?”

Oh, so they were going there. 

“I ruined your life, how—how, exactly? Because now you know—you know that I don’t have a dog, Val. So whose dog was that?”

“Just because he’s not your dog doesn’t mean you don’t babysit him all the time. I’ve seen those TikToks!”

“That weekend? In Axiom? That was the first time I’d ever met Cujo!”

“So he has a name, now?”

Danny wanted to scream. “Of course he has a name! He’s a dog! He’s a dog that your dad killed!”

“Shut up!” Her helmet whipped over to him again. “Don’t you dare talk about my dad!”

“Well, it was! Your dad’s security system replaced Axiom’s last one. Wanna know what the last secure—last security system was? Because it wasn’t a piece of—of technology, Val!”

“Shut up!” Valerie’s voice broke.

Danny should have felt like an asshole, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked numbly as Valerie’s chest moved erratically, and listened as her cries ripped from her throat. And all he could feel was the urge to scream that he needed to leave and go home because it was going to be too dark soon, and he didn't understand what that meant but just that he knew he needed to flee.

“No, no, no. My dad—my dad would never do anything like that,” Valerie said through clenched teeth. She retracted her helmet finally, her hands mopping her eyes and runny nose. “He would never.”

But Danny didn’t stop. “Cujo was just trying to get his squeaky toy back from one of—one of the closets inside. He was looking for it. He wasn’t trying to do—to do anything else. Once he got his toy, he…he left. He went back to the Zone. Whatever happened to your dad, that wasn’t my fault.”

He always fantasized about the moment when he could finally sit Valerie down and explain himself. In all his daydreams, he approached her with empathy and understanding, and they ended their discussion with an embrace.

So what the hell was wrong with him tonight?

Why did he suddenly remember all the months she spent hunting him down, shooting him with every weapon in her arsenal, consequences to his body be damned. More than one night, he’d had to stitch his skin back together because of her.

Sam was always the one angry about that—not Danny. Danny always had excuses for Valerie. She didn’t know he was Phantom, she was going through a hard time, he didn’t figure out what Cujo was after soon enough. 

But deep down inside, had he always been this angry?

“Fuck,” she murmured.

She was right. This—no, they were fucked up. Their relationship was fucked up. Danny was fucked up.

And Valerie had seen that, the day she visited him in his bedroom. Back when he used to trace the cracks in his wall because without that, he couldn’t be sure he existed at all.

“Why did you come visit me that day?” Danny finally asked. “You knew I—I’d just gotten home from the hospital. You knew—”

“I didn’t,” Valerie said, wiping her eyes. “I mean, I knew you’d gotten out of the hospital, but I didn’t know, really. I mean, I didn’t know the extent of…it.”

Danny cocked his head. “I thought I was all over the news? That’s what they told me.”

“Yeah, but not you. Just people talking about you. Or old videos of you. There were rumors online, but nothing substantial.”

“So that—that’s why you thought it was just an imprisonment.” Danny stared down at the foggy mist that was his spectral tail.

“I was in denial," Valerie said.

“Yeah.” 

He wondered if he would ever get his legs back in this form. 

This darkness was beginning to get suffocating.

It was stemming from his chest, he realized.

He heard his voice ask, “Did you like what you saw? That day in my room?” 

“That’s sick, Danny.”

But again, he didn’t care. He didn't know why, but he didn't care. “What? I didn’t put—put on a good enough show for you? All drugged up like that?”

He wanted to stop. He was a good person; why was he saying this? His words didn’t even have any bite left to them. They were just…hollow. Just like the rest of him.

“You know that’s not true. Just stop, please.”

Was he an asshole?

No. No, he wasn’t.

“Sorry,” he conceded with.

He really needed another pill. He should have taken one with him before he left. He was so stupid for leaving all of them behind.

The darkness agreed with him. 

You should take another pill now, a voice said in barely a whisper.

The darkness growled. It sounded like a dog.

“What was the trial like?” he asked, trying to ignore the pain in his chest.

“You mean you haven’t seen it?” She sounded startled.

"No."

"Oh..." Valerie shifted awkwardly. "Um...I don't really know. It's on YouTube, you know?"

"I don't want to see it."

He should have gone home. He should have listened to the darkness.

There's still time for you to save yourself.

"Yeah, I got you. Um, I don't know, though. The legal jargon slipped over my head. And it was pretty fast, you know? There was a big celebration in town when the judge ordered you to be freed."

That was ironic, he realized. That while the town was celebrating, he had been dying from the final incision.

"What did they do to you in there?" her quiet voice said.

The air was getting darker now. Soon, the stars might be gone from view.

And the shadows were beginning to eat his skin.

So instead of answering, Danny turned invisible and flew away.

****

previous / next

****

Thank you to @imekitty for betaing the chapter!

[kanangul]

After spending a childhood in isolation, Mikhail has finally been able to find freedom in academia. Pursuing the passion of their only solace; the forever gentle sound of song. Though, Mikhail has lived a life of naivety. A life shielded by the harsh faith of their church and family. Now Mikhail will discover the dark underbelly of the city of Vilyuchka — and what it means to be a composer in a city where crime and music are one in the same.

Demo: July 2024

The Garden Sanctuary is an 18+ horror, lesbian romance, and erotica interactive fiction. It takes place in a world built in Gaslamp Fantasy, with Art-Deco and 1920s influences. It is planned to be a browser-based visual novel style experience, with multiple illustrations and CGs placed throughout.

(Character bios and additional info can be found under the cut.)

CONTENT WARNING: The Garden Sanctuary is a HORROR and EROTICA interactive fiction. CWs include gore, violence, body horror, body dysmorphia, gender dysphoria, as well as internal and external transphobia, homophobia/lesbophobia, and ableism. The Garden Sanctuary also portrays critical views of the effects of CSA and incest from a personal perspective. (No on screen depictions, just the aftermaths of such events.)

MC: Mikhail Ilyushin - The Composer - They/Them

Mikhail Ilyushin was raised in one of the many churches of Vilyuchka who follow the single god of Lithos. From birth they were seen as sick, in body and mind alike. Thus they were sheltered from the rest of society in an attempt to protect their frailty from the outside world. During their time in the church they would occupy their dark upbringing with their passion for music. Mikhail had given up on the prospects of freedom. Until one day their overbearing family was contacted by a mysterious sponsor, who was somehow able to convince them to allow Mikhail to attend the University of Saint Yelena in order to pursue becoming a professional composer.

RO: Watcher Uriel - Patron of Pestilence - He/She/They

Watcher Uriel, the cursed angel forced to live on the outskirts of the city. Their very existence brings sickness. Her appearance is gruesome, no matter how hard she tries to mask her true form under a mortal glamor. In spite of the nature of their very existence, they long for only one thing: Love and affection. They are the head of a fanatic cult, obsessed with finding love for their holy angel. Nonetheless Watcher Uriel remains on the ceaseless hunt to find a soulmate. No matter the cost.

RO: Lucia Blackhart - The Violet Songstress - She/Her

Perhaps one of your only hopes of learning what the life of a composer entails. Lucia is not only a prolific melodist herself, she's also an extremely elusive detective. The catch: she only works with criminals in the Vilyuchkan Underbelly. Her allegiances are never set in stone. And while her services are invaluable, you can never fully set your trust in the Violet Songstress. Bonus Route: Because of her good natured relationship with Caim, it is possible to pursue a polyamorous route between the two of them.

RO: Caim - The Wonderland Ensemble, one of the Five Kings of the Vilyuchkan Underbelly - They/Them

Caim is a demonic being who surfaced in Vilyuchka many decades ago. Since then they have founded the Wonderland Ensemble, a ruthless crime syndicate known for its equal worship of pleasure and pain. Caim is an absolutely ruthless criminal, earning them the title of one of the Five Kings; a designation for the most dangerous and esteemed crime bosses in the Vilyuchkan Underbelly. Bonus Route: Because Caim is great friends with Lucia Blackhart, it is possible to pursue a polyamorous route between both of them.

RO: Headmaster Stelliana - Beholder of the Moon - She/Her

Headmaster Stelliana is the only companion you will meet on your journey that has the privilege of participating in regular society. She's a highly respected scholar, and lead of the academic group known as the Beholders of the Moon. Though she just poses as an intellectual elite, she holds a dark secret. Her and her fellow Beholders are apart of a cult seeking to resurrect the Old Gods. Only she and her fellow scholars know what this entails, and what fate this may bring about.

RO: ████████████ ████████████ ██████ ███ █████████

Something about this presence seems familiar. Yet foreign. I can feel my heart pounding against my ribcage. Is it fear, or is it fiery yearning that I feel? Nonetheless something inside of me burns. Threatening to sear through my sternum and breach the skin along my breast. Until we meet again.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

THE RESULT OF THE DISNEY SURRENDER

TCinLA

Dec 16, 2024

The thing many people miss in looking at Hitler’s takeover of Germany is how fast it happened. Within 30 days of his acceptance of the Chancellorship on January 31, 1933, the Reichtag had passed the Enabling Act in the aftermath of the Reichstag Fire, which enabled Hitler to rule by decree. Before real resistance could be organized, it had been kneecapped.

Within weeks after that, trade unions and the Christian Democrat, the Socialist and the Communist parties had all been declared illegal. Hitler had wiped out his political opposition by mid April. The first prisoners arrived at Dachau concentration camp the first week of May - they were all political prisoners; any Jew among them was there for politics.

A similar speedy move against political opponents is building within the coming Trump administration.

For years, Trump has brought defamation suits against news organizations who have demonstrated their temerity in accurately reporting his crimes. All have been unsuccessful because the organizations he sued said on being served the papers for the suit, “See you in court.” Trump always dropped the suit when it got to the point he was going to have to sit for a deposition, because every lawyer who represented him knew he couldn’t survive a deposition; on the very few occasions where he did sit for a deposition, he was caught perjuring himself.

Until this past weekend. Until Disney - a company with a market cap of $200 billion - decided that $16 million was “the cost of doing business,” chump change, and settled a suit they had every likelihood of winning, a suit Trump was likely to drop this week after a judge ordered him last Friday to sit for a deposition no later than this coming Friday.

Disney isn’t in the news business. They own ABC and a few other “news” organizations, but those entities are not major revenue centers. Disney is in the business of running parks like Disney World and Disneyland, and they are not interested in being targeted again as they were by Governor DeSantis in Florida.

So they settled. As Josh Marshall put it today, the $16 million was their initiation fee for joining TrumpWorld.

Several legal commentators have recently written about the possibility that Disney settled because they were worried that if they did win with the New York Times v Sullivan defense - which they almost certainly would have - that Trump would appeal his loss to the Supreme Court, where two of “his” six judges have already expressed a willingness to return to Times v Sullivan with a view to overturning it and getting rid of the “actual malice” rule regarding public persons suing for defamation.

A return to “ordinary” defamation, where all a litigant needs to establish is that the defamatory statement made is false, with no reference to “actual malice,” would mean that news organizations would pull back from aggressive investigations of individuals like Trump. We would experience a sharp drop in press freedom to publish.

However, Disney’s surrender also creates a precedent that leaves an opening for politically-motivated defamation suits. The result of this is also that news organizations will be reluctant to aggressively pursue a story, since their corporate owners who are not in the news business and do not care about freedom of the press, may not choose to support the news organization they own in such a fight.

In other words, heads Trump wins and tails Trump wins.

The Disney surrender is almost as good as the Supreme Court overturning Times v Sullivan in intimidating news organizations.

Saturday night, Steve Bannon spoke at the Gala put on by the New York City Young Republicans. The Guardian reported what he said:

“We want retribution and we’re going to get retribution. You have to. It’s not personal, it’s not personal. They need to learn what populist, nationalist power is on the receiving end.

“I need investigations, trials and then incarceration. And I’m just talking about the media. Should the media be included in the vast criminal conspiracy against President Trump? Should Andrew Weissmann on MSNBC, and Rachel Maddow, and all of them?

“We want all your emails, all your text messages, everything you did. You colluded in a conspiracy with Merrick Garland, Nancy Pelosi, Lisa Monaco and Jack Smith.”

Rachel Maddow may be “The $100 million woman” of progressive media, but she and others not as well-situated as she is have to wonder if their corporate overlords will defend them against spurious conspiracy charges, as news organizations would have in the days before the billionaires’ takeover of mainstream media. In Maddow’s case, would whatever is left of MSNBC - after the company was put in Brian Roberts’ “SpinCo” and separated from Comcast-Universal - have the resources to be able to do so? Would the Intergalactic Widgetmaker that purchases the “SpinCo” be willing to invest their resources in her defense? Would ABC risk having Trump’s FCC commissioners pull its broadcast license for defending Jake Tapper?

And after they’re finished ripping apart the major media, what happens to Meidas Network?

I am not advocating surrender. It will take awhile for them to work their way down to That’s Another Fine Mess, and in the meantime their corruption and incompetence in all else they try to do will be working against them. We of the new “alternative media” will likely survive by being the small mammals who stay out of the meadow where the big dinosaurs stomp.

I am pointing out that despite their corruption and incompetence, their inabilities to work and play well with others that will tie them in knots of their own making, there is a lot of chaos MAGA can create while they ultimately tear themselves apart.

And that chaos will only be strengthened by the willingness of billionaires like Bezos and Zuckerberg - who have bigger fish to fry than defending the free flow of information, and for whom a million dollar initiation fee to pay off Trump is couch change - and the corporations like Disney - to bend their knee to Trump the dictator. Their examples will encourage others to take the road of least resistance.

Trump has told us he intends to be a “dictator on day one.” He’s preparing to do exactly that right out in front of us, and the news media isn’t too likely to pay even as much attention as they have so far to what’s going to come.

[TCinLA]

[ataraxiaspainting]

Hier Encore III.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

[Hier Encore II.]

Synopsis: Yorknew Police Department Headquarters, 1995, April 10th. You are a director of public safety. The Phantom Troupe attacks the headquarters and takes you under the guise of a hostage situation. Even when the ransom is paid, you are never returned and assumed to be dead. After thirteen months of captivity, in 1996, on May 9th, you escape and try to learn how to live again somewhere far away from your captor. The payment of freedom comes with a steep cost, one that stains your hands so much that even if you drown them in bleach, the stain will remain there for the rest of your life.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectively, not SFW implications, misogynistic undertones (not from Chrollo), unhealthy relationships, manipulation o’clock, references to religion, mentions of starvation, some minor Hunter x Hunter spoilers, the reader has a panic attack, violence/gore, Hisoka showing up again sorry, minor character death, and stalking.

Word Count: 7k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Lacrimosa by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

4:00 A.M. by Taeko Onuki

My Girlfriend Is a Witch by October Country

Michelle by Sir Chloe

Sonne by Rammstein

Enemy by Imagine Dragons

Venus Fly Trap by MARINA

Maneater by Nelly Furtado

cult leader by KiNG MALA

Teacher’s Pet by Melanie Martinez 

"She looked like a vixen, and that’s what she was; she had all the instincts of a female fox. She was the proverbial predatory female. She had what she wanted, now, and she was content. There was just the getting completely away with it that counted.” – Gil Brewer, Sin for Me

iii. “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”

This morning, as you opened your eyes, a throbbing migraine greeted you. The aftermath of a nightmare always brought forth such a wretched morning. The reason behind these intense headaches following a night of unsettling dreams remains elusive, yet their unwavering arrival each morning remains an undeniable truth.

Perhaps the throbbing in your head stemmed from those restless evenings when you ingested copious amounts of caffeine to ward off sleep and reduce the likelihood of haunting visions of your former abductor returning for you.

Or perhaps it was how you sometimes cried in your sleep during those nightmares, curled on your side to prevent Sebaste from seeing your tears. Or perhaps it was the fact that you always pretended you were fine the morning after, holding back a sea of tears, and eventually, the fear piled like some sort of karmic debt. Perhaps it was all of those things combined. It would make sense. You still don’t know the exact reason, though. You were only aware of one thing–a throbbing headache that seemed destined to accompany you throughout the entire day like an unwanted hitchhiker. At least it was the first of November now, you guess.

No children at your door until midnight to collect candy from you and Sebaste. Maybe it was the constant opening and closing of your door and your repeatedly saying “treat” to the children that caused your migraine, now that you think about it. This village had most of the kids and some adults trick or treating, amounting to almost twenty people knocking on your door at different times of the day, some multiple times a day, to ask you for candy that you will give them if you do not want to get tricked. After sunset, you just put a bucket of candy at your door and called it a day, not wanting any other disturbances for the night. After a few minutes of rubbing your eyes and yawning, you eventually encouraged yourself to get up. You dragged yourself to the bathroom, your head throbbing and bouncing around as you groaned.

As usual, the morning after a nightmare you had of Chrollo resulted in you not being able to undress and take a shower. You have tried a few times. Whenever you closed your eyes and had your shirt or dress above your head, about to take it off completely, you would feel a presence behind you. You would immediately cover yourself back up and quickly turn on the lights.

Every time after a nightmare about Chrollo, you would practically be reduced to being an eight-year-old again. Sebaste sleeping next to you was the only way you could calm down a bit. On days Sebaste was on trips or sleeping at a friend’s house or just traveling in general, you would take your pillow and your blankets to the couch in the living room to sleep there as that is where your brightest lamp was. 

“It doesn’t matter.” You mutter to yourself, splashing cold water on your face to become more awake. 

On nights Sebaste was gone, you would always fall into an irregular slumber where you would jolt yourself awake every time you heard that calm and collected voice enter your dreams. You never cried when Sebaste was there, you only cried when he wasn’t. Even though crying sometimes made you less likely to go back to sleep, you had to express your fear sometimes, as rare as those times were. 

“What doesn’t?” Because of your exhaustion, it took you a second to realize that voice was Sebastian’s. But as soon as you put the dots together, the corners of your mouth curled upward slightly. There he was, behind you, yawning with his hair ruffled and large spots of black makeup still around his eyes, smudged.

Your head feels slightly better already.

You walk up to him and kiss his cheek, some of his white face paint getting on your lips. It feels dry and bitter, but you don’t mind it. If anything, you find it sort of endearing. Sebaste was so tired and drunk from celebrating Halloween with his friends that he had forgotten to wipe off the cosmetics. 

He was hungover, groaning and massaging his temples.

You feel hungover too, all without a single drop of alcohol in your bloodstream.

He hugs you and puts his head on your shoulder, his still-worn skeleton costume smelling like chemicals and beer. Perhaps a rest day would be good for you two.

“Nothing.” You say as your arms wrap around him. “Don’t worry about it.”

*~*~*~*

Tears stream down your face as you struggle and fight to push yourself off of your captor’s lap. Your efforts seemed futile, however, as you simply were not strong enough to push him away. No matter how hard you try to break free, his grip on your wrists and legs is too tight to fight off. The only thing you could do was to try your best to wipe away your tears and snot with the sleeves of your gray hoodie, the only long-sleeved shirt you were allowed to wear. 

With a heavy heart, shaky breath, and even shakier hands you stop fighting. Chrollo pulls you closer to him, praising you with sickeningly sweet nothings.

Chrollo's smile is almost cruel as he gazes down at you, mockingly.

“You’re so good, aren’t you?” He coos, and you find yourself likening his tone to the creaking sound of a rusty door opening. 

“At what?” You mutter, your voice cracked.

"At pleasing me." He whispers, his mouth hovering close to your ear. "You're quite the siren, you know that? Those tears of yours look rather beautiful on your cheeks." With that he gives you a gentle kiss on the tip of your nose, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Just like the rest of you," Chrollo whispers. "Stunning."

Chrollo hears your cries, yet he does nothing to console you. To him, a wounded animal is nothing but an attractive sight. He continues to kiss and nuzzle your neck, whispering loving and yet cruel words in your ear. You can feel his body pressed up against your own, your movements limited by his strong arms.

"Your tears are delicious, darling." He mumbles. "Just like the rest of you."

Chrollo can feel how your body trembles against his own, and this only serves to stoke his desire even further. He enjoys these displays of pure, genuine emotion. He trails his fingers up your arms and to your face, slowly caressing your tears away from your cheeks. 

"I didn't think that someone as gorgeous and charming as you could be so adorable when she cries." He whispers. "It's like your entire personality changes."

Chrollo's eyes travel down to you once more, taking in your face and your body with a slow, predatory gaze. He traces a finger all along your collarbone before moving it slightly lower.

"Look at you," He whispers. "You're like a painting come to life. It should be no wonder that I wanted to steal you." 

With that, he plants a kiss on your cheek, his touch as light as a feather. His breath blows against your skin, making you shiver. Your cries are music to his ears. The sound of your genuine anguish is something he finds intoxicating.

"That's it, darling," Chrollo whispers, his voice becoming increasingly husky and deep as he continues to shower your neck with kisses. "I know you want this just as much as I do."

His arms tighten around you yet again, his grip almost painful.

You look at the clock above the television. There are twenty minutes left before you are placed back in those silk restraints. You don’t know whether this is a good or bad thing for you.

*~*~*~*

Your stomach is warm from having the pleasant, wholesome dinner Sebaste had made. Eggplant parmesan and lemon salmon with amaranth, kale, and garlic. Delicious. He claims that he is a bad cook and that you are better at this stuff than he is, but you think otherwise. You hum happily as you feel comforted.

For the first time, you truly feel safe and protected because of how well Sebaste treats you. He is kind and caring, the opposite of what his stepfather says about him. Your heart and mind are still filled with anxiety but you know that Hisoka will keep his word and not tell the Phantom Troupe of your location. He does not seem to be a liar, despite being many other things. That gives you a twisted sense of comfort, in a way. 

But you can’t help but think about Chrollo.

You remember the moment after the massacre. You remember everything.

Your emotions from that day are still alive in you. You feel the same terror, the same fear, the same horror when you remember being tied up, all alone in Chrollo's penthouse.

You can't help but think of those emotions again now, as you're in your bed, trying so desperately to sleep. You remember the shock you felt and the terror. You remember how you desperately begged Chrollo to let you go, but he just kept coming at you, so soft yet so cruel.

You try hard to not remember. It is best not to think about it.

No, it's something that you try very hard not to remember but you still do. You remember the time Chrollo kept touching you. When he spoke in that sickening way as if he cared for you. All those touches, the words from his foul mouth. You remembered the feeling of that day. The coldness of his touch. The cruelty of his words.

"I’m willing to wait." 

That sentence is stuck in your head.

You do your best to distract yourself from those terrible memories, but they keep haunting you.

No, you don't want to go that far back in your memories, your mind tries to stop you. You don't want to remember those days.

When you think of the ways you kept seducing Chrollo to lower his guard, you feel disgusted.

You try to forget it.

You try to make those memories go away.

But they won't leave you alone.

You focus on them. Those memories, those feelings.

For some reason, you can't get them out of your mind.

You remember Chrollo's gifts, the way he slid clothes and jewelry onto your body like another chain. The bribes. The touches.

The fear, the helplessness of not being able to do anything to stop him. Of being forced to do what he wanted you to do. That desperate feeling of wanting to do anything if it means that you will escape.

You try to make that feeling go away, but it keeps following you. It keeps haunting you as if it is trying to punish you.

It's hard to forget those experiences.

It's hard to forget those memories.

It’s hard to forget Chrollo.

You don't want to think about them. But you can't help it.

The horror, the disgust, the helplessness.

A flashback washes over you.

It takes you to those days.

The gifts.

The touches.

The helplessness. The pain.

I want to go home.

That is what you wanted most and still do.

You feel yourself there again, in that horrible place.

Your body is shaking. The memories wash over you.

You see Chrollo's face, and you feel sickened.

The flashback hits your mind, and you feel completely alone, overwhelmed with fear and sadness.

You want to forget, but you can't. The memories are still there, haunting you.

You close your eyes. You feel yourself transported back to those days. You feel the cold shackles of the chains that bind your hands together. You feel a hand squeeze your inner thigh. You look up and you see Chrollo smiling at you. You feel like you'll go insane. You feel scared beyond belief. Chrollo's sick smile and his dark eyes, staring right back at you. You start crying. You scream in fear and despair. It's a nightmare. It's a horrible nightmare. You wish you could forget.

"Someone help me!” You scream.

Nobody can hear you.

It's like you're in a bubble, and the world around you doesn't exist. It feels like you're alone in here, and you can't get out of this flashback. You're reliving the nightmare in your head, and you can't stop it. The flashback continues.

"I’m willing to wait," Chrollo mocks you, saying those same words he said those days.

You see him there, in your mind. His eyes, his smile, staring back at you. Your heart is filled with fear, and you close your eyes and scream. You want it to stop. You don't want to see the cruel and mocking face of Chrollo, those words from his mouth.

You close your eyes and scream.

All your fears, all your anger, all your hatred. It's like being back in that hell, once again. You feel completely helpless, and you just want to get out of this nightmare. But you can't stop it. It's in your head.

The memories feel so real. The cruel words, the fear, the loneliness. The gifts and the shackles and the threats. It's like being back in that room again. It's like nothing around you is real.

The flashback continues, and your mind takes you deeper and deeper into the darkness, into the nightmare. Your breath is shaking, and your face is covered in cold sweat. Your heart is racing in your chest.

"I’m willing to wait," Chrollo says, once again.

Your eyes are closed, and you curl up into a ball.

You feel those cold shackles on your legs, those cold chains on your arms.

You hear Chrollo's mocking and cruel voice. You see his face, smiling at you. You see him in your mind, watching you. Taunting you. You can't even see Sebaste or the room, because it feels like everything is gone, and you're back there. It's like going back to that day again.

The flashback continues, taking you to the darkest corners of your mind. You feel the silk blankets covering your legs. The tears of despair, the frustration of being unable to do anything else. You hear the cruelty of his words, and you see his mocking smile. You feel alone, trapped in your mind. You can't see anything else, the world around you is gone. You're in a dark room with him. Just a little girl, at the mercy of a monster.

The memory continues to haunt you. You're trapped in it, and you can't get out. You see everything around you as if it's real. You feel the cold handcuffs and the velvet restraints. You feel the fear, the desperation. The helplessness of being completely under his control. You hear his cruel voice, his words mocking you. You see him there, smiling at you in your mind. You're trapped in his sick reality, and you don't know if you'll ever escape.

"I’m willing to wait," he says.

He's mocking you again.

You try to forget every memory of him, every memory of what he did to you. But you can't. Your mind won't let you forget, and that's the worst part. These memories are stuck in your mind, and you don't know if you'll ever forget them.

You try to block them out, and you scream again.

You scream for someone to help you. You scream for anyone to come and save you, but no one hears you.

Suddenly you hear Sebastian's voice. He's here with you.

Your memories fade away, and you find yourself in your bedroom again. You're safe. It's gone. Your mind is filled with relief. It was all a memory after all. A nightmare. But you still feel a bit shaken. You know these memories are still deep in your brain. And you fear that they'll surface again in the future. It's a terrible feeling. Your body still feels cold, and your heart is still beating fast.

Sebaste is looking at you with a concerned face. He's still here with you. He doesn't know what happened, but he feels concerned about your well-being. You want to tell him what happened, but you don't know if you should. You don't want to worry him any more than you already just did. But, you do feel the need to talk to him, to share what's on your mind.

You scramble backward when he touches your legs. "Don't touch me!" you cry out through your tears. You're still caught up in the nightmares, and you're terrified. "I'm not going back!" you scream.

Sebaste stops, his expression filled with concern.

"Hey," he says, gently. "Calm down," he says, his voice soft and reassuring. "Calm down," he says again, holding his hands up and showing you that he's not going to hurt you. "You're safe. No one's going to hurt you." 

He tries to move closer, but you move backward again. He doesn't want to scare you. 

"It's okay." he says, "It's okay, you're here, in the present. Nothing terrible is going to happen."

“Please don’t hurt me.” You beg, hyperventilating.

"No, no," Sebaste says, his eyes full of concern. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to lock you up. I'm not going to do anything to you."

He steps closer again, but you move away.

"It's okay." he says, "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help you."

He tries to show you that he's not going to do anything to you, he's trying to reassure you. He speaks slowly and softly, trying to comfort you. You take a deep breath and try to calm down. “You're safe." he says, "Calm down. I don’t know what happened to you in your past, but just know you are safe here."

“I never could tell you, I never could… I never could.”

Sebaste frowns. "You know," he says, "You don’t have to face all the troubles this world gives you by yourself."

 He moves even closer, slowly and carefully.

"I'm not going to do anything to you," he says, "I'm not going to hurt you or punish you." He's trying to calm you down and soothe your mind, but he knows how difficult it can be. "It's okay," he says, "you're safe, calm down."

“Please don’t hurt me like he did.” You cry out.

"Shh, shh, I'm not going to hurt you like he did," Sebaste says, confused yet trying to be comforting. He doesn’t know what you are talking about but he is trying to understand you. He's speaking in a soft and gentle voice, trying to calm you down. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says, "I'm not like him, whoever he was. It’s okay, you're safe here. No one is going to hurt you here."

You start crying loudly, your eyes filled with tears. You can't seem to stop them. The fear keeps growing inside you.

"Please calm down," Sebaste says, "You're safe here. No one is going to hurt you."

He's trying his best to sound reassuring and comforting, but you can't stop crying. The memories keep coming back, haunting you. He's trying so hard to reassure you, but you're terrified. You're scared of him and the memories are still fresh in your mind. 

Out of impulse, you run out the backdoor before Sebaste can stop you, claiming that a walk would help you calm down.

*~*~*~*

You assume it is dawn right now from the view outside the bedroom windows, but it does not bring you any comfort. Even as the darkness quiets down and gives way to the sky changing from pitch black to teal to salmon pink, a beautiful sight all things considered, it does not change the fact that you are still here, sleeping with silk restraints and tied down to the bed. You can’t speak because you have been gagged as usual, though if you can take Chrollo as a man of his word for once, the gagging will stop soon. You wish you could speak freely, feeling a feeling near a bird having its vocal cords removed. Is this karma for what you have done? If you ever escape, would that be considered your last chance from whatever power is above you?

You have never been religious. That and if there was a God out there somewhere, why would they unleash upon you such a twisted fate? Is this judgment from the divine? Has the court been adjourned, and the suspect not even being there to witness her trial let alone sentencing? Perhaps a successful escape will be the only way for it to reopen. Refrain. 

You can practically hear a judge’s mallet slamming, ending the trial before you can even arrive. Death sentence for you. If you get out of here, maybe there would be an appeal.

If you try and rebuild yourself, whether you are still in captivity or not, would that be your saving grace? Will the heavens above worship the very ground you walk upon, you being what it truly means to be human? What you do next could determine whether or not that can become reality or you are just deluding yourself yet again. False visions can lead to failure, no matter how small that blindness to reality is. 

My Lord, give me one more chance.

That is what prayers are like, right? Maybe, maybe not. You just hope that if the divine does answer your prayer, it will be soon and not the last one. 

Judgment has passed, but you aren’t giving up.

The sunrise is pink now. You are tired. Your mask is fading into watercolor and shattering the faux stars around you. You and the devil lay side by side in your hell; this bed.

You sometimes think sleeping Chrollo is an entirely different person.

Half of his hair is always tangled, the half that was making contact with the mattress. His forehead tattoo however stays in view no matter how messy his hair turns up, not that that meant much. He sleeps on his side every night, facing you in a fetal sleeping position. He is either holding you in his arms with an iron grip or at the very least has one of his palms on one of your cheeks.

Whenever he would wake up before you, he would gently rub your shoulders and mutter sweet nothings in your ear. Sweet nothings like how you looked divine while you slept and oh, just a bit longer and this adjustment period would end. This would be followed by a kiss somewhere on your upper half, then what you would like to eat that morning. You often chose buttered toast or oatmeal, something warm and comforting. You hardly ever liked cold dishes anyway. He would come back a few minutes later with whatever item you requested and feed it to you, or if you have been particularly receptive to his touches and honeyed words, he would untie one of your wrists and sit you up, letting you feed yourself. You have found out that the chance that he would let you feed yourself increases with dishes that don’t require a knife or fork, for obvious reasons.

He never ate in front of you in the bedroom. On times when you were unrestrained for an hour or two, you would occasionally see him with a cup of black coffee or some bread or a pasta dish, but it was indeed rare. You think you eat more than he does. You once dreamt that he had forgotten to eat so much that he died of malnutrition, which is still one of your favorite dreams if you are being honest with yourself. It was funny. So funny that you woke up chuckling. Thank goodness Chrollo was asleep. Or at least pretended to, you wouldn’t put it past him after all.

“Good morning, beloved.”

“Good morning.” You mutter, still half asleep. Your captor chuckles at that and leaves a chaste kiss on your cheek. You yawn and turn over to him the best you can while still being restrained to the headboard. You blink once, twice, three times in total before you can see the cross on his forehead. “What time is it?”

*~*~*~*

You go to the old shed that is on the other side of the farm.

You unlock the door with your key, disrupting the spider webs that have been made both inside the lock and on the doorframe. There are no bright lights as only your house, the coop and the barn have electricity for heating and the radio, though Sebaste likes working on his desktop so you have let him install new cables in his office. 

“Bonjour.” There is a smile on your face, but it is one as cold as the beach’s ocean. 

The corpse remains fastened to the chair with its arms attached to the handles with zip ties. 

Half of the top of his skull was caved into itself from a quite obvious strike of a hammer, leaving some dried brain matter on its surface with a trail of blood leading from the crack at the center of the crevice downward to his lips. His eyes were gouged out with the optic nerves still in place making them move from side to side if a fly or rat had touched it or had started to eat it.

If you ever were to eventually dump the body, you would need to at the very least hide the inside of his mouth as the corpse had no teeth and some maggots had started to make the near-black gums their new home. You would also have to tear out the eyeballs and close the eyelids. You didn’t want to leave anyone who finds the body to be too traumatized, after all.

It would also be harder to identify that way. No one knew of someone who had willingly their mouth and eyes sewn shut, after all, and also the top of his head hardly had any hair from all of the yanking you had done yourself, the bottom of the shed being littered with it along with dust, urine, blood, and other bodily fluids. 

Hisoka knew the human body well, unsurprisingly considering he is a member of the Phantom Troupe. 

*~*~*~*

The bruised and battered man brought to you was a mix of what you were and were not expecting.

He had short hair that was shaved on its sides and slicked back with a tad too much gel. There was a small part of it that was black in the back while the rest of it was an unnatural dark yellow, like Dijon mustard in a sense, making you assume that he was born dark-haired. 

His face was an odd mix of round and oblong, his nose asymmetric and bulbous.

His lips were thin and looked cracked, his breath smelling so much of garlic, booze, sweat, and cigar smoke that you smelled him before you saw him.

He was short and thin, small bits of dried skin sticking among his black and blue cheeks and one of his eye areas, forehead, and his broken nose. He had dark brown eyes and a poorly taken care of mustache that looked like it hadn’t been washed or brushed in at least a week. The man seemed to be half unconscious by the looks of it, Hisoka certainly did not hold back on him. Not that you complained about it.

“Into the shed, then?”

The Spider’s voice is like bubblegum in a way; sticky, too sweet, artificial.

The man, thrown at your feet just a minute or two prior, groans in pain. His voice is grainy, and croaky, akin to a dying frog. Slimy, loud, and almost gross. If it weren’t for Sebaste, you would still hate them. For that reason only, you then move from the image of a frog or toad to a jackdaw. Annoying, and loves shiny things, if the many golden jewelry the man has around his neck and wrists were any indication of such.

They both are just gross.

Sticky, sticky, sticky. Slimy, slimy, slimy.

“Yes, there’s a chair inside for him in the center.”

“I know,” Hisoka says, his smile widening into a smirk. “I saw it.”

You choose not to pry any further, Hisoka has proven to be a man of his word and a key ally. However, he is no chess piece for you to control; whether he is a king, knight, or pawn.

He moves on his own. If what he says is true, even Chrollo does not control him, letting him do whatever he wants. You have both recognized how strong Hisoka is to either side. He plays a double agent to get twice the rewards in the end, whether that reward is simple amusement or riches.

You would like to think that your voice is like bittersweet chocolate with almonds. Sweeter than its dark counterpart, but more bitter compared to its milk one. Slightly dry or crumbly. It has an unlimited shelf life if stored in the dark and surrounded by cold air.

“Your tools are cute.” Hisoka murmurs as he drags the man by his broken leg and throws him into the chair with a hard slamming sound. “Adorable even, I’ll be sure to use some.”

“Feel free. Be sure to zip-tie him first.”

“Should I though? It’s not like he’s getting very far anyway.”

“Just do it please.”

Hisoka chuckles as he obliges your request. 

“There. Happy, princess?”

“Never call me that again.”

He shrugs and laughs, the sound nearly causing your ears physical pain as your stomach recoils onto itself. You hope he will oblige that request too, if he is in a good mood right now. Hopefully. All Spiders loved bloodshed from the looks of it, and torturing a man is probably child’s play to him. To Chrollo and Feitan at least it was. 

You still have nightmares of those who were tortured in front of you.

It was in the early days of your capture. You think those sessions in Feitan’s basement were to instill fear in you, with your cries and begging to not see it anymore. Not that you could run, Chrollo made sure Feitan chained you to the wall with the longest chain he had, which wasn’t much, but perhaps it was a small mercy along with the stool you were given. During those rather unfortunate meetings, Feitan would rarely ever talk to you and Chrollo would either be sitting beside you or partaking in the gruesomeness himself with his book. 

“Very well, little beauty,” His praise feels more like a threat. “Should I slap him awake now or after the tools are set out?”

You don’t answer, instead trying to remember what specific techniques they used. It wasn’t hard, not to your own surprise. 

“I’ll do it after, then.”

He opens the spare closet this shed came with and whistles. You think if Hisoka ever was surprised, you think that would be how he would act. 

Three pistols, bullets both blanks and not, and a taser are on the top part. Multiple knives litter the second shelf, most being taken from your kitchen. A large hammer is on the floor level, the kind used for tenderizing meat, along with cleavers and a large orange chainsaw. A birthday gift from Robin, as odd as it was. At least now you would be able to use it.

“Nervous? God, you can’t get any cuter, can you?”

You start thinking whether or not this deal was a bad idea, but stomp out the thought.

Hisoka is valuable. You cannot lose him in this game.

“No.”

“No?” He mimics your fear with his ever-eternal smirk on his face. “You know, I think I am starting to know why the boss was so taken with you.”

Hisoka is much bolder than Chrollo ever was. This can both hurt and help you in your situation. You have to think carefully of what to say and do while in his presence.

As Hisoka retrieves the tools, a silent exchange unfolds between you and him. One by one, he delicately arranges them on the petite table positioned next to the chair. He hums a melody unknown to you, but it sort of resembles carnival music. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was.

He goes back and forth between the table and the closet slowly. He brings forth a tool like a cat bringing its owner a dead bird before going back for another. You think this is for dramatic effect. Chrollo and Feitan both love a dramatic buildup before the finale, after all, so Hisoka should too.

Eventually, when all the tools are laid out, he pauses and puts his pointer finger and thumb on his chin in contemplation. 

“Ah, which to use first… hmm,” He grabs your wrist and pulls you in closer to him, his other hand playing with your hair. You try to get away, but his grip tightens as he chuckles. He then pats your head and adjusts your bangs so they aren’t as ruffled. “Which do you think, dear? Maybe the tweezers or-”

He stops himself as he picks up a pin cushion from the now bare closet floor, with a few needles and thread beside it. “Ah, this brings up some memories, doesn’t it, my dear? Our dear sewer. Should I say hi to her for you?”

You shake your head as your eyebrows furrow. “How are you supposed to do that? If she knows it came from me she’ll come for me. She’ll bring me back.”

“True. I could say it was anonymous.”

You think he’s just playing around, teasing you. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that to his new plaything.

If she wasn’t a Spider, maybe you would have accepted. She was nice to you and even taught you how to sew once. It was after a meeting and she had noticed that you had a small hole in your dress, a detail both you and Chrollo had missed. Chrollo trusted her enough to let you not be at his side for a few minutes, knowing that she would give you right back to him. 

“You’re really lucky that this shed is on the other side of your property, my dear.”

“I know.”

You cannot truly be free without getting your hands stained, you tell yourself.

*~*~*~*

Your stalker turned out to be Dario’s eldest son.

A legitimate heir, it would seem. He was stalking you to make you his wife, eventually. He wanted to get rid of Sebaste. He kept screaming insults as he died, and also promising to take good care of you as your husband, which only pissed you off and amused Hisoka further. 

It was Dario’s dying wish for the stranger and you to marry.

Disgusting.

*~*~*~*

You had learned what exactly Nen was today. You did not expect to, all things considered. You were just traveling on foot trying to find some shelter after leaving yet another dirty motel room.

Another individual shared your idea, journeying alongside you toward the unknown destination this path would unveil. You didn’t speak to each other until there was a fork in the road. It was raining and muddy, making you almost slip and fall into him. That was when you finally took a good look at him. He was short, around your height, had worn clean clothes, and had well-kept short black hair with purple highlights.

He seemed to be able to take care of himself well. When he stared back at you, he crossed his arms and scoffed. His face contorted into one of disgust, you think. 

Perhaps he was also comparing you to him. Your hair was soaking wet from the rain as you had lost your only jacket, the jacket you stole from some unsuspecting teenager. The indent that the bear trap left on your leg was still there, covered in dried blood, with you wincing every time you took a step. Your clothes were tattered and stained with sweat, water, and blood. 

Despite you two being the same height, this man seemed to tower over you, staring down at you like you were some sort of pest to him. His lower lip was slightly droopy because of the scowl he had on his face. It was like you were responsible for this man’s suffering or the heavy rain. 

Both of your pairs of eyes looked exhausted, though. The stranger had a few cuts on his otherwise flawless and pale cheeks and some of his makeup had washed away from the rain, showing his large eyebags. Your cheeks had purple bruises and cuts twice as deep, your eyebags even bigger than the man’s.

Is he pitying you? Hating you? Envying you? He seems unreadable, the only emotion shown on his face being disgust and slight anger. Does he want to fight you?

You sure hope not. Hopefully, he will choose one of the paths and walk it and you will take the other.

You nearly flinch as he speaks.

“Who are you?”

Your mind runs through tens of fake names and titles given to you by those you have encountered in the past. “Just a wanderer.”

He scoffs again and turns to the side, clearly not buying your lie.

He stomps his foot down, the mud splashing your bare feet. 

“I’m not stupid. Who are you?”

You both look down at your feet at the same time.

Your feet are covered in injuries from the past few weeks, a large infection on your right one screeding yellow pus. You didn’t have enough funds to buy medical supplies and thought that just going on walking would be the best option, much to your future self’s pain. 

You’re so smart, yet so dumb.

“A runaway.”

He nods as a mocking smile appears on his face.

“Good. You have a functioning brain it seems.” His voice is full of so much fake sugar that it makes you sick. “No wanderer would ever be in as bad a shape as you are in. What did you run away from?”

Should you tell him the truth? He obviously knows something about you. Maybe you could tell him a half lie, tell him that you ran away from an abusive family that is after you, or a crazy ex. The second one wouldn’t necessarily be a lie after all. Maybe you could just laugh it off like it is some joke between two acquaintances, but you know he wouldn’t like that at all. So, you think of an actual answer.

A good one.

“I ran away from…” You hesitate to speak, fearing the repercussions that may follow if you reveal the truth. “A kidnapper.”

His mocking smile fades, his mouth falling into a flat line. “Who is?” You want to cry but you can’t.

You don’t want him to know. He can’t know. You can’t run because of your leg. You can’t keep all of your suffering under lock and key and never tell a soul. It has to eventually get out, like you have.

He keeps staring at you with those cold blue eyes of his, not amused, and takes no nos for answers. He wants to know.

“Go ahead.” His voice is bitter like the blackest coffee.

Why is he asking you this? Does he know you? Is he a Spider?

“The Phantom Troupe.” You finally say as your head drops back down again. “The leader mostly. I… I ran away a few weeks ago.” You shiver, and you don’t know if it is because of the cold rain or the man’s gaze. You sniffle. “I… I have no money. No home.”

There. You got it out to someone.

Hopefully, nothing bad will happen to you now, right?

“Believable. Understandable.”

He takes a few steps closer, and closer and you stand still like you are trapped in stone. You make eye contact again, and there is a softness in his eyes that makes you feel slightly warmer. He nods.

He looks down at your leg, at your feet, your hands, your arms, and your face.

“I’ll help you then.”

*~*~*~*

“I’m back.”

You want to apologize to him. You want to hug him. You probably hurt him.

You hurt him while he was trying to help you.

You set your coat down on the coat rack by the entrance, took off your shoes, and started walking up the stairs to the living room and kitchen area. You heard water rushing from the faucet and scrubbing. Sebaste seemed to be paying too much attention to washing the dishes to notice you. 

“I just want to say that I am sorry. I am.”

Your voice inadvertently trembles, exceeding your intentions, but the circumstances render it unavoidable. The aftermath of your intense outcry on the distant side of the farm leaves your throat with a lingering ache. Permeated by a cold sweat, your neck becomes speckled, and your arms quiver as you position yourself behind him. Your gaze darts aimlessly, evading direct contact with him as he pivots in your direction.

To the kitchen towels. To the tiles on the floor. To the refrigerator. 

As he dries his hands, silence prevails. Uncertain of his gaze or whether he caught your words, your anxiety fluctuates. It is essential to remind yourself daily that he is not Chrollo.

He is not Chrollo. 

Right?

He can’t be. He is too good of a person. You care about him.

There is a ring of the doorbell, and Sebaste walks off without saying a word, frowning.

When he opens the door, it is like the Devil himself rose from hell to collect you.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Millennials and Gen Zs were raised to be entrepreneurs of the self, to believe that, if they simply worked and studied hard enough, success and security were waiting in their futures. Failure was a personal blight for refusing to invest their time wisely, for failing to grind hard enough. Post-2008, that dream was shot. You could work and work, but that did not mean that you would have job security and freedom from roommates by your mid-30s. Maybe this was what was meant by burnout culture. In the aftermath of the crash, middle-class people spoke of the death of the dream – the postwar ethos that, if you were willing to work hard enough and play by the rules, upper mobility and success were waiting in your future. If their parents had believed in climbing the ladder and just rewards for their hard work, this path was now closed to their children. These generations are also a product of the speculative environment they were raised in. Most of the day-traders were teenagers or children in the financial crash, or just graduating college. Fledgling adults in the COVID-19 pandemic. Born between the mid-1980s and early 2000s, their identity is shaped by the vacuum of post-communist politics (I, personally, was sent, age five, to a fancy-dress party styled as the Berlin Wall) or shaped by the speculation and excess of the dotcom era, or racked by the uncertainty of the 2008 financial crash. They’ve encountered the death of the American dream (or in Ireland, where I’m from, the optimism of the Celtic Tiger) and felt the withdrawal of the state’s contract in everything from mounting student debt to inferior healthcare to the rising cost of living. The postwar security and investment in public goods like education and housing their grandparents and parents enjoyed has been replaced by volatility and risk. Retail trading forums like WallStreetBets and NFT Discords are spaces where people trade crazy investment advice, but it’s also where they articulate their loss of hope in those same dreams. What replaced the fantasy of the good life? Dreams of prepping for life on Mars or in the metaverse? Of financial security through wild trades, or finding a good man to take care of you so you could leave the hustle behind? And who are these new dreams in service of? If the tale of hard work and upward mobility kept us yoked to our employers and our 9-to-5 jobs, the fantasy of the YOLO investment ‘Lambos or food stamps!’ keeps its subjects attached to the market. To risking it all. And these dreams feed the market, as in the crypto winter of 2021 where many vulnerable investors were left holding the bag, or the post-GameStop frenzy where, despite feelgood stories about David and Goliath, the significant profiteer was the market-maker behind the Robinhood trading app.

[2baddiesfanfics]

Ulterior Motives

Pairing: Arlecchino x Furina

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex, Face-Sitting, Cake, Virginity, Kissing

Summary:

As Furina struggles to find purpose in her life, an unexpected visitor comes to call. Bearing cake as a peace offering, Arlecchino attempts to smooth things over from their most recent interaction. When emotions flair, Furina ends up with an experience she won't soon forget.

Read on Ao3

It was odd. Furina had spent so much time looking down from her proverbial throne that the image of her humble apartment ceiling had now become strangely comforting.

There was no longer any need for theatrics. The archon Focalor was no more. She was just…Furina. Funny. After 500 years of keeping a secret, she thought she’d feel so much more relief.

Yes, a part of her did feel weightless. But not in a good way. More like an “aimlessly drifting through life day-to-day” kind of way. A “what’s the point?” kind of way. A “why am I even here?” kind of way.

Her stomach rumbled alerting her to the human need to fill it with something. Never in her time as a god did she think the one thing she’d miss would be having well-prepared meals at her beck and call.

I should really get up and cook myself something. What kind of macaroni have I not already made this week? Not like it matters. It all tastes the same anyway.

Her train of thought was unexpectedly interrupted by a series of steady raps on the door.

“Lady Furina?”

The blood ceased flowing through her veins. The only person who knew her new address was Neuvillette. This was most certainly not his voice.

This could only be the husky timbre of the Knave.

Shit! How did she find out where I live? Maybe if I ignore her, she’ll go away.

Her name was called a second time, only firmer.

Pretend you’re not here. She’ll give up soon.

“…I brought cake.”

Furina slowly opened one eye. Shifting off the bed, she brought herself to pull the front door open a smidge.

“What do you want?” She asked, irritation dripping from her words. “Come to gloat?”

“I only want to talk. Truly. May I come in?”

Heaving an overly dramatic sigh, Furina stepped aside. “How did you find me?”

Arlecchino moved about the sparse kitchen with a familiarity that slightly scared Furina. It was as if she knew exactly where to find what she was looking for.

“I’m waiting…”

“Patience, dear. We have all night to talk. Let me at least feed you. By the looks of things, you haven’t been eating well. Or treating yourself well, for that matter.”

She had her there. In the aftermath of the trial from hell, Furina had won her freedom, yes. But at what cost? Without her godhood, what did she have left? The people of Fontaine no longer needed an omnipotent savior figure to call on in a crisis. What was her purpose now?

Pulling a chair from the table, Arlecchino gestured for her to take a seat. Once she did, the Knave joined her.

“Now, to answer your previous question. Don’t be foolish. You know the House of the Hearth has its ways. Finding your address was child’s play.”

Furina rolled her eyes. Of course. Those three troublesome children of hers certainly knew how to make magic happen. She prodded her slice of cake with a fork, slowly feeling like she was regaining her appetite. Damn her and this rare confectionery treat.

"Look, Lady Furina. At this point, I don't think there's any more need to speak as diplomatic representatives. Allow me to speak to you now as just a Fontainian.”

Suddenly Furina wasn’t hungry anymore. She had heard Arlecchino speak these exact words to her once prior. Before she knew who Furina really was. The woman certainly had her suspicions and had come dangerously close to blowing the secret she had dutifully kept for half a thousand years.

“If you’re only here to taunt and berate me, you can leave now, Knave. I have no interest in revisiting the past. I’ve lived long enough to know it’ll never stop haunting me.”

Arlecchino pinned her with a glare that was intense enough to burn. “Furina, look at me.”

Realizing the woman had dropped her formal “lady” title, she shifted her gaze upward to meet blazing scarlet eyes that seemed to stare deeper than she was comfortable with.

“Since the prophecy is no longer hanging above our necks like a guillotine, I feel I can speak frankly. I came here to apologize for my behavior that day.”

Furina’s brow furrowed. An awkward pause filled the room.

“…What’s the catch?”

“It wounds me that you’d think I came here with an ulterior motive. After learning more about your…situation…I deeply regret calling you nonchalant and carefree. I realize now you hadn’t failed to take action, but rather, you couldn’t. I hope you’ll accept this sweet treat as an apology,” she concluded with a soft, sincere smile that looked out of place on such a sharp face.

While Furina certainly wasn’t about to turn down the delicacy, she couldn’t help a surge of rage from bubbling forth like acid.

“That’s it? You think a fucking piece of cake is going to make up for the humiliation you made me feel that day in Neuvillette’s office?” She scoffed. “You knew right well I've never ignored the prophecy, nor was I passing the time in self-indulgence. You have no idea what I’ve had to endure, and yet you waltz in here uninvited as if my forgiveness was signed, sealed, and delivered. Don’t make me laugh!”

Arlecchino’s countenance turned dark. “My sincerest apologies oh great Hydro Archon. Or should I say…former great Hydro Archon? You’ll have to excuse my behavior at the time. I was at a loss for how to properly express my anger at your neglect. How was I supposed to know you had a mighty plan to save your people? Oh…that’s right. You had to keep those you had sworn to protect completely in the dark when it came to how they were supposed to survive in a land that, for all intents and purposes, would soon disappear beneath the waves," she bit back.

Furina’s chair screeched against the aging wooden floor of her apartment as she jolted upward in disgust and disbelief.

“You bitch! How dare you! I told you then that I had my ways and I'd been working on them for as long as I’d been forced into this archon-forsaken position! To this day, even if you look down upon me, you have no right to judge!" She bellowed far too loudly for someone of such small stature.

For a moment, nothing could be heard in the cramped space but the sound of Furina’s heavy breathing. Then…the soft yet seductive chuckle of the Knave permeated the tense atmosphere.

“Why, yes. I do suppose you’re right,” she stated, rising to her feet. Towering over her, Furina took a step backward only to realize her living area wouldn’t permit escape.

“The bottom line is we all survived, now, isn’t it? I cannot claim to know what you’ve gone through to bring about this result, but I can only imagine I have you to thank,” she continued as her arm trapped the girl between her lithe body and the wall. Furina shivered.

Arlecchino surveyed her through hooded eyes, a hunter on the prowl for something far more than an acknowledgment of her appreciation. Her face was now mere inches from Furina’s. The heat of her breath danced on her lips, already parted in anticipation for what she was sure was bound to happen next. She was prey, powerless against the intoxicating allure of the predator about to strike.

“…And those who work hard deserve gratitude and praise.”

Before she could respond, Arlecchino closed the distance between them swiftly. Furina let out a muffled yelp of surprise. Questions reeled through her mind. What is she doing!? I thought she hated me. Was she not just trying to win my favor for her own political advantage?

In the end, she decided she didn’t care. In all her 500 years, she had never been in the position she now found herself. As a god, the concept of love was somewhat foreign to her. Adoration she had experienced, yes. Devotion? She’d had her fair share of admirers come up to her after shows for an autograph or two, of course. But she was getting ahead of herself. Love? Who said this was anything but raw, aching need?

Her eyes faded shut as she fell deeper under the Knave’s spell. The woman’s tongue slithered out, seeking permission to taste her. Gaining access, Arlecchino sensed the reluctance behind her acquiescence. The laugh she let out reverberated against Furina’s mouth.

“What’s the matter?” She taunted between panting breaths. “Afraid?”

Furina’s eyes snapped open. Shimmering pools of light and dark blues that reflected her mastery of the hydro element stared back at the woman before her. She was one of the Fatui Harbingers. It would be a lie to say she wasn’t frightened. But Furina was no stranger to lies - she’d been living one longer than Arlecchino had been alive.

Mustering all the courage she could, she retorted, “You wish.” Wrapping her arms around the taller woman’s neck, she pulled her forward once more and continued their carnal duel. The Knave, caught off-balance by the unexpected bit of candor, tripped forward slightly, pushing her body further against Furina’s. The girl welcomed closer contact as she let slip a soft moan.

Grabbing her by the backs of her thighs, Arlecchino hoisted her up and guided her to wrap them around her waist. Navigating them both to the bedroom, she deposited her gently on the already rumpled sheets.

There was a part of Arlecchino that truly felt sorry for her. In no way could she relate to what Furina had gone through, but if the state of her bed was any indication, it was taking her time to transition to living a mortal life. While she relished the chase and was eager to introduce her to the many pleasures of being human, she realized she’d have to take her time with her lest she scare her off completely.

“Furina, darling…remove your clothing for me,” she murmured as her lips danced down her neckline. As her hands maneuvered to undo the buttons of her shirt, Arlecchino could feel a tremble in her movements.

Well, I did say she deserved praise. Let’s see how this works…

“Mmmm…such an obedient little thing,” she purred. Furina immediately stopped shaking and instead worked faster to clear the line. Arlecchino let out a throaty chuckle. Oh, this is going to be far too easy…it’s not surprising considering she probably has received very little acknowledgment for such a massive sacrifice on her part.

Shrugging out of her own coat, Arlecchino watched with ferocity as the former archon of Fontaine stripped down to nothing in front of her. Holding a seat of power herself, she was used to being the one in control. Seeing Furina so eager to do what she asked turned her on in a way she hadn’t experienced before. This was much more…thrilling. It was time to press further.

Crawling back over her, Arlecchino continued her exploration of Furina’s body. “Yes…that’s it. You’re doing so well for me, dear,” she whispered as her teeth gently sank into the sensitive skin of her breast.

“Aghhhh…Arlecchino…” she groaned, her head canting back.

“Oh, come now. That won’t do. I believe we’re well acquainted enough for you to call me Father.”

An intense blush spread across Furina’s face. She knew this was what members of the House of the Hearth called her, but there was just something so…taboo sounding about it. Nevertheless, she had to admit it fit the debonair woman looking down at her.

“Y-yes…Father.”

Arlecchino had to swallow her own moan at the use of this name in a setting far different than she usually heard it.

“That’s a good girl,” she managed. Her tongue circled a taught nipple, drawing a high-pitched whine from Furina. Taking it into her mouth, Arlecchino sucked forcefully. Furina’s hips thrust upward in response, her hands twisting in the other woman’s hair. Deftly grabbing her wrists, Arlecchino collected and then pinned them above her head with one of her own.

“Ah, ah, ah. If I’m to make you feel good, then I can’t have you distracting me while I do so. Understood?” She chastised.

Furina nodded furiously, eyes hungry to discover what might happen next. Resuming her licking and nipping, she got her to a point where she knew she had to be ready for her. Her free hand sought the space between her legs, her fingers slipping through her folds with ease.

Arlecchino’s breath felt hot against Furina’s ear as she whispered, “Fuck baby girl, your pussy is so wet and ready for me.”

“Ahhhhh…Father…please…” Furina choked as she writhed beneath her, need evident in the sound of her voice.

“You’re so beautiful when you struggle for me like this…” she taunted, her fingers pulsing inside of her now. Tears, not of fear or hurt but of sheer pleasure, formed at the corners of Furina’s eyes. Arlecchino’s thumb moved in steady circles around her clit, drawing her ever closer to her orgasm.

“Yessss take it for me…I know you can…look at you…ready to cum so soon from so little stimulation…you have no idea what you’re doing to me…just like that…” Her words flooded over Furina until the dam broke.

“Father ohhhhh fuckkkkk!” Her body convulsed around her fingers as she shook under the force of her orgasm.

As Furina lay catching her breath, she detected movement on the mattress. “Very good, darling. Now, it’s only fair I get something in return. I know you don’t have much experience in these matters, but we’ll soon change that, hmm? Just do as I say,” the Knave commanded as she removed the rest of her own clothing. Shifting herself over her, she carefully took her position kneeling above her head.

“This should be simple enough. From what I’ve seen at trials, you’ve always been talented with your mouth. You’ll be the good girl that you are and help me out, won’t you?” Arlecchino purred down at her.

Furina did indeed understand exactly what was being requested of her. “I’ll do my best, Father.” The air of sweet innocence in her voice made the Knave tremble ever so slightly. Smoothing the tendrils of hair from Furina’s forehead, Arlecchino slid her fingers through her tresses as she lowered herself at just the right angle.

“Mmmm, how ironic. You may no longer be the Hydro Archon, but you sure know how to get me wet,” Arlecchino said as Furina’s tongue made contact with her clit. She began to move her hips back and forth, forcing her to apply more pressure.

Encouraged by the Knave’s praise, Furina mustered the courage needed to slip her tongue into the woman above her.

“Ohhhhh, archons…yes,” she cried out.

With a small smile at the more experienced woman’s moans of approval, Furina experimented with thrusts and licks of different paces and lengths. Sliding her hand between her thighs, she used two fingers she widened her lips to give her easier access to Arlecchino’s sensitive bud.

The Knave’s knees buckled. She wasn’t expecting that. “Fuck…that’s it…good girl!” she huffed as her hips began to move faster.

Furina swiped her thumb across her clit in a steady motion as she darted back in for another taste of her arousal. She felt the Knave tighten her grip on her hair as her legs shook and she lost control.

“Furina…fuckkkkk…” she ground out in time with her frantic thrusts. Having found her release, she shifted to settle at her side. The former archon flushed.

“I hope that was ok. As you noted, it’s not like I have an abundance of experience in this area,” she giggled sheepishly. There was something so pure about her that made it hard for Arlecchino not to grin back at her.

“Look at you. I’ve made a mess of your face,” she said apologetically as she wiped some of her slick from Furina’s lips with a gentle brush of her finger. Placing a surprisingly chaste kiss on her lips, she continued. “Archon or not, you look ravishing.”

Furina nuzzled closer to her, refusing to meet her gaze directly. “At the risk of ruining the moment…why here? Why now? Why…me?” A pensive look glimmered in the Knave’s eyes as she tilted Furina’s face upward by her chin.

“Because, my dear. While the people of Fontaine may no longer need Furina the archon, I need only Furina. The House of the Hearth does important work, but I cannot do it alone. Having someone who’s central to Fontaine would be extremely beneficial, and I believe you may be the one for the job. You’ve spent your years living for the sake of others. To have that ripped away in an instant must surely leave one feeling bereft of purpose, no? My only intention is to fill that void.”

Furina’s eyes gleamed. Perhaps helping raise those who had been forgotten by the world would bring her a sense of belonging. Lying around her dingy apartment by herself wasn’t exactly the life she had dreamed of now that she had her freedom. The corners of her mouth twitched upward into a smirk.

“So…if the children of the House call you Father, does that make me Mother?”

Arlecchino rolled her eyes. She couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, little one.”

[mikeysbride]

Election 2024: The Aftermath

Last week was hard. It has taken me this long to be able to fully formulate my thoughts on how the election for President of United States ended. It did not end as the majority of the people that I know would have liked. It was Kamala Harris versus Donald Trump — literally good versus evil, authoritarianism versus democracy, humanity versus inhumanity. As a prosecutor, Kamala Harris made a career of putting men like Donald Trump in jail. And yet, evil won… Or so it would seem.

It was a devastating blow to democracy. Now, twice in my daughters’ young lives, they have had to witness their country choose the most mediocre of men over a woman of merit who is far more qualified — first, Hillary Clinton in 2016 and now Kamala Harris in 2024. As teenagers, they are now more engaged and aware of what is happening and what all this means. We have all shed many tears and had to regroup.

It has to be said that I’m not wholly convinced Trump actually won. After all, he said months ago that he didn’t need people to vote because he had all the votes he needed, plenty of votes. WTAF was that supposed to mean? Not only that, but after record turnout and new registrations, there were somehow fewer votes? There have been reports of votes that weren’t counted as well. And we are supposed to believe that someone so vile swept every one of the swing states? Let’s also not forget the unfounded bomb threats called in to many democratic-leaning voting precincts. The math isn’t mathing. I feel that Donald Trump stole this election the way he claimed that Joe Biden did in 2020. The difference is that Joe Biden did no such thing and also that, unlike Trump, Joe Biden and Kamala Harris are decent humans who will not encourage an insurrection to dispute the election results. That is exactly what he was counting on. Now he and his dictator friends like Putin have the U.S. exactly where they want us, in danger of losing the very freedoms we are supposed to stand for.

So much was on the line in this election. Reproductive rights for women, protection for the gay and trans community, immigration, and income tax and cost of living relief for middle class families are all up for grabs now. If Trump did not orchestrate all this and did actually win, it’s perhaps an even scarier scenario. That means that our country really is filled with people who chose a conman, felon, rapist, liar, and racist over a woman - yet again - who has more than enough experience in all three branches of government to lead this country and to do so with compassion and grace. Frankly, it’s damn embarrassing to be an American right now. The rest of the world has to be looking at us as if we have lost our collective minds, and who can blame them? We had the opportunity to move forward in a big way and then threw it all away.

Once again, the U.S. has shown that women (and especially Black women) are held to a higher standard to the point that she can be an ideal candidate and still fall short to patriarchy, misogyny, and racism even when running against the poorest excuse for a human we’ve seen in quite some time. But he’s a man. A rich white man. And somehow in this country that still carries more weight than being even the most capable woman of any race. That’s a hard pill to swallow, especially for someone like me who is a Black woman raising her daughters to be strong and to believe they can do anything they put their minds to. Can they? I absolutely still believe they can, but recent history shows that being the President may not be included in that dream. There should be a disclaimer that says results may vary.

In the coming weeks, months, and even years, there will be much said about where the Harris campaign went wrong and what she should’ve done differently. But if we are honest, we have to acknowledge that all of that speculation is bullshit. Truth be told, she ran a flawless campaign. It was perfectly executed from start to finish, and she had so much momentum behind her. There were people voting for her who had never voted for a Democrat before. Even longtime Republican leaders were rallying behind her. I have no time or energy for talking heads who want to lay blame as to where she fell short. She did not. It wasn’t the campaign that missed the mark. The bottom line is that this country’s history of racism and misogyny is still alive and well, and until that is dealt with, this is where we will be.

Still, none of this means it’s time to give up the fight for justice. No, instead it means that we have to rail even harder against the forces that would conspire to bring us down. To be silent is to be compliant. We will not go quietly. I have to believe that there’s still enough genuinely good-hearted people in the world that when we join forces good will overcome evil. To live without hope is to not live at all. We must keep fighting for what is right, fighting for our rights, and fighting against all odds because none of us are free until all of us are free.

[acrowwithakeyboard]

Skyrim OCs

Full Name: Ynhethune

Alias: None Nicknames: Yin, Yenna (Marcurio only) Race: Snow Elf Faith: Auriel

Background: In the aftermath of the Last Battle of the Snow elves, Ynhethune was born. Her family had taken the Dwemer’s offer for sanctuary, but the cost of the ‘safety’ was as we know a steep price. While many of her people were blinded, she herself was one of the first of many born with vestigial eyes, knowing nothing of sight and sun like her elders did. Her people still spoke of Auri-El in her time. The embrace of the sun and the freedom they once had, sung to her in low tones were her solace, wherein she often felt as though she could imagine what the sun would feel like. Many, many years later, the War of the Crag began, she held enough resentment of the Dwemer’s treatment of them, and hope for a better life, to help her people. Though the war dragged on, through the trials of war she developed her restoration abilities, and used them to the fullest. Near the end of the war, she was to the deep folk a terrifying sight on the battlefield: Dwemer blades all but useless as a fierce she-elf wrapped herself in sunlight-golden magicka and brought her people back from the brink of death again and again to beat back against their machines. It was in this same vein the Falmer who still remembered light before the darkness took to calling her Sou Alat Moraga Av Loria. When the disappearance of the dwarves occurred, many were elated, but the damage was done. And so, her people laid underground for millennia. Many of the Falmer by this time preferred – or didn’t know any different – the home they had now, after so many generations of living under the earth. And Ynhethune was content to stay and help however she could. In between her tasks keeping her hive safe, she ventured from her hive often, mapping with her hands and feet the tunnels that would lead her to new caverns, or the brilliant sun she’d never see. These tunnels were dangerous, but she was too. Those whose eyes could take in some sight helped her make raised maps out of her cartography for the clans to use, and Inked ones for her own collection. Eventually after the degradation of some mercantile tunnels (shortly after the Red Year, though she was unaware of this event for obvious reasons) Ynhethune decided to venture upwards to travel to hives cut off by the collapses. She regularly employed mercenaries in these ventures to help herself navigate the more populated and/or wooded areas, and the occasional town if she had to go near one. Her wanderings above ground brought her many times to the town in the Rift, and her latest venture required looking for a new guide to take her to Helgan...

Personality: Against the horrors of the Dwemer, despite the countless years underground, fighting the frustration of the blindness she never had the choice in, she is hopeful, and kind. And very, very old. Though her strange gaunt looks grant more suspicion and dislike than she wants, she holds a calm, serene presence that anyone near her can feel and the dichotomy between her looks and aura give her some trouble on occasion, luckily she has a good way with words to tip the scales in her favor. She loves her people and her community greatly, and her travels to the surface were in the beginning more out of duty until she began to explore longer and longer above. The surface world and the people intrigue her, and those kind enough to her are treated as kindly as her clan and people. She never quite felt sure of her place above, so she listens from afar, despite the echoes in her head that her birthright is the sun. Marcurio was a blessing in this: his aid helped her come out of her shell more and interact with the waking world, instead of just listening.

Fighting Style: Ynhethune is primarily a restoration expert. Though it's been many years since she has used her the larger, more devastating spells. Her abilities in the other schools are good, though she wishes to learn more from the College of Winterhold. In close combat she is more than capable of fighting close quarters in a pinch, if only with smaller weapons. And despite her accuracy with spells, she is near useless with a bow. When she became infused with a dragon soul and shout for the first time, the experience was harrowing; she saw the words as they whispered to her and it scared her immensely. After learning about dragon shouts she felt less worried about them, but she is however reluctant to use them unless absolutely necessary, as the voice hurts her ears greatly and she distrusts relying on power like that for anything.

Current Followers: Marcurio, Taliesin (more to add)

[flmed]

svelte brows are furrowing altogether whilst a deprecate scoff emitting from his lips–––––shaking his head in the unexpected incertitude upon the other's innocuous question, debating whether he was genuinely befuddled on implied accusation, or rather feigning to be granted with freedom he wants. perhaps it is the latter, because nobody truly wants to be in the other's position; informally interrogate with someone he barely knows, yet seems to know him better than anyone

saul did provide enough, without force as maurizio would have expected–––––violence isn't the answer, even the war has started 'tween the cartels &. mafias; for the indulgence @tocook cooks, or is he just a bystander that doesn't know the aftermath?

❝  that means you're willingly aiding the massacre by providing the goods, ❞  shrugging, johann loathes to repeat himself, however it seems the other person is truly mystified by the indirect position he puts himself in. it isn't his fault that the substance he brewed himself had caused unwanted conflict that shouldn't have had happened if only the black sheep didn't indulge himself into competition, which cost him his own life; both of them are following the demands &. the market, but one has monopolized market .. it is no longer capitalism they are talking about, but the consequence of its greed,

❝  that's how my insufferable boss see you. maurizio is an old-fashioned guy, he doesn't like how people turned up just like you, just like his dead son. take my advice, it's for the best that you stop the production for awhile, so my family won't throw you to the fishes. i know that the cartels would probably hunt you down, but maybe i can provide you some protection .. without my people knowing it, obviously. ❞ 

jesse said, ‘ what’s that supposed to mean ? ‘ from    𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑩𝑰𝑫 ᶜᵘʳᶤᵒˢᶤᵗʸ .   : accepting.

[rabbittwinrithings]

I'm curious, do you have an idea or future plans for what kind of a person Khash would become as an adult?

So I've had a few ideas:

-She grows up to be 5'11 (Sad she didn't make it to 6 feet.)

-At 19 she leaves Skyrim, knowing that the DB can take care of the province, and heads to Hammerfell to aid in either the fight against the Thalmor or the aftermath and those hurt by the war. (She wouldn't be so much as a soilder, but either a freedom fighter or low cost mercenary.)

-During this time in Hammerfell she meets two other SOT characters. (One from a short story I have already shared, and another from Disnel's questline.) And the three form a little found family.

-Khash fights more with a spear than being only a ranged fighter.

-At some point after the events of Skyrim she gets slashed in the face and becomes blind in one eye.

That's all I have for now, but If I come up with more I'll either edit this post or reblog it with new information cause I would like to keep up with this stuff. Like I've said before, if the next game takes place in the same century of Skyrim and near Hammerfell, I'd love to make mod Khash into ES6.

Also, drawings I did awhile back of Khash at 19, and then also in her 40s.

[lafcadiosadventures]

Madame Putiphar Groupread. Book Two, Chapter XXXII

This chapter has two main blocks, first we enter Debbie's mind and see the aftermath and damage of her husband's violent disappearance. We then return to the recurrent theatrical dialogue form.

[allusions to suicidal thoughts and self harm are discussed within]

{co-readers: @sainteverge + @counterwiddershins}

La Pucelle on a Battlement, Illustration for Shakespeare's Henry VI, By John Gilbert, Engraved by The Dalziel Brothers.

We begin right in Deborah’s room. The narration starts from a psychological close up shot of Debbie, so to speak. It then slowly moves apart from her (hand held camera maybe) to reveal through the narration that she is not alone at home. We learn this because we are told she is asking to be left alone as to avoid the empty consolations of strangers. Also, that someone begged her to accept the cares of a guard, but she refuses it:

“(...)to keep away any witness before whom she would have needed to make a spectacle of her pain(...)”

(tr. @sainteverge )

Making a spectacle of her pain, a guard, it all makes me think, given the context, of modes of punishment contemporary to Borel's wrting of the novel, such as future prisoners's expositions before being walked away to the different bagnes or urban jails, for example.

So her house is full of strangers, and there even is a guard in it. The palace’s men who had helped attack her husband are now inside her house. They have probably taken her to her room after she fainted, we don't know why they did this instead of leaving her on the street. The men also show no sign of wanting to leave, is she being detained by them in her own house? She definitely reads like a prisoner for the duration of the first half of the chapter. Borel is making explicit what he had only insinuated before, that any place is susceptible of becoming a cell if an aristocrat who willed it so (or their henchmen) is present.

We get as well, in this very short intro paragraph, the concept of kindness and consent being used by authorities to force into submission. The people who invaded her house and trapped her in it are also outwardly worried for her wellbeing and asking to accept care from one of the guards who maybe stabbed and fought and then took her husband away.  

But it appears that she is finally left alone reflecting on her situation, and her clear thoughts on how the world worked start to crumble.

But even if the men left, she still reads like a prisoner in anguish locked within four walls.

This is to me a novel of internal rebellions. When characters are alone acting aginst the powers that be, they cannot defeat them through actions, but they can win spiritually even if it costs them their lives.

The fiercefully religious Deborah (religion seems to be her rock and a political stance as well, in her social context it works for her as a tool for her to set boundaries in respect of her body autonomy that would be otherwise disregarded) starts to get angry at God, then at herself for getting angry at God. In her desperation she falls into self harm, but what she seeks through it, is freedom:

“(...) she struck her chest like a prisoner strikes the wall of his cell, to break it down and open a way out for her captive soul, revolted by the body that was forcing her to live.” *

(tr. by Cam)

Deborah had reflected about how the modern city is a prison in itself. The houses are boxes and corsets. But now even her own body has become a jail. Lorded by her brain, her body becomes an instrument of torture. The Night ofDeath that offered the Narrator sweet relief from mundane sufferings seems to suggest to Deborah that breaking her body would be a way to allow her soul to escape from the pain.

But she remembers her son, and her suicide attempts are aborted. She blames her son in a way for forcing her to stay alive.

She even wonders if it is fair for her son having given him a life he did not ask for, is existence such a valuable gift, she asks herself.

The next morning her bell rings, the narrator announces, revealing that this arduous process of self harm and suicidal thoughts that seemed eternal to the reader has lasted hours, reflecting the effect grieving and stress can have in a person. She is completely exhausted, but she makes the effort because she keeps the vain and irrational illusion that it might be Patrick (whom she thinks she saw die) saved from Death and free from his captors. The guards are gone, the strangers in her apartment as well. She opens the door and finds Fitz-Harris behind it. She tries to slam the door at him, he forces himself in because he wants to apologize to Patrick before leaving Paris, since he has been deported. Deborah thinks this is refined mockery on FH’s behalf, she thinks he was among the men who fought him the day before and killed him (this is when the theatrical mode section begins) FH reaction reveals that he hasn’t actually stabbed Patrick, Deborah sees that in his face because some attitudes cannot be faked. But she says F-H’s actions have lead to her husband’s death even if he hasn’t actually stabbed him.

F-H offers to help Deborah escape France, return to Ireland with him. If she doesn’t want to return to Ireland, he is willing to deprive himself for her sake. He sounds kind of flirty in a way that is completely out of place. Deborah refuses his offer because she hates him. She forbids him to approach her ever again. F-H, like Villepastour before him, calls her inhuman. I do believe there are echoes of Villepastour in F-H, he forces the door, attempts to flirt with her when she is in an extremely vulnerable position. The power imbalance is smaller here, but he is imposing his presence via physical strength, and now he attempts to manipulate her by calling her inhuman. He then reproaches her for not being as generous as Patrick was.

I never forgive, she replies. And like Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing (ugh vag joke why) she complains that only because she is a woman she doesn’t strike him down with a sword. Since she is a woman, and men’s weapons are out of her domain, she can only use old people’s weapon’s: a curse. (i like how Borel here introduces the idea that the aspects of femininity that are forced on propper women are a form of invalidity. She is completely able, yet she is forced into a role of physical submission to men. she doesn’t know how to use a sword, when men of her age and social standing all do) F-H leaves, not without making her responsible of his death because of her hard and unforgiving nature. He claims his repentance is sincere,,,

-------

Annex:

*[I never forgot the part in The 3 Musketeers where an imprisoned Milady, chest rising and falling like waves crashing against a fortress, laments that her powerful, masculine (just transcribing here, not agreeing) brain is trapped inside the weak body of a woman. It’s interesting to compare this passage with Deborah’s situation. On the one hand, Deborah is more self destructive than Milady who dreams of freedom and vengeance, but on the other, Deborah is confined by feminity in a cultural, not essentialist/constitutive way. Finally, Dumas and Borel do an Imagery handshake at representing the body itself as a jail]:

“What hatred she distills! Motionless, with her burning and fixed glances, in her solitary apartment, how well the outbursts of passion which at times escape from the depths of her chest with her respiration, accompany the sound of the surf which rises, growls, roars, and breaks itself like an eternal and powerless despair against the rocks on which is built this dark and lofty castle! How many magnificent projects of vengeance she conceives by the light of the flashes which her tempestuous passion casts over her mind against Mme. Bonacieux, against Buckingham, but above all against D’Artagnan—projects lost in the distance of the future. Yes; but in order to avenge herself she must be free. And to be free, a prisoner has to pierce a wall, detach bars, cut through a floor—all undertakings which a patient and strong man may accomplish, but before which the feverish irritations of a woman must give way. Besides, to do all this, time is necessary—months, years; and she has ten or twelve days, as Lord de Winter, her fraternal and terrible jailer, has told her. And yet, if she were a man she would attempt all this, and perhaps might succeed; why, then, did heaven make the mistake of placing that manlike soul in that frail and delicate body?”

[from the project gutenberg translation]

we will see later on if women in Borel are also overwhelmed physically and physiologically if not mentally by the task of Escaping