#because what do you MEAN none of it matters

[xsoldier]

A big part was that a majority of the progress of the early 2000s to 2010 mattered to ACTUAL PEOPLE, whereas post-financial crisis, the progress started to focus solely on corporations' economic growth — whilst the enshittification of technology actively eroded away the progress that had been made for people.

That contributed to the growing class divide & inability to influence the world in a meaningful way, because the bigger corporations swallowed everything up, and transformed everything into a resource to serve ITS needs, rather than existing to address the needs of actual human beings.

Ex: Blockbuster won't get videos from everywhere, and runs out of what you want to watch? Netflix will mail you the DVDs for anything you can think of, and then eventually it's streaming so you don't even need that if you have good internet! It's addressing a need for actual people. Until that shift meant it was just a subscription service that only randomly had something you wanted to see, and would slowly but surely ratchet up its prices no matter how much less it was offering, because you didn't have any other legal options to watch & their content and participate in a collective social activity.

Even when I graduated from high school in 2004 — The stagnation of things like social security being estimated to be non-existed when I hit retirement age & the escalating impossibility to own a home still existed. There was a VERY cautious optimism of that being fixed, but none of us were holding our breaths — mainly because as Millennials we were being scapegoated for killing the economy of every conceivable business ever, while those in power ignored that what they were doing was fundamentally unsustainable.

We all work for companies that treat us like nothing but fuel to make their stock prices go up, and VERY few of us ever get to share in what the increase of that value means, on TOP of not making a meaningful difference while the rest of progress was a stagnation even when things were still getting a bit better in some places, with the flip side being how shit like school shootings were turned into a status quo because special interest groups were so powerful, your individual voice meant nothing at work or in government, and social media was the only place where that playing field was leveled between corporate, media, & political figureheads and everyday people… for a time.

That's why that particular string of nihilism & hopelessness is most often apathy rather than rage, as well as why it was so easy to find people tired of being blamed for fucking up everything all the time, point them at a scapegoat, and use that false empowerment to fuel far-right political fury like MAGA while the liberals & Democrats just clung to the status quo that was still failing everyone because they'd rather bask in the satisfaction of being right than risk what it'd take to actually be effective. (Not just an American problem either, but that's the perspective I know it best from).

Late-stage capitalism morphing into the far worse techno feudalism, whilst the Internet itself turned into a corporate dystopia YEARS ago from the once wild-west interconnected web of human experience that it was back then before Apps homogenized everything into locked down silos of control, where they'll siphon away anything you give, and you have no money to fight off something that massive in court, and seldom any tools to find fairness otherwise.

While most millennials don't have that active rage, we HATE that Gen Z wasn't given a better world. Sure it's got neat things, but we loathe the ways it's failed us both and prevented us from doing a damn thing. …and that's also why the second a Medical Insurance CEO got shot… everybody realized that it's a class thing and we got to see JUST how different it is when something happens to one of them vs. our friends getting murdered in schools & clubs for YEARS.

We didn't like the status quo back then, but it was still moving. We hate the present even more because it's regressing as the powerful are playing in a facade of a promised future, while going about it with all the myopic incompetence of every early-2000s power-hungry web admin with the morals of the most repugnant internet troll, and fucking over anyone below them with impunity. So let me say from experience:

When given power, those people will never care. They will never change, because they got there by being the way they are on purpose. Don't tolerate it. Don't normalize it. Don't play fair against them, because they're not. Play to win.

Remember that it's not an age thing, and it's barely a political thing because those lines VANISH when the real problem gets exposed. It's a class thing of corporate wealth trying to make themselves into gods who feed off of everyone else, and there's no low they won't sink to to take more however they can, and no matter how many of our lives it costs.

am taking perverse pleasure in reminding people it's 2025. that's a star trek year. silly little science fiction number. except it's happening, and DANG ain't it underwhelming!

[adverbally]

Intention

Written for the @stmarchmm prompt “courting rituals” | wc: 913 | rated: T | cw: none | tags: Steddie, Steve & Wayne, omega Steve, alpha Eddie, alpha Wayne, early relationship, asking permission to court, non-traditional relationship dynamics

———

Steve hesitates on the Munsons’ front porch. The trailer is familiar and comforting with its worn screen door and peeling paint, the warm light and organized chaos he knows to be hidden inside. This place has become more of a home to him than the house he grew up in.

He doesn’t want to lose that now.

But he thinks about Eddie nervously asking him on their first real date, hiding his grin behind the lock of hair he tugged across his face when Steve said yes; the way Eddie’s eyes had sparkled in the glow of the streetlight outside Steve’s house when he dropped him off after dinner, just before he leaned in for the best first kiss Steve has ever had; how Eddie had carefully brushed his wrist along the cuff of Steve’s sweater so he could still smell Eddie’s smoky ginger scent for the rest of the evening.

Steve wants that, all of that and more. The promise of that has to outweigh the fear of screwing everything up.

He knocks on the door.

It feels like an eternity before Wayne answers, already dressed in his work clothes for that evening’s shift. He seems surprised to see Steve, but he pushes open the screen door between them and waves him inside anyway. “Did Ed not tell you he has band practice? He should be home soon but you’re welcome to wait.”

“No, I…” Steve takes a deep breath and stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets so he doesn’t start fidgeting with his jacket zipper. “I wanted to talk to you, actually, if you have a minute?”

Wayne looks even more baffled now but gestures for Steve to take a seat in one of the mismatched chairs surrounding the small dining table. He doesn’t join him immediately, instead going into the kitchen and silently filling two glasses with water from the tap. When he returns, he sits in the seat across from Steve and slides one of the cups over to him.

“Thanks.” Steve’s mouth is so dry that his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, but he’s not sure he can take a drink without spilling or choking on it. Not until he says what he needs to say. Keeping his gaze on the scratched tabletop, he begins, “I think you probably know why I’m here.”

“I think so,” Wayne agrees. “And I think you know I need to hear you say it anyway.”

Steve nods, thinking of Eddie’s spicy warm scent to steel himself. “Eddie said you’re not very traditional. Your family, I mean. He offered to do this because he thought I wanted to do it, and I know he would’ve, but my dad…” He cuts off his rambling with a shake of his head. “Sorry, I’m nervous. Eddie said I shouldn’t be–”

“Steve. Take a breath.”

He does, then sips from his glass. Wayne doesn’t say anything while Steve gathers his thoughts for a long moment. Finally, he speaks again, deliberately. “Eddie is incredible. I care about him. I want to be with him.” It’s a gross understatement but if he starts elaborating, he might never stop. “I don’t give a shit what my dad thinks, but it matters to me what you think. Because it matters to Eddie. You’re the most important person in his life. He’s an adult and he can make his own decisions, so I’m not asking for permission, but… I wanted to inform you of my intention to court your nephew.”

Wayne nods, a slight tilt of his head acknowledging Steve’s declaration. “I accept it.”

“Okay.” He nods back, taps his fingers along the side of his water glass, listening to the quiet ping of his nails on its surface. “Thank you.” It’s almost disappointing how anticlimactic this was. He had stressed over it for days, and Wayne just… accepts him, just like that?

Like he can read Steve’s mind, Wayne leans closer. “You’re a good kid, Steve. You saved Ed’s life, you make him happy, you take care of that pack of kids. I think you’re good for him. Mellow him out some.”

“Yeah?” The compliment makes him warm from head to toe. Steve grins down at the table. “I think he’s good for me too.”

Wayne drains the last of the water in his glass. “I’d’ve given my permission, too, if you’d asked. Not that you need it.” He rises from his chair with a groan. “I gotta head to work now, but you’re welcome to wait for Ed. Make yourself at home.”

Steve stands as well, accepting the handshake Wayne offers him. “Thanks again, sir, I appreciate it.”

“Call me Wayne, son.” His mouth twists in a wry smile. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” He claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder, then shrugs on his coat. “Make sure you’re being safe, now. I’m not ready to be a granddad yet.”

Wayne can surely see him blushing as Steve stammers, “No, we— I mean, we haven’t, I’m not—” When he realizes Wayne is fighting back his smile, he sighs, embarrassed but relieved to be in on the joke. “Okay, laugh it up.”

He waves to Wayne from the doorstep, watches the beat-up old truck kick up dust until it turns onto the asphalt outside the trailer park. The alpha’s scent lingers in the trailer, more woodsy than Eddie’s but still warm. Familiar.

Steve thinks he could get used to it.

[dyingswanpavlova]

"Your girl" - Part 21 | The Salesman x Reader

Summary: During a weak moment, you think back to happier times.

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, kidnapping, mentions of sexual abuse and other traumatic events in the past, numbness, helplessness, violence, threatening (knife), mentions of blood, mentions of murder and rape, body issues, trauma talk, stockholm syndrome, forced relationship, unhealthy relationship, depression, manipulation, mentions of sexual activities and desires, mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy issues like nausea and puking, kidney failure, cockwarming, rough sex, penetration, oral sex, blood play, degradation kink, not beta-read and not proofread yet! if I've missed any please tell me! mdni 18+!

"Your girl" - The Salesman x Reader Masterlist

Having a knife pressed against your throat wasn’t half as exciting, if it wasn’t the one person you trusted not to kill you with it – and even if he did…you’d forgive him.

But what if it was someone else? What if it wasn’t the man who made everything possible, the man you had come to trust and love?

It wasn’t enough to kill you. But it, sure as Hell, was enough to break your soul.

You couldn’t help but think back to your last birthday. It had been quite the celebration, hadn’t it?

You had never really celebrated your birthday before and why would you? There were not enough people to invite, at least none who wouldn’t secretly make fun of you behind your back. A few people pitied you for being shy and quiet, they would have come for sure. Others were not so gracious – they said they’d show up and then they didn’t. It wasn’t uncommon, right? Nothing but a pathetic pity party. And yet it was enough to keep you from ever celebrating your birthday again.

Back home you had most often spent the day watching tv shows, probably comfort shows to keep your mind occupied, but at the same time not all that much. Carrie and Douglas shopping groceries for Thanksgiving. Samantha and Charlotte splitting up over Charlotte’s hot brother. A few of your favorite episodes and yet nothing to trigger any emotions in you. Because you knew, if you did, you’d spend all day and all night feeling miserable because your life was so goddamn empty. It went like that every messed up birthday of yours. No one to congratulate you, except for the people who felt obligated to. Your mother’s untrustworthy good wishes. Nothing of meaning.

That was until you met him.

Your last birthday…It had been…

God, if you had died and went to Heaven, it couldn’t have been like that.

Your gaze involuntarily wandered back to the typewriter. A part of you almost wanted to smile at the memory, but it was hard under these circumstances.

And yet you knew, you knew, you had to dissociate somehow. Because if you didn’t, your soul would be gone for good. And what good was it to spend the last few minutes of your life broken and miserable? No, that was so silly. So silly. Why would you do that to yourself, when instead you could remember one of the most beautiful days of your life?

You remembered it like it had been yesterday, though it was a few months in the past by now. You hadn’t been pregnant yet or if you had been, at least you hadn’t known.

Now, lying on your bed under the sharp threat of the blade, you felt your first trimester nausea had passed. Almost on the dot, three months into the pregnancy and the vomiting had stopped. Pasta was still an unbearable thing to you, but at least Tteokbokki worked – though not half as spicy as he liked to eat them. You just weren’t sought out for that kind of tongue pain.

The first morning you woke up and didn’t immediately feel like throwing up the emptiness of your stomach, your desire for something else than food immediately returned – and tenfold.

You didn’t consider yourself an especially wicked or wanton person. But now, that the nausea had passed…

Fuck, you wanted him all the time.

And you got him all the time.

Having him inside you was as natural as breathing. It didn’t matter if you woke up with him stretching you out lazily against the sleepy morning blur or if you found yourself on your knees, keeping his hardness warm for him like a good girl.

“Good girl. Fuck. My good girl. Daddy’s good girl. Mh-mh. Don’t you dare move, you know the rules. I know that you want it. Fuck, I bet you’re dripping by now. Ah…Fuck. No, darling, no. Keep that pretty mouth in place for me, will you? Stay in place and I might just reward you.”

The thought sent a thrill up your spine. Even in that situation.

A part of you still felt incredibly ashamed for being what you were. Every time you came to the thought of something degrading, something cruel, something shameful, your first impulse was to feel bad afterwards. But it got less. And less. And less.

Sex got easier. And so did pleasure.

He made sure to keep your mind occupied. And he made sure to cuddle and caress you to oblivion, each time he had just finished fucking you like a rabid animal, while throwing the worst insults your way and doing the most heinous things to your body.

Of course he took a few measures now that you were pregnant.

When you knelt before him for half an hour while he read the newspaper, he made sure you had a pillow under your knees.

When he pounded into you so hard that you were sure you felt him rip you apart, he made sure to kiss every part of your body afterwards.

Every time.

But your birthday, your birthday…That was different. That was a day you couldn’t ever forget. If you were forced to find your end at only twenty-five, pinned to your bed and pregnant, at least you wanted to think of something beautiful. And that was what your birthday was.

Everything started when he woke you up with a soft breath of a Happy Birthday in your ear. You had been so sure that he either had no idea about it, or if he did, he wouldn’t mention it. But he did. He wished you a Happy Birthday, only a few seconds after he felt you stir in the morning. The thought of that alone was enough to make your heart race in your chest. But that was nothing compared to what else was to come, right?

You didn’t expect much. No, in fact you didn’t expect anything.

So it was all the more surprising and unnerving when he left the room and came back with a giant present. It was packed in dark green wrapping paper, with a big, white ribbon on top. He hadn’t even gotten dressed yet, which was rather uncommon. Sure, he wasn’t the most organized, not with you. He had his ways of dealing with things, but he allowed himself to let loose every now and then. Morning sex and messy kisses before he even got out of bed. But when he did, he normally headed towards the bathroom and came back dressed. Not in anything special, but enough to remind him – and you – that another day had started.

But that day he vanished in nothing but his boxers and he came back exactly like that. You sat on the bed and watched with wide eyes as he came back, wearing no more than that little clothing. His body drew your attention almost involuntarily. Whenever he was near and whenever he looked like that, just a little messy, but still so fucking perfect, you couldn’t help but stare at him.

He was yours. He belonged to you. Only you.

That thought was enough to nearly make your heart stop beating.

You hardly even focused on the present, until he placed it right before you and made you snap out of your thoughts.

“Open it."

Your gaze dropped down, before you met his again.

“You…you got me a present?”

He immediately frowned. “What kind of silly question is that? Why wouldn’t I? It’s your birthday.”

Your cheeks burned, but not in embarrassment or anything similar. You simply felt the hurt of your last nineteen birthdays well up in you.

His expression softened and he gently cupped your cheek in his hand, his calloused palm rough against your skin and yet you felt yourself lean into his touch. Every touch was a gift.

“Just open it.” He said in a softer tone.

For some reason he seemed far more excited than you were. It wasn’t that you were not – but he seemed all but nervous about your reaction.

With a soft sigh, you began to tug at the paper, your thoughts a whirlwind of emotions.

When was his birthday? Would you ever get to know it? Would you ever be able to go out and buy him a present?

What a funny thought. You didn’t care to flee his fangs any longer, no, all you wanted was to buy him a gift.

By the time the floor was covered in paper snippets and the packaging of the present revealed itself, all other thoughts left your system.

Fuck.

Your head shot up and you stared at him with the most incredulous and confused look you could come up with. He wasn’t smiling, nor was he smug, he seemed to be assessing you. Reading you.

“Is this…”

You looked back down at it and ran your fingertips over the flat surface.

Olympia Carrera de Luxe…Typewriter.

Your fingers stilled against the box and you felt your heart skip a few beats.

You told him about it, of course you did. Just like many other things, like almost every ghost of every thought you ever had. So how would he have missed this? He wouldn’t. He was too observant.

Your dream was to become an author one day, but that wasn’t a secret. But you never mentioned the typewriter, not as in wanting to own one. All that you told him was how your father had owned one, back in the day. You had faint memories of sitting in his study and running your fingertips over the keyboard. It was so different from a computer or a laptop. You couldn’t tell what it was. The feeling of seeing whatever you had written right there, as a physical thing you could touch, fold, take wherever you wanted? Or maybe the way it fit into your physical representation of life. Mobile phones were fine, because everyone had one. It was impossible to survive without them nowadays, if you weren’t living in the forest, in a small cottage, with your own farm and freshly made sourdough bread every night.

But you liked real things. Mostly because you never had them.

You had relied on imagining your life rather than living it for as long as you could remember. But what you really wanted was a man to build a fence for you. Someone to wear dresses for. Fresh food. Real laughter. Dancing. Moonlight. Forehead kisses. Vintage phones. Photo albums. Ink. Paint. Sizzling food. And love.

Love like you could only find it in old love stories.

The feeling of the typewriter keyboard under your fingertips always made you feel like these things were possible, like life was endless and love was real. But then your father died and your mother got rid of everything, including the typewriter.

You had spent three weeks crying over it, until you finally realized that tears indeed dry out at some point. And if only, because she didn’t allow you to drink any water, until you finally stopped that pathetic whining of yours.

You had told him that. And he had heard you.

So when you looked up at him again, your eyes wide and filled with a veil of tears, the corner of his mouth twitched in uncertainty.

“I can bring it back, if you don’t like it.” He said in a soft voice. “I just thought you might.”

You swallowed back the lump in your throat as you looked back down at it.

“I can’t believe you did that.” You whispered.

When you looked back up again, you were smiling.

His eyes were still narrowed in uncertainty, as though he believed you were only saying this, because you felt obligated to. Your smile widened at that and you let out a quiet laugh. Without hesitation, you set the package down on the floor and straddled his lap, causing him to fall back against the mattress. His eyes widened for a brief moment, but he let you. His hands fell to your hips and he held you gently in place.

“You really like it?” He asked quietly.

“No one ever did something like that for me.” You whispered and rested your forehead against his. The way his breath seemed to catch in his throat, how your initiative still seemed to catch him off-guard, it was just a lovely bonus.

“Thank you.” You breathed out before you brushed your lips over his. “Thank you. I love it. And I love you.”

His eyes fell shut and he brushed his fingertips under your shirt, gently running his palms along your bare back. It made you shiver and he only ever pulled you closer.

“Happy Birthday.” He murmured against your lips.

Your smile widened impossibly, despite the tears that still stung your eyes.

“Just because of you.” You murmured right back.

Later that day, you found yourself sitting opposite him at the kitchen table. Things were…incredible.

They had often been these days, but that day was different in any sense. Not for a single second had you seen his hand twitch or his jaw clench. No, he was simply perfect.

Of course he had cooked the most heart-wrenching meal. You had no idea what it was or how you were supposed to spell it out, but it was delicious. More so than anything you had ever tasted before. Sitting in the kitchen and watching him cook had been the most relaxing thing you had done in a while, but it also made your mind wander all the same.

You loved cooking with him. It was always sweet, because he never lost his patience over spilled condiments or little mistakes you might have made. No, he stood behind you, his hands on your hips, his head resting on your shoulder. Or sometimes you stood curled into his side, simply observing. He liked cooking, you could tell and you tasted it with every spoonful. What you loved most though was simply co-existing with him, performing a basic, human task. Sometimes he’d hug you from behind and other times he’d shoot you that cocky smirk you loved so much. Whatever it was, it made you love him all the more.

But that night was different from any other time you had done it. You simply sat there, your knees pulled to your chest and your chin resting on your knees and you watched him cook. The precision in his movements, the focus in his expression, that little lip bite. It was all enough to make you swoon.

He was an attractive man, that much was clear. Aside from that, you weren’t sure if he really was your type – in case you ever had one. A part of you believed you didn’t have the right to have a type, since you never loved anyone and no one ever loved you before. It was all in your head, a wild mixture of all kinds of people in fiction and real life you had come to think attractive during some point in your life. Most of them actors, some your age, a few a little older, others quite a few decades above you. It wasn’t that you had daddy issues per say. You just found solace in the thought of a life that was already figured out.

Whatever it was, all of them normally had a little flaw. A little something, a little difference. You never fell for the quarterback, no, it was always some outcast who caught your attention.

Most people fell for Jon Snow for the time being, but your focus was always on Dolorous Edd. With his whole rough-around-the-edges-appearance and his dry sense of humor, he was your man. Jon was too perfect.

It had always been like that and you had never really thought about it. But that night, you suddenly realized, there was more to him that attracted you than his looks. If he was him, but with a kind, uncomplicated soul, with a smile that never left his lips, if all he ever did was assure and love and lull you…Would you still have fallen in love with him?

Probably not.

You realized that you weren’t exactly normal. But as you sat there, watching his quiet confidence and yet the ever-present sort of tension that always lingered somewhere inside of him, you realized you loved him.

For him.

You didn’t need him to change – not for you. The only reason you wanted it, was for him to be happy and carefree. Nothing more.

You didn’t mind his darkness, not even his cruelty, because he was yours and after every storm there followed the calm.

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

You snapped out of your thoughts. “What?”

He took a sip of his drink and watched you over the rim of his glass. “You’ve been staring at me. Again.”

That made you smile. “Are you getting shy?”

The sound of his laughter filled the room, real and unbridled. Your heart swelled with happiness and peace as you watched him, a warm smile on your lips.

“Just admit that you don’t like it.”

At your confused frown, he nodded towards your plate. You blinked in confusion and glanced down, only to realize he was almost done and you had hardly even eaten anything.

“Oh!” Your face flushed at the sentiment. “How long did I stare at you?”

He flashed you a grin that bared his teeth. “Are you getting shy?”

Your smile widened and so did the flush on your skin. “Oh, shush.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he observed you pick up your cutlery and take a generous bite, just to prove him wrong.

A part of you had always assumed men preferred women who didn’t eat. Who never used the bathroom and God forbid, there was ever a hair on your body where it didn’t belong.

But he had quickly proven your thoughts wrong. In reality, except for the times he had starved you in order to…break your will? Whatever it was. Except for those times, he seemed very content watching you eat and rather concerned whenever you didn’t. You didn’t feel the need to be something you were not with him. It should have probably been the bare minimum, but to you it was more. To you, it was something to be grateful for.

You did prove him wrong and showed him that you indeed loved whatever he cooked, by finishing the plate. You raised a brow and shot him a challenging look, as you set the cutlery aside.

He grinned like a predator stalking its prey. “Aren’t we proud over some pasta and steak.”

Your lips curved up into a slow smile. “Just trying to prove a point.”

He hummed softly and leaned back in his chair. “You want your cake now or later?”

Your eyes widened. “Cake?”

He shrugged. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

“But I’m full.”

“So, later.” He smirked. “Or do you give up already? Weakling.”

You laughed. “You’re in for a real tragedy. There’s always space for cake.”

His smile softened. “That’s my girl.”

His words sent a pleasant tingle down your spine and you had no way of hiding that from him. He watched you with a mixture of amusement and fondness.

“Come. Let’s dance.”

Your brows shot up. “But I don’t know how.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “I’ll show you. Just trust me.”

And you did. When he held out his hand to you, you took it and followed him to the living room. Except for the gramophone (how old was this man, truly? There it was again. Your dream life…The cottage.) in the corner of the room, he wasn’t entirely frozen in time and so he had a music box playing, connected to a phone. Before you knew it, you heard a familiar tune hum quietly in the background.

He placed on hand on your waist, while he used the other one to intertwine your fingers. Your free hand rested on his shoulder and you looked up at him with wide, unsure eyes.

“Don’t be nervous.” He murmured. “It’s just us. I’m leading you. Just relax.”

It was no more than gentle swaying through the air, but to your surprise it felt far easier than expected. You couldn’t tell if it was the wine in your system, cutting your usual inhibitions short, or if truly was him. Whatever it was, when he spun and twirled you around, you let him – and you found you enjoyed it more than you ever thought possible. You were wearing the green dress, one of the first ones he had ever gotten for you. Mostly because you knew what it did to him. He kept glancing down at you, assessing you, licking his lips. And it drove you wild.

Not only with desire. But also the desire to be looked at like that by him.

You continued dancing, your rhythm slow, your thoughts caught in-between right there and somewhere else entirely. After a little while you felt his fingers tangle in your hair, gently pulling you into his chest.

“You know I tried my best to turn your black eyes hazel…And kiss away your cruelty…I gladly got undressed, put all my cards on the table...And by cards, I mean me…Apple in mouth, then you left town…Ran after you until my legs gave out...”

You hummed and your brows furrowed. “Interesting…choice of song.”

You heard his smirk before you saw it. “I found it on your phone, so I assumed you might like it.”

That made you look up at him. “Before you drowned it in tea, you mean.”

He exhaled softly through his nose. “Do you miss it? Your phone?”

A thoughtful hum later, you shook your head. “Not really.”

“I could always get you a new one.”

That caused your brows to shoot up in surprise. “Oh? Aren’t you afraid that I might end up calling the police?”

He shrugged. “To tell them what?”

There it was. The crack in the fourth wall, the cut in the curtain. What was it that you were doing here with him? You were hardly his victim, right?

“I came crawlin' in on all fours…Knockin' at your door…Knockin' at your door…”

Instead of making things more complicated, you somehow made a smile happen. “That a crazy man drowned my phone.”

He smiled as well, but it didn’t seem as genuine as he might have hoped for. He pulled you back into his chest and you continued to swing and sway to the soft melody. It was a song you had heard quite some times before, but you hadn’t ever thought back to it since you were there. Music was the least of your concerns. But now that you thought about it, maybe it did apply to him in a way.

“I don't wanna bleed anymore…I just wanted love…But you wanted gore…You're my matador.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

You didn’t need to look up to see the genuine concern in his eyes. His tone of voice was gentle, almost nonchalant. But there was a depth behind his words, a quiet uncertainty.

When you pulled your head back, he was already staring at you.

“Do you want me to be afraid of you?” You asked in the same, gentle tone.

He regarded you with a soft look and quietly admitted: “I don’t know.”

You took a slow breath, but didn’t say anything more. There was not much to say anyway. His words weren’t hurtful or at least they weren’t meant to be. You could tell.

“I want you to feel safe with me. Because you are.” He breathed against your temple. “Sometimes I just…I don’t understand what I want.”

“I do.” You whispered back, before you could stop yourself.

He froze in his tracks and looked down at you.

You decided to continue on with your courageous mission, even it might cost you your head in the end. “You want to control me.”

“Why are you so calm about this?” He asked quietly and he seemed genuinely confused.

“Because…Well, I don’t know.”

The only sound in the room were the soft tunes of the music and the quiet rustling of your clothes when you went back to your slow dancing. He didn’t press any further and so didn’t you. It was a quiet understanding of some sort. You belonged to him and you didn’t fight it. You weren’t perfect and he didn’t fight it either.

Because he fucking loved you. What else could matter there?

After a long while, after you already thought he had slipped into the abyss of his dark thoughts, he suddenly made you snap out of your own thoughts.

“Do you miss home?”

The question hit you harder than expected.

“Home?” You croaked out.

He nodded. “Yorkshire.”

You had to think it through for a moment. Then, with certainty you could say: “No. Not the way you think.”

He cocked a brow and waited for you to explain.

You hummed and gently tightened your grip on his shoulder. “I don’t miss her godforsaken house or anything else there. I don’t miss the Yorkshire I left behind. If anything, I miss the Yorkshire that Emily Bronte created. And I don’t miss her. I miss what it could be.” Your brows furrowed. “With you.”

His lips twitched in half-amusement. “Oh, yeah? You want me chase you through the moors like Heathcliff?”

You smiled. “Isn’t that what you are to me?”

His expression softened somewhat, but you saw the quiet concern flashing behind his dark eyes. “You’re not just some possession to me.”

“I know.” You whispered.

He exhaled a slow breath and gently cupped your face in his palms. They felt warm against your skin and everything else faded away, leaving your soul stripped bare beside his. He saw no flaws in it. Your brokenness didn’t send him running. Instead he was here, wrapping his clipped wings around you to protect your own.

“I want a future with you.”

There was not a thing in the world he could have said that would have made you feel a similar way. Your palms felt sweaty and your breath stuttered in your throat. There it was. The wall. The curtain. It was crumbling – and it didn’t hurt at all. But hope was a dangerous thing to have.

When he saw the way you struggled to come up with a reply, he continued, while his thumbs drew gentle patterns on your cheeks.

“I may not be the right man for picket fences and barbecues, but for you, I’d like to try. I never saw myself in that. Marriage. Children. Life. I never thought I’d make it this far anyway. I was always sure I’d be dead and gone and long forgotten, before I even reached thirty. It was never meaningful to me, none of it. I might as well have died.” He sighed softly. “Maybe it’s still that way. But you make it much more bearable for me.”

You didn’t mean to feel as touched as you did. But you were a natural crybaby it seemed and also, you were sure you were about to get your period, so you found your eyes grow damp.

Marriage. Children. Life.

“I don’t want picket fences and barbecues.” You heard yourself whisper. “We…we could just be us.”

His lips curved into a soft smile and you were sure, you saw the way his black eyes turned hazel again.

“I’d love that.”

Later that same night, after you had learned that dancing wasn’t as bad as you thought and your life wasn’t equally as hopeless, you found yourself underneath him. It wasn’t new, it wasn’t special either. But to you, it felt like it was.

His lips moved against yours with the same urgency as always, but there was something softer behind his touch, something that was almost careful. Like he didn’t intend to break your already fragile soul any further.

The tip of his tongue brushed against your own and that alone was enough to draw a moan from your lips.

“My naughty girl.” He murmured and slowly ran his fingertips up your thigh, pushing the material of the dress up your body. A few seconds later, he froze.

“Where’s your underwear?”

You couldn’t help but grin and shrug.

He sucked in a sharp breath and you saw his eyes darken. “You had no underwear on this whole time?”

“Mhm.” You purred.

“You…little…”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that you didn’t realize-“

“Minx!”

His lips crashed against yours again and he wasted no more time. His warm hands wandered up your body and he quickly discarded your dress on the floor, followed by your bra. You felt exposed when the cold air hit your skin, especially since he was still fully dressed. Your hands instinctively reached up to undo his shirt, but he quickly pinned your wrists against the mattress above your head and he kissed you with the fervor of a dying man. He used one hand to undo the buttons, while at the same time one of his knees settled between your own, pushing your legs apart. You felt so vulnerable, but at the same time, you couldn’t help but part them even further for him, desperate to finally feel him. When he felt the way you parted your legs for him, a low growl rumbled in his throat.

“Fuck, my dirty girl.” He breathed out and tossed his shirt aside, soon followed by his slacks. You felt his hardness before you saw it. He took your hand and guided it down his body and before you knew it, you felt your fingers wrap around him, your thumb brushing the little, damp spot on the material of his underwear. He groaned against your lips and bucked his hips against your touch.

“Fuck, yes. Come on, baby, touch me.”

Your hand slid inside and wrapped around his skin, all the while your eyes stayed focused on his face. The look in his eyes, the darkness, it was enough to drive you mad.

You bit your lip as you began to gently stroke him, rubbing your thumb over his tip in the most gentle touch. He groaned again and his head dipped forward, his forehead pressed against your collarbone.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He kept bucking his hips, moving in rhythm with you. The way he bit his own lip to stifle any sounds and yet it didn’t help. The fact that you could do this to him…

A shuddering breath and...

“I want to have your baby.”

The words slipped past your lips way faster than you could stop them and you weren’t sure if you were ready to regret them. It was true. And at the same, you were scared shitless. It was stupid before it was anything else. But you wanted what he said. A future. A future with him.

He froze and his body went rigid above you. For a short moment, you were sure you had fucked up. But then he pulled his head back and you saw his eyes. Nearly black.

“Say that again.” He growled.

“I…”

“Say it.” He breathed out and tugged your head back by your hair. You moaned and arched your back, involuntarily pressing against him. He pulled your hand away and held your jaw firmly in place.

“Say it again.” He nearly hissed.

“I want to have you baby. I want you to…I want you…to…”

His lips found your neck and he left a trail of flaming-hot kisses against your skin. His kisses turned to bites, his bites to groans. His boxers shared the same fate your clothing did and before you knew it, he pushed your legs apart, as wide as possible.

“I don’t want you to say this, if you don’t really mean it.” His voice was a mixture of furious and pleading. He was taking control so effortlessly and at the same time, he was incredibly gentle.

You might have been confused, had you not been so desperate to finally feel him.

“I do mean it.” You whispered breathlessly. “I don’t need a fucking picket fence. Haunt me all you want. Kill me if you will. But let me be yours. Don’t look at anyone else. Love only me.”

You had no idea what you were talking. It was probably the wine speaking…or just the depths of your soul.

His expression shifted from quiet despair to something dark, something dangerous.

He leaned down and bit down on your earlobe, the sting of it enough to make you jerk, but not quite enough to really hurt you.

“Are you sure about this? Because, if you are, there is no way back. Because I want this. I fucking want this.”

You bit your lip and slowly wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him against you. His hardness pressed up against your slick core and you were sure you heard him let out a muffled moan against your neck.

“Fill me up. I don’t want a way out. I just want you.”

He didn’t ask again.

He pushed himself inside you, but he was gentle about it. It was as though he was trying to savor the feeling, to feel every little bit of you wrapped around him. You inhaled sharply and exhaled just as hard. Every time his breath hit your neck and he pushed a little further in, you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to meet him in the middle.

“Fuck.” He breathed out. “Fuck. I love you. I love this. Fuck, I want to die this way.”

His words sent a shudder through you. “Shut up.” You breathed out. “If something happened to you…”

You didn’t want to think about it, but you did every day. If something ever happened to him…

You couldn’t finish the thought.

He intertwined your fingers with his and pressed your hands against the mattress, his lips just a breath away from yours.

“You’d just go on living.” He whispered.

He gave a slow, deliberate roll of his hips and so you couldn’t answer immediately. But when you did, it was no less desperate. You shook your head, almost frantically.

“What am I going to do if you die, huh? Just live in a world with no you in it? Pass. Fuck. You’d have to kill me first.”

His movements stuttered for a moment, his eyes fixed on you. There was a slowness between you, a feeling like the rest of the world wasn’t really there. Eventually, he continued moving and he wasn’t slow about that. Every thrust he gave was determined, determined to either prove a point or maybe get you pregnant.

He leaned down and his lips barely grazed your ear as he whispered: “You can’t say shit like that to me.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. You were too busy clawing at his back and trying to focus solely on the pressure he put on you. Before you knew what had hit you, you were already gasping and whining out your release.

When he felt your walls clench around him, he let out a low moan against your neck. “What do you want?” He breathed out, his movements never slowing.

“Fill me up.” You breathed out desperately. “Fuck, I want you. Forever.”

These words were enough. His movements stilled, but you felt the way he throbbed inside you, filling you with his seed and his love. His hope. Whatever this was, you wanted more of it. You wanted it all.

He was still gasping for air and so were you. His hands were gentle in your hair and his lips moved softly against your temple.

“I love you. Fuck, I love you. My birthday girl.”

You bit down on your lip and closed your eyes. “I love you more.”

He let out a low chuckle and was probably about to protest, when he felt you tense underneath him.

His eyes shot open and he regarded with a concerned look. “What is it? Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head, your expression tense. “I just…I think I got…I may have gotten my…” You swallowed, still feeling him pressed against you, but you suddenly felt way more uneasy.

His brows furrowed in confusion, until it suddenly hit him.

He pulled back just enough to look down at you and, indeed. A bloody mess.

“Ah.”

“I’m sorry…” You murmured, your face flushed in embarrassment and shame. “I’ll clean it up, I’ll-“

“Shh.”

He gently tipped your chin up, but your eyes stayed firmly shut.

“What?” He murmured. “You thought I’d be repulsed by this?”

You swallowed and nodded. For some reason, this felt far more humiliating than you ever imagined before.

He sighed softly and gently stroked your hair.

“I’m cleaning it up.” He murmured. “But I’m not repulsed, my silly girl.”

“You’re only saying this so I feel better.”

“No.” He murmured. “I’m saying it, because it’s fucking turning me on.”

Your eyes shot open the same instant.

“You…what?”

He nodded without hesitation. And truly. You felt him, just then. Hard again.

Your eyes widened impossibly, but the flush on your face only deepened. Your mother had somehow made you believe that your monthly blood was something terribly shameful. A curse, a punishment, because women were without shame and that was the only way to stop them.

You never knew what exactly she meant, but it was enough to make you hate yourself over it.

“That- I-“

“Why don’t you come to the shower with me…and I’ll show you exactly what I mean?”

You had no strength to protest. You had come quick to learn, his word meant more than your mother’s ever did. And you didn’t mind.

Even when he hated you, he still loved you. Unlike her.

So you found yourself in the shower only a minute later, pressed against the cold wall behind you. He turned on the water for the cold to fade, but he quickly had you pinned against the wall, while the hot water burned its way through your skin.

“What are you-“

He groaned against your lips and pressed himself against you. All normal. It was all fine. The blood would just wash away, right? Like all bad and shameful things did at some point.

But before you knew it, he was on his knees.

On his knees.

You nearly fainted.

“What are you-“

He hooked one of your legs around his shoulder and attached his lips to your core, before you could protest. Your eyes widened and your blush was near painful. But the thrill…the thrill it sent through your body…

You nearly came, right then and there.

What the hell was he doing? Did this really turn him on?

And why did it turn you on, the way it did him?

He lapped and sucked at you in the most intimate way, a low groan on his lips every now and then. His lips and tongue moved in a cruel speed and you quickly realized you couldn’t just pretend this wasn’t happening.

Because it was happening. And you were about to feel it unravel.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him in place, your hips moving on their own accord and a breathless moan was on your lips.

There it was. The feeling.

May the water never wash that feeling away.

Your body trembled and shuddered violently as you came and it never seemed to stop. A few seconds later it eventually did. The reality of the situation came crushing back on you, but before you could dwell on it, he was on his feet, towering above you.

“Are you still ashamed?” He whispered breathlessly, brushing his lips against your earlobe.

“Yes.” You whispered back.

He groaned and spun you around, so his chest was pressed against your back.

“Don’t be.” His tone was a quiet command, and yet you recognized the hint of pleading behind his words.

Don’t be ashamed of your pleasure. Don't be afraid of mine.

He didn’t give you time to be ashamed though. He was inside you before you could even think about being. And this time there was nothing gentle about it. Just your vampire lover, pounding away at you and taking what he wanted.

“Are you still ashamed?” He grunted while he mercilessly fucked you into the wall.

You opened your mouth, but all you could do was moan.

His smirk. His smirk was the most cruel sound in the world. But at the same time you were thankful. He didn’t let you be ashamed for something you both wanted.

“Thought so.”

A beat later, his smirk softened into something else and he slowed his movements just slightly to whisper against your earlobe.

"You'll get to know in time. Everything...Me. I promise you."

That was exactly what you thought about.

A day filled with as much sorrow as there was hope. And now there it was. A life growing inside of you, strong and resilient against everything that had hurt you in the past and would continue to hurt you. Until it was too late.

Fucking hell.

Was this your last day on earth?

__________________________________________

Tag list 1: @mitsuki-dreamfree@kpopsmutty69@heroine-chique@vkeyy@mizuwki@blu-brrys@z0mbi345@yourpointbreak@ayieayee@freddyzeppsworld@lola11111111@indifitel6661@salesmanlover08@laurenbenoit70@lalalaa2210@lila-marshal@auspicious-lilana@0-aubrie0@lovelyaegyo@theredvelvetbitch@violentbluess@muriels-lover@dorayakissu@eviebuggg@muchwita@ririgy@strxlemon@obsessedwthdilfs@kiwilov3@misty-q

Author's note: Hey, guys! This chapter cost me years of my life yet again......I started writing this last night and finished it just now, with a sleeping break of course, but I'm just about to head out and I'm still sick, so I'm in no real condition to proofread. I'll do that later, I think...I just hope I didn't talk gibberish here. If I did at some point, please forgive me!

However, thank you guys for your patience and your constant love and motivation! A few things in this chapter were inspired by (anonymous) requests and I'll answer the asks in time!

What I remember definitely is: the period issue, the slow dancing, her wanting for him to finish in her in order to get pregnant, teasing him with no underwear and "What am I going to do if you die, huh? Just live in a world with no you in it? Pass." - "You can't say shit like that to me."

I love you, guys!

Yours eternally,

Lana

[beloveds-embrace]

Might we have a nibble of undesignated reader?

🦥

How about a whole… cookie? 🍪

Omegaverse Masterlist

It’s not the first time you’ve heard them talk.

The barracks aren’t exactly known for their privacy. Voices carry through the thin walls, whispers slipping through cracks like smoke, curling into places they don’t belong. You’ve learned to ignore it for the most part, tuning out the idle gossip, the careless words thrown around by people who don’t know you, don’t understand you.

But tonight, the words stick.

“They don’t even have a scent, man. It’s weird.”

“Yeah, but they’re still sharp as hell in the field. Maybe they were supposed to be a Beta?”

“Nah, bet they were meant to be an Alpha, but something went wrong.”

“Or maybe an Omega? That’d be even worse- imagine being designed for pack life and ending up like that.”

Laughter follows, sharp and cruel, and you walk away before you hear anything else.

You don’t go to your room. You don’t go to the common area or the mess, or the nest. You don’t go anywhere someone might find you.

Instead, you find yourself outside, away from the hum of voices and the weight of constant, curious stares. The night air is cool against your skin, crisp and biting, the smell of damp earth grounding you in a way nothing else can.

You breathe in deep- and it doesn’t stick the way it should.

What would you have been, if you weren’t… this?

If something hadn’t gone wrong?

Would you have been an Alpha, all quiet dominance and steady control? Would your voice have carried weight, your presence something that demanded obedience without needing to ask? Would you have had instincts that made sense, a drive to protect, a need to claim?

Or an Omega? Soft, warm, instinctively attuned to the emotions of those around you? Would you have been able to scent your pack, comfort them with nothing but your presence? Would you have been wanted in a way that didn’t feel conditional, based on how useful you could be?

Or a Beta- level-headed, unaffected, fitting neatly into the gaps between extremes? Would it have been easier that way, to exist without feeling like something is missing?

Awful generalizations, you know. But at the same time- you wouldn’t know. You’d never know, bcause you’re none of them.

You’re nothing.

Faulty.

The door creaks open behind you, and you don’t bother turning around to see who it might be.

John doesn’t say anything at first, either. Just stands beside you, looking out into the dark, hands tucked into his pockets. The silence stretches, long and heavy, before he finally speaks.

“Got something on your mind?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you swallow hard, staring at the horizon like it might hold the answers you’ve never found.

“…What do you think I would’ve been, Cap?”

John doesn’t ask what you mean. He understands, because of course he does. He hums, tilting his head in thought.

“Dunno,” he admits eventually, lighting a cigar. “Never thought about it.”

You huff a quiet, bitter laugh. “Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

You finally turn to look at him, searching his face for something- pity, understanding, a lie wrapped in kindness. They’ve accepted you into their lives and their nest- but how much of it is real, and how much of is just taking pity on a walking, talking fault?

But there’s none of that. Just certainty, his eyes peering at you with no hesitation.

“You are what you are, love,” he says simply, taking a drag of the burning cigar. “And that’s enough.”

A lump forms in your throat, thick and tight. “It’s not, though.”

“For them? Maybe not.” He exhales through his nose, gaze steady. “For us? It always has been.”

The words land heavier than you expect.

Because for all that you’ve questioned yourself, for all the times you’ve wondered if you were missing some crucial piece, they never have. You are theirs, not because of a designation, not because of instinct or scent or pity.

Just because you are.

John claps a hand on your shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze before turning back toward the building.

“Come inside,” he says. “We’re waiting for you. Simon’s kept a plate of food- actual food, not mess slop- for you.”

And maybe- just maybe- that’s enough.

[jraker4]

"I concede that evidence currently shows the Bibas family was killed, and a body belonging to someone not a hostage was returned. It's a travesty. However, I can't condemn Nat Turner, and in the same token, I can't condemn Hamas." Considering the rest of your remarks prior to this, what a marvelously brazen display of chickenshit behavior. After all of your bemoaning a lack of sources-while offering exactly none of your own, mind-when you're given one, it slides off your back better than water off a duck's. Don't get me wrong, it doesn't mean you're obligated to concede your entire argument or anything, but a person of integrity would at least have the stones to admit 'I eat crow on this claim I made over and over again. I think in time more evidence will reveal I'm right, but right now that's not the case'. But you don't need integrity, because you've got The Cause, right? You don't have to be accurate, because you're Right. Like when you compare the plight of Palestinians to that of African chattel slaves in the early 19th century. Which is for starters just a buckwild stupid comparison to make, and in any event lacks any sense of nuance: it's *completely possible* to condemn specific actions of someone without insisting that they then condemn an entire movement or goal. People do it all the time, they're perfectly capable of it. You're doing it right this very moment with Palestinians...and yet, somehow, even conceptually you can't make that little reach further. And also condemn others while doing it. Let's see, what else: you don't know what carpet bombing is. If Israel were carpet bombing Palestinians, there wouldn't be Palestinians *left*. That doesn't mean the conduct of the war in Gaza is good or beyond reproach, far from it, but again we come back to your not needing to be accurate because you're Right (supposedly). Terms like 'carpet bombing' have meaning, and it's not 'prolonged air strikes'. But why be right when the term is so sexy? Ethnostates: I wonder how many ethnostates there are in the region and, indeed, the world, and what's the cause behind your total fucking silence on this relevant question? Actually I don't wonder, and if you're going to insist on using the term I'm going to have fun mocking you for it.

'Colonial'. One cannot colonize one's own indigenous land. Obviously that doesn't mean taking it is OK, there are more ethical questions to be asked and answered than 'are you indigenous or not', but *by definition* Israel isn't doing A Colonialism because you can't colonize your own native land. Now, there *are* plenty of words that already exist to describe the sorts of behavior you're trying to describe, but they're way less sexy than 'colonialism', so why trouble usin' `em, amirite? Say, I wonder how the regional nations around Israel got their start, what's their history, surely there ain't any colonizing going on there, right? What? That don't matter? Happened too long ago? Well, OK, so what's the exact expiration date then? While Israel would prefer other options, I think they'd be happy to know that the standard is 'hold out for a few centuries and then it's yours in the eyes of the world', since they're already determined to hold out for centuries anyway. What? That's a ridiculous standard that it isn't fair to make? Why? If you're going to use a term like 'colonial', we're going to talk about colonizing. That ain't limited to Israel.

What’s more likely? Hamas killed two crucial bargaining chips, then, instead of simply saying the bodies were lost under the rubble, returned the remains proving they’d murdered them.

Or

Israel killed them when they carpet bombed Gaza, like everyone warned them would happen, lied about the kids being alive for over a year, are now lying again to invoke genocidal fervour and break the ceasefire?

This is the “40 beheaded babies” debacle all over again. The truth will be acknowledged eventually but by then it will be too late.

[arxiwon]

Falling Through the Cracks | sjy

Pairing: Jake Sim x Reader Genre: Angst, Tragedy, Heavy Heartbreak Warnings: Emotional cheating, miscommunication, regret, angst with no comfort, terminal illness, major character death Synopsis: You and Jake were supposed to have forever. But forever was never promised.

The first time you met Jake Sim, he was the boy with the brightest smile and the loudest laugh. He was warm—like the summer sun, like the lingering scent of coffee in the morning, like the feeling of home.

And you loved him for it.

Jake had always been yours, and you had always been his. At least, that’s what you thought.

But love is cruel when it isn’t enough.

It started small—missed calls, late replies, moments where he wasn’t really there even when he was sitting right beside you. At first, you brushed it off. Jake was busy with work, tired from practice, exhausted from always giving so much of himself to everyone.

You told yourself you understood.

Until you saw it.

The way he smiled at her.

It was the same way he used to smile at you.

And suddenly, you weren’t sure if you were his anymore.

“Jake, tell me the truth.”

Your voice wavered as you stood in front of him, your fingers curled into your sleeves to keep them from shaking. Jake was sitting on the couch, his head tilted back against the cushions, but his whole body tensed at your words.

“What do you mean?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

You let out a broken laugh. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Silence.

It stretched between you, an unspoken truth neither of you wanted to say out loud.

Jake swallowed hard, looking down at his hands. “It’s not what you think.”

“Then tell me,” you pleaded, your heart cracking with every second that passed.

He sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. “I… I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

Your stomach twisted. It felt like the floor was crumbling beneath you, like the air had been sucked out of the room.

“So it did happen.”

He didn’t answer.

And that silence told you everything.

Jake never physically cheated on you.

But love isn’t just about the body.

It’s about the heart.

And Jake had given a piece of his heart to someone else.

You knew he still loved you. You could see it in the way he hesitated before leaving, in the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he had the right anymore.

But love alone wasn’t enough.

So you left.

And Jake let you.

A year passed.

You tried to move on. You really did. But there was always something missing—like a phantom limb, like a whisper in the wind, like the ghost of a love that should have lasted a lifetime.

Then, one day, Jake called you.

His voice was hoarse, weaker than you remembered.

“…Can we talk?”

You hesitated. But in the end, you went.

And that’s when you learned the truth.

Jake was sick.

Terminally.

The doctors had given him months.

Your world shattered in an instant.

The love you had tried so hard to bury came rushing back, suffocating you with its weight. Because it didn’t matter how much he had hurt you, how much time you had spent resenting him for breaking your heart—none of that mattered anymore.

Because you were about to lose him.

Forever.

Jake never asked you to stay.

But you did anyway.

Not as his lover, not as his second chance, but as the person who had loved him first and would love him last.

You were there through it all. The doctor visits, the sleepless nights, the pain that left him breathless and exhausted. You held his hand when he was too weak to stand. You ran your fingers through his hair when the weight of it all became too much.

And Jake… he never stopped looking at you like you were his entire world.

Because you were.

And maybe, in another life, he would’ve realized it sooner.

The last time Jake Sim smiled at you, it was different.

It wasn’t the brightest smile in the room. It wasn’t the loudest laugh.

It was soft. Tired. A whisper of what once was.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely above a breath.

Tears streamed down your face as you held his hand against your chest. “Don’t.”

He exhaled shakily, his fingers twitching against yours. “If I had more time… I would’ve spent every second proving to you that it was always you. It was only you.”

You bit your lip, choking on a sob. “I know.”

Jake smiled again—just for you.

And then he closed his eyes.

And this time, he didn’t open them again.

You loved Jake Sim with every part of you.

But love wasn’t enough to keep him.

And as you sat there, holding his lifeless hand, you realized—

Jake had always been yours.

And you had always been his.

But forever was never promised.

[hellspawnmotel]

love your blog and your art!! and realised ive been following you for almost ten years so thank you for the quality posts

have you got any thoughts on ralsei and noelle in terms of both of them taking on “the girl” role in the game? or i guess rather ralsei trying to be the girl in his own meta and sorta weird way. i know youve drawn them together a couple times but would love to hear any analysis if you have thoughts (if youve already posted about this and i missed it my bad! feel free to ignore)

well damn that's flattering. wish I had some kind of membership program so I could give you a little gift, haha

anyway. this is something I've touched on before but only really spelled out once so you're good. I think there's several factors at play with ralsei's metatextual femininity: his status as the party squishy mage/healer, his status as kris's (and by extension, the player's) love interest, his obsession with roles and subservience, and the fact that ralsei is probably meant to be as appealing to the player as possible. none of those things are INHERENTLY feminine of course, but they are in the context of a story with an audience. we don't know for sure yet how ralsei feels about all that, but I'd wager he either thinks he wants it or thinks it has to be his purpose and he wants to do a good job at it. ralsei is like..... the wife. he's the perfect wife. and he's really good at it! the audience LOVES ralsei! whenever my art gets reposted on reddit, there are way more romantically charged or even sexually explicit comments about ralsei than any other character. when I posted my "choose your bride" illustration, most of the people commenting said they would choose ralsei over noelle, with some even saying that it's because noelle "already belongs to susie".

and that leads into his parallels with noelle. like ralsei, noelle is a fragile magic user, is generally more shy and demure (though both of them can break out of that easily), is shown as pining for the object of her affections, and she's slotted into the role of "the love interest" for susie (or for kris/the player, but I'm gonna focus on normal route here). the ferris wheel scene also directly parallels the acid tunnel of love- both forcing the two "couples" to be alone together in a deliberately romantic setting with nothing to do but talk. I've already talked plenty about noelle's roles as the girl, the bride, the damsel, etc. so I won't get into it again, but I think the connections made between kralsei and suselle are worth keeping an eye on. there's nothing to indicate that susie and noelle's budding romance is anything but sweet and genuine, but at the same time you have to wonder what it means that the game is pushing them together in a way so similar to kris and ralsei.

to reference classic jrpg dragon quest v: hand of the heavenly bride, nera comes out of nowhere and was tailor-made to be a wife, while bianca is a childhood friend you have an actual prior connection with. but it doesn't really matter who you choose to marry. in the end they both get kidnapped and sidelined as soon as they're done having your babies.

[jjanuaryrain]

DP x DC crossover

First pass at the first chapter of a DPxDC crossover fic (more below the break):

Jason didn’t mean to return to his grave as often as he did. Honestly. He had no intention of ever returning to the Wayne family plot in Gotham Cemetery, but life had a mysterious way of directly contradicting Jason’s desires. 

So, instead, he just found himself there. Over and over: in the dead of night, or the middle of a storm, or during a city-wide blackout. Every time, it was dark and miserable and he couldn’t remember getting there, couldn’t remember making the decision to go, but he knew he moved of his own volition. Just not how. Just not why.

Something’d been pulling him there, that much was clear. He’d mostly stopped looking for a reason, though, as none had ever become clear no matter how long he spent inspecting the grave. There were only so many times you could stare at the same plot of land and think God, why?? before it started to get a little stale, y’know? And he’d never been harmed during his unconscious wanderings – a veritable miracle in this shithole. The Jason of a few years ago probably would’ve immediately assumed Bruce had something to do with it, but in reality it felt too… Magical. Too inexplicable and supernatural to be something that the Batman would have a hand in.

Still, despite being obviously supernatural, it didn’t feel particularly dangerous. The first few times he’d found himself in front of that ridiculously lavish slab of marble, sure, he’d practically blacked out again in a haze of green-tinged fury. He was pretty sure he’d smashed the thing up that first time, but when he’d come to in front of it a few weeks later, there wasn’t a scratch on it. That could believably be Bruce’s doing.

Now, there was something almost peaceful about waking up in front of the grave he clawed himself out of all that time ago. Nearly, what, three years now? Christ, had it been that long? Jason’s work wasn’t done, not by a long shot, but he also wasn’t the same thing that pulled itself, heaving and spitting, from the dirt. He felt a little less like a vengeful spirit and a little bit more like a person when he looked at that grave now. Less like he wanted to sink his teeth into anything that moved or dared to enter his line of sight. He maybe even felt a little related to the Jason Todd that was originally laid to rest there.

Tonight was different from all those nights before it. Jason chose to be here. Awake and aware, he drove his motorcycle through the sleeting rain to the entrance of the cemetery and made his way to his grave. He had business there tonight, and his grave was the most obnoxious place he could think of to ask Dickie to meet him. If the nuisance is gonna insist on meeting, Jason’s gotta get at least a little bit of a kick out of it, right? Not like he was gonna enjoy the conversation at all otherwise. 

He knew the route intuitively, so he was sure-footed when he stepped around the large weeping willow towards the Wayne family plot. (That used to rub him the wrong way, too, being lumped in with the Waynes. But it wasn’t like there was a Todd plot to bury his empty coffin in, was there?)

Fog was rolling across the carefully manicured lawn of the cemetery when Jason approached, curling around trees and over tombstones. Only the best and brightest of the city were buried here, those whose families had enough money or sway to keep their loved one’s bodies out of the cramped landfills that were the cemeteries in areas like Burnside or, god forbid, the Narrows.

So, it stood to question why some street rat was crouched down in the fog in front of an open grave when Jason rounded the tree. In front of Jason’s open, re-dug-up grave, what the fuck.

The fucker was damn lucky that Jason’s had 3 years to get a handle on his anger, because shit. Seeing the fresh dirt piled haphazardly around his half unearthed coffin had Jason seething behind his muzzle, teeth bared almost against his will. His pulse thundered in his ears and he itched to reach for a weapon and right this wrong wrong WRONG. 

But that wasn’t Jason’s urge. That wasn’t Jason’s well-honed instinct, carved into him by countless years on the streets of Gotham. It was something far less logical and far more nefarious.

So. Jason forced his muscles to relax and dropped back into a crouch instead, curling into the stretching shadows of the weeping willow. Wait, observe, understand. Then act. It was the only piece of advice of Bruce’s that Jason had any interest in following after waking up under the ground. And it still rankled to follow it.

The thought of Bruce, that old damned fool, and his other terrible advice had Jason tensing up all over again, but he forced the rage back, swallowed it back down into that dark pit in the center of his chest. There’d be a time to unleash it, later. When he knew for damn sure that his target deserved it. For now, however…

Wait. Observe. Understand.

The street rat was mumbling to himself as he crouched over Jason’s grave, sifting through the loose dirt as if he was looking for something. Oddly, though, he didn’t seem to have a speck of dirt on him. Despite his ratty clothes – a pair of torn black cargo pants and a dingy black hoodie with a faded and crumbling NASA logo on the back – neither of them had any stains. The hoodie was worn thin around the hem and collar, though, and even from a distance Jason could see at least one section that’d been obviously mended.

Definitely not one of Gotham’s elite, then. He didn’t have the look of rich kid playing poor, either, despite the lack of mess that the streets tended to leave on people. Overall, a disjointed sight.

Curious.

Jason upped the contrast on the lenses in his domino mask and zoomed in as much as he could on the kid. If he could be called that. He was on the small side, closer to Tim’s build than Jason’s, but he appeared to be post-adolescent at the very least.

Jason scanned his person for any identifying features. He was facing away and his black hair was tied up into a short and messy ponytail that did a terrible job of holding it back, meaning Jason couldn’t get a good look at his face. His ears were in plain view, however, and decked out in black piercings and silver chains. Jason filed that information away for later. The piercings could be good markers for identification later as long as he didn’t take them out. 

And… was it just Jason’s imagination or did his ears form the barest of points at the tips?

That was interesting. Could be natural, but… well, it was Gotham. Very rarely were things here as they seemed.

Jason shifted onto the balls of his feet, eager for a closer look.

It rarely got cold enough to snow in Gotham – the best they could usually ask for was an icy sleet that melted into blackened sludge the moment it hit the streets – but as Jason crept closer, that sleeting rain began to crystalize into true flurries. They collected in the street rat’s hair, reflecting the meagre light of the cemetery’s gas lamps and making his hair and clothes appear to be an even deeper black. The image of a black hole surrounded by a glittering crown of stars flashed through Jason’s mind, there one second and gone the next, and Jason had to physically blink the vision away.

The chains on the rat’s beat up combat boots shifted and jangled as he straightened from his crouch and let out a foggy sigh into the icy December air. Jason tensed, ready to follow silently, when the kid’s head snapped to the side and he locked eyes with Jason.

Jason’s chest seized.

His gaze was sharp, icy and blue, and Jason's entire body locked up. It only lasted a moment, but he felt a wave of dread fall over him so acute that he had to resist the urge to tuck and roll away from whatever looming threat must be there. But then it was gone, leaving only a wave of goosebumps and shaky legs in its wake.

What the fuck was that?

It reminded him of that time he took a glancing blow from Mr. Freeze’s freeze gun. Jason gave a violent shiver as the feeling subsided and rolled to his feet. He didn’t know what was going on here, but hiding in the shadows wasn’t gonna get him anywhere anymore.

Sorry not sorry, B.

He rose from his crouch and stepped out fully from the long shadow of the tree, chin lifted and shoulders back. He’d gotten rid of the helmet a few months back, but the black muzzle, domino mask, and armored hood that shadowed his face worked just as well for intimidation. He knew his size, too, could be a decent deterrent for a lot of people, and he didn’t shy away from using that to his advantage. However, the street rat just stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned to face him, seemingly nonchalant.

Well, Jason was right – he wasn’t a kid. But he didn’t strike Jason as particularly adult, either. He had the barest hints of baby fat left in his cheeks, placing him at around 19 or 20 in Jason’s mind; possibly older if he had a bad case of baby face. There was a silvery web of scarring peeking out of the high neck of the gray compression shirt he wore below the hoodie. It crept out from his collar, up his neck, and just over the hinge of his jaw. It was a lucky find in terms of identifying the rat, but Jason couldn’t help a twinge of empathy.

Facial scars were a bitch.

To Jason’s surprise, it was the street rat that spoke first. And it wasn’t even to beg for his life or immediately spill his guts at the sight of the Red Hood’s signature glowing red eyes. Instead, it was a challenge.

“You gonna come tell me what this is about?” The street rat called across the increasingly snowy green. He sounded completely calm, apparently not at all phased by the Red Hood’s sudden presence in his very obvious crime scene. “Or d’ya wanna brawl about it first?” His accent was vaguely midwestern and his tone was lilting and playful. He was ballsy, Jason'd give him that. Asking the Red Hood for a fight was asking to have your teeth knocked out, but the rat didn’t seem to know that. He didn’t seem to know anything about the Red Hood at all.

For a long moment, it was just the wind and the snow between them. The air was crisp with tension and Jason wondered what the street rat was thinking. He looked utterly calm, but his body was loose in a way that Jason knew meant he could jump into action at any moment. Jason locked away the green-tinged itch to lunge or swing or tackle.

Instead, he slowly shifted out from behind the weeping willow, sweeping some of its long branches out of his way. The rat didn’t look particularly phased by his approach.

“You new to town, kid?” Jason asked lowly as he stalked forward. Because he was increasingly certain this guy hadn’t been in New Jersey let alone Gotham for longer than a week, max. “Y’ain’t gonna last long, picking fights.”

The street rat shrugged, all slouchy and nonchalant in his oversized sweatshirt. He should’ve been freezing in the newly drifting snow, but he looked perfectly comfortable. There wasn’t even a flush to his pale cheeks.

“It’s not picking a fight if we both want it,” he said. “Y’know, like consent.” Just then, there was a tug in Jason’s chest and he swore he saw a flash of green in the rat’s eyes. Jason stopped dead in his tracks.

“What–” Jason cut himself off, literally biting his tongue. There was green swamping his vision and a pushing tension in his muscles, but Jason was in control, damn it. He’d worked hard to create a leash of pure will and he wasn’t gonna let some scrawny street rat of all people break it.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, the Pits insisted. Jason shoved the thought away.

“I’m not coming on to you, by the way,” the rat continued, leaning a hip against the headstone. Jason’s headstone. He felt a snarl rise in his throat. He choked it down. “Just offering a friendly brawl before we get to talking. To get the tension out of the way, you know.”

He was saying everything so casually, but Jason was having a difficult time wrapping his head around it. Who the hell asked to be knocked around by someone three times their size? Outside of the bedroom and kink clubs, that was. Had Jason stumbled across some sort of gang initiation by accident?

When Jason didn’t respond (wait, observe, understand), the street rat’s lazy smile grew feral around the edges. Jason felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and he instinctually braced for impact.

“C’mon,” the street rat goaded. His eyes glinted a sickeningly familiar green. “Fight me,” he hissed.

And the Pits screamed.

Jason was in motion before he could fully comprehend what was happening. He was up and sprinting across the 15 yards separating him and the street rat. He felt the snarl rip itself out of his throat and the next moment his fist connected with ice-cold flesh.

The street rat toppled over backward with a yelp, landing in the dirty snowy mix behind him. Jason was on him again before he could stop himself. There was something fizzing in his veins, rising in a viridescent wave that made his blood sing and his teeth buzz. It felt like the sweetest moments of being Red Hood – smashing a crowbar into the faces of pedophiles, kneecapping traffickers, battering the bodies of those stupid enough to break the rules in his territory, his home. His whole body was alight with an incandescent rage. It felt spectacular.

He lined up another punch, baring his teeth behind his mask, but suddenly he wasn’t touching the ground anymore. That is, until he landed in an explosion of snow a few yards away.

Jason hissed at the impact but was back on his feet immediately. Good thing, too, because the street rat was on him again in an instant. They rolled in the snow, grappling and trading blows. He elbowed the rat in the face once, twice, before he caught Jason squarely under the jaw with a knee, leaving him seeing stars.

Leaving your guard down in exchange for getting hits in – sloppy, Bruce commented in his mind. Jason seethed, tasting blood, and redoubled his efforts. The two of them broke apart and back together again and again, kicking and clawing and spitting like feral cats, until the street rat launched him against a tree with a particularly strong kick.

All of the breath punched out of him and Jason saw stars as his head and back collided with the wood. He collapsed to the ground with a groan, every part of his body aching. He struggled to get his feet back under him before the rat could slam into him again.

A cackling laugh cut through the ringing in Jason’s ears and he forced himself into a defensive position. The street rat was standing a few feet away, grinning fiercely in the now heavily falling snow – how had Jason missed that the flurries had kicked up into a full blown winter storm? The rat’s hair was mussed up from their tussling, ponytail barely clinging to life, and Jason could see blood in his teeth. The Pit crooned happily at the sight.

Wait, happy–?

“I was not expecting you to pack that much of a punch!” The street rat crowed before Jason could follow that line of thought. He cringed at the loud sound. Probably a concussion, then. “Are you sure you’re not a full ghost? Like really, man, you kinda gave me a run for my money.” He was circling his arm, likely testing the spot Jason had kicked with his steel toed boots. Jason took the reprieve as a chance to stagger more fully to his feet.

“What are you,” he asked. He didn’t entirely mean to, but his self control was pretty shot at the moment. There was blood dripping into his eye and he quickly wiped it away so as to not let it obscure his vision.

The street rat tilted his head at him like a curious dog.

“Uh, I’m like you,” he said, as if that was supposed to mean something. Jason almost hissed.

“You’re not human,” he said instead, trying to keep his voice steady.

The street rat stared at him for a long moment. His eyes were back to their icy blue, but Jason wasn’t fooled. When he tentatively took a step forward, Jason shifted a step back.

“Wait a second,” he said, holding up his hands. “Do you… not know what you are?” The question was soft, surprised, and oddly sorrowful. The wording of it itched at something under Jason’s skin. What he was? He was human… right?

“I’m human,” was all he could think to say. It sounded weak even to his ears.

The two of them just looked at each other as the snow and howling wind started to die down. Jason analyzed the slightly pointed ears and sharper-than-normal canines, recategorizing the information in his brain. The street rat opened his mouth to say something, but just then the rev of a motorbike engine sounded distantly and he flinched back. 

Familiar headlights flashed at the front gates of the cemetery and Jason remembered suddenly that he’d invited Nightwing to meet him here. Jeez, how long had they been fighting?

He wiped again at the blood streaming from his forehead, though he knew hiding the wound from Dickie would be impossible. The street rat rocked on his feet, shoving his hands into his pockets once again. He looked the most uncertain he had all night and Jason knew right then he’d lose him if he didn’t get his hands on him right now.

The rat seemed to realize the same thing, and he skipped backwards right as Jason lunged for him, avoiding being grabbed by the front of his hoodie by mere millimeters. Jason shot out his other hand to snag him by the stupid chains hanging from his belt, but between one breath and the next, the rat disappeared. Honest to god disappeared like a goddamn ghost.

The irony was not lost on him.

Jason staggered to a stop and stood, panting, in the slowly dissipating snow. A moment later, Nightwing was at his side, escrima sticks crackling in his hands. His big brother scanned the area but the street rat was nowhere to be seen. Wing turned to him, evaluating, and hissed when he saw Jason’s forehead.

“What happened?” He demanded, stowing his weapons. He reached for Jason then hesitated, hand hovering near his face, before he eventually retracted it. Jason had long since adjusted to the sting of disappointment from those almost-touches. “Jaybird?”

Jason stared at his dug-up grave sitting empty and cold a few yards away. Something glinting and green glowed from under the drifted snow.

“I think,” Jason rasped, “I just fought a ghost.”

⋆˖⁺⊹₊⋆✧⋆₊⊹⁺˖⋆

Danny floated in the expansive green of his realm. Sometimes he kept it looking like a home so that his friends and sister could visit, but when he was there alone, he liked to allow it to shift and reform along with his mood. Right now he felt empty and confused, and the space reflected that. Whorls of green surrounded him, spiraling away into the distance in time with his thoughts.

That ecto-entity in Gotham bothered him. He’d felt off, but Danny had chalked it up to the fact that Gotham itself was off. It was like a dead zone for ghostly activity despite the abundance of death and ambient ectoplasm. Maybe he should’ve known something was up when the being had approached him, then.

He’d initiated a friendly brawl to help burn off the fizzing ecto-energy that had been pumping off the guy in waves. He’d only felt energy like that from the few poltergeists he’d encountered. How was he supposed to know the guy didn’t know he was still dead?

The revelation was startling and more than a little concerning. He’d never met an ecto-entity who thought they were still alive before. Usually the whole dying and waking up in the Realms thing cleared that right up.

Was it possible the guy had skipped entering the Infinite Realms entirely and had somehow ended up back on Earth anyway? It made sense with the obvious lack of recognition he’d had of Danny, and the strange vibes he’d been putting off. Even in human form, most sentient ghosts and ecto-entities inherently recognized who Danny was, or at least his title. Apparently the aura of the Ghost King wasn’t easily missed.

So what the hell was up with Gotham dude?

Danny groaned and rubbed his face. His visit to Gotham was supposed to be an easy retrieval mission – in and out before Lady Gotham noticed his presence enough for it to become a problem. Now he not only had to return to retrieve what he missed the first time, but he should probably stick around to figure out what was up with the being he’d encountered. Even putting aside the confusion about his living status, the guy felt off. More than was normal even for Gotham, Danny was realizing.

Well. At least he had an excuse to poke around the land of the living some more. Ever since receiving the crown and ring, he’d been spending more and more time in the Infinite Realms. Not a problem, exactly, but Danny did miss Earth. He was still alive, after all, even if it was only halfway. Plus the Observants were way less likely to bother him on the living plane, especially if he was in Lady Gotham’s haunt.

Agh, right, Lady Gotham. He should probably actually address his excursions into her territory before she decided to do something about it. Even as King, he wasn’t dumb enough to mess with something as fearsome as an Earth-Borne. Ghosts that existed as concepts borne from concentrated amounts of intense emotion seeping into the Infinite Realms from the land of the living were especially gnarly to deal with. They were a bit like the Never-Born in that they didn’t operate like a typical ghost. They were more powerful and played by different rules based on the emotions that they fed off of. And with the amount of terror and dream Gotham was constantly generating, Lady Gotham was fearsome indeed.

Damn. That meant more etiquette lessons with Dorothea. While Danny could probably take Lady Gotham in a fight (he could probably take just about anyone who wasn’t an Ancient at this point) he didn’t particularly like to engage in battle if he could help it. His approach to ruling was distinctly hands-off when it came to battling (much to the chagrin of his more violence-attuned subjects). If he wanted to avoid a spat with Lady Gotham, he’d better get his ducks in a row before he dared to enter her City again.

Dorothea would be thrilled, at least. She loved nothing more than making plans for how Danny should interact with certain ghosts and entities. It soothed her Obsession, he thought, to work so closely with a King.

With a flick of his hand Danny summoned the door out of his pocket dimension and floated toward it. It’d be best to get started on learning how to approach Lady Gotham as soon as possible. He still had an artifact to hunt down and the added issue of the red eyed ecto-entity haunting Gotham. He mentally added that to the list of things to mention in his meeting with Lady Gotham. That is, if she didn’t try to smite him for invading her Haunt without warning once already.

Ghosts could be so dramatic.

⋆˖⁺⊹₊⋆✧⋆₊⊹⁺˖⋆

“This will not stand!” Damian shouted, voice echoing through the Cave. “You will return my katana to me at once before I run you through and–”

“Run me through with what, Dami,” Steph countered. “Your sword? Oh, wait.” She dangled the youngest Robin’s katana from loose fingers, just beyond his reach from where he sat in the infirmary bed. “It’s mine now, isn’t it?”

“You insipid, ungrateful–”

“Damian,” Duke chided from his seat at the bat computer. “You know what Alfred said about getting worked up.”

“Pennyworth is not my keeper. I am the blooded heir and I will not lower myself to be bossed around nor corralled by ingrates such as yourselves.”

“Then why don’t you get up,” Stephanie goaded. “C’mon, your sword’s right here.” She did a few test swipes with it through the air. Damian hissed at her.

“Stop that at once! You have no right to handle such a weapon!”

“Come get it from me then!”

“Father’s rules state that after a significant injury you aren’t to leave the infirmary bed until your health and wellness have been confirmed by–”

“An ingrate such as Alfred?” Bruce asked dryly as he entered the cave. Damian snapped his mouth shut, face pinched as if he’d sucked on a lemon. Steph cackled. “What did I say about the word ‘ingrate’ Damian?”

“But father–”

“We’ll speak about it later, son. I received word from Nightwing to expect him and Red Hood at the cave soon, ETA 2 minutes.”

That got everyone’s attention. Even Tim looked up from where he’d been poring over files on a new rogue reported in the Bowery. Damian’s katana wilted in Steph’s hand.

“Wait, Jason’s coming here?” She asked. “Willingly?” Damian used her momentary distraction to lean far out of bed and swipe the blade out of her hand. She stuck out her tongue at him.

“Yes,” was Bruce’s only response.

Tim and Duke shared a look over the top of the computer. Dick coming down from Blüdhaven was one thing, but Jason…

“Is something big going down?” Tim asked. “Or is someone, like, dying?”

“No one’s dying. Jason and Dick encountered an unknown entity and are returning to the cave to report on it.”

“An unknown entity?” Damian sounded far too excited for Bruce’s liking. “What sort of entity? Is it one we haven’t encountered before? Father, you have to allow me to–”

“We will wait for Nightwing and Red Hood’s intel before making any plans of action,” Bruce said with finality. His gathered children tittered and whispered amongst themselves but didn’t argue. A rare blessing.

A minute later, the sound of twin engines and the bay doors to the Bat Cave opening reached their ears and Bruce stalked forward to greet his sons.

“Nightwing, Red Hood. Report.”

Jason glowered at him as he took off his helmet but didn’t sneer or glare like Bruce expected. He looked tired and drawn and there was blood crusted in his hairline. Bruce’s heart gave a wounded squeeze but he’d learned long ago that his concern was not appreciated. Not when it came to Jason. Dick spoke up on his behalf, instead.

“Jay encountered somebody in Gotham Cemetery tonight,” he reported dutifully. “They left this behind,” he tossed a Wayne Enterprises containment device to Tim, who nimbly snatched it out of the air, “after they picked a fight with Jay and subsequently disappeared once I pulled up.”

“Disappeared?” Nightwing nodded.

“Yeah, into thin air apparently.”

Bruce considered this for a moment. A meta with possible teleportation abilities skulking around Gotham’s cemetery. Not a pressing issue, exactly, but one that should be looked into.

“Subject description?” Dick looked at Jason who sighed.

“Approximately 5’8” or 5’9” male with dark hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. Distinguishing factors include multiple piercings on both ears – lobe and upper lobe, multiple helixes, and a daith. Industrial piercing on the left ear. Slightly elongated canines and pointed ears. Lichtenberg scar on the left side of the neck from the jaw down to an indeterminable point beneath the clothing.”

“Did they have something to do with the Lazarus Pits?” Tim’s voice cut in before Bruce could ask more questions. Damian and Bruce both turned sharply to look at him.

“Why do you ask that, son?” Bruce asked as calmly as he could. The Lazarus Pits were a touchy topic for just about everyone, but especially Damian and Jason.

Tim didn’t respond. He just silently held up the containment device that had unfolded to reveal a glowing green amulet within its radiation-proof walls. Damian sucked in a sharp breath and hopped off the bed to join Tim in inspecting the artifact. Bruce didn’t object.

The Lazarus Pits. He dared an assessing look at Jason. He didn’t look particularly enthused at the mention of the Pits, but he also didn’t seem to be holding back that ever-present anger that hung off him like an albatross these days. He looked drawn and tired, if anything.

“They were one of Ra’s?” Bruce asked instead of demanding his children step away from the Pit-contaminated artifact. He could confront the emotions all of this inspired in him later. Right now, he needed to learn as much as he could before Jason inevitably stormed off.

“Jay said he didn’t think so,” Dick replied. “He said they were a possible meta, or possibly a, ah…” His eldest trailed off, looking at Jason, and Bruce turned his gaze to him as well. Jason met it head on.

“A ghost,” Jason finished bluntly. He had shucked off his leather jacket and draped it over his bike, leaving him in a long-sleeved black compression shirt. He looked so different from the boy Bruce remembered. Bruce frowned.

“A ghost?” Damian scoffed, looking up from where he was leaning over the containment device. “Don’t be ridiculous, Todd. Ghosts aren’t real.”

“And it was hostile?” Bruce pushed on before Jason could get into it with his youngest. He didn’t even spare Damian a glance, though.

Curious. Concerning.

“No,” Jason responded again, surprisingly forthcoming despite his one word answers. Bruce had come to expect far more of a fight when looking for information from the Red Hood.

“Jay said that although they fought, the unknown seemed to regard it more as a kind of sparring than a true fight.”

Steph snickered from the corner and Jason’s gaze flicked to her.

“Sparring? Looks to me like you got beat to hell.”

It was true. Bruce wanted to believe the report his sons were giving, but in addition to the head wound, Jason was clearly favoring his left leg and the way he stood belied an injury of some sort to his ribs. He wouldn’t be surprised if he were concussed as well, given his strangely tolerant behavior.

Jason, however, just shrugged.

“He called it a friendly brawl. Didn’t pull a weapon or go for any low blows. It was more civil than a round with the brat.” He jerked his chin at Damian.

“He did all that to you without a weapon?” Tim blurted incredulously. Then he visibly withdrew, curling back over his research. The relationship between the two of them was so strained…

“Yeah,” Jason stated simply. It was incredibly tame for an interaction between the two of them and Bruce added this to the growing catalogue of Jason’s strange behaviour after encountering this unknown.

When Jason looked away, Bruce caught Tim mouthing ‘what the fuck’ at Duke. Duke just shrugged helplessly back.

Jason’s behavior was only becoming more curious and more concerning by the moment, and it seemed everyone was noticing.

“Are you… feeling alright, Jason?” Duke asked tentatively, voicing the room’s concern for them. “You seem surprisingly mellow for someone who just brawled with a ghost.”

That got a reaction from Jason. His face cycled through a complicated dance of emotion, and Bruce caught disdain, worry, anger, and oddly enough, relief before his son managed to shut it down. The glances between his siblings signaled that they’d noticed as well.

“The Pits,” Jason began stiffly and Bruce immediately stood up straighter. “Have been… quiet. Since.”

Silence. Bruce felt his own complicated dance of emotions, though he knew better than to let it show on his face. Those handful of words were more than anyone, except perhaps Dick, had heard from Jason about his experience with the Pits. This… unknown entity must have rattled him more than Bruce had first thought.

“Jaylad,” he said softly. He tried to catch his son’s eyes, and to his surprise, Jason let him. His son’s answering look was so weary, so world-worn and wary of Bruce that he almost gave up on finding the words. But. He remembered Alfred’s quiet assertions that just because Jason pulled away didn’t mean that they should stop reaching out. How close Jason had allowed Dick to get these past few months was a testament to that.

So, instead of biting down his concern and demanding a blow by blow of the entire encounter, Bruce crossed to where Jason stood stiffly beside his bike. When Jason didn’t growl or tell him to fuck off, he placed a gentle hand on his arm. “What happened?”

There was a moment of stark silence before Jason shrugged him off. It wasn’t unexpected, but Bruce couldn’t deny the sting of pain it caused. 

“Ask Wing,” his son bit out. He turned suddenly and brushed past Bruce without actually making contact with him, feet aimed for the elevator to the manor. “I’m going upstairs.”

“Jay,” Dick protested at the same time that Bruce called, “Jason, don’t leave! We need to figure this out.”

Jason only turned around once he’d stepped inside the elevator. He gave Bruce a familiar sneer, but there were no glowing green eyes to back it up.

“You got by just fine without me for three years. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

The doors closed on Jason’s sneering face, but despite it all, deep down in Bruce’s heart, a spark of hope had begun to grow.

[reachartwork]

How do you use AI in your artworks, and how do you feel about data scrapers stealing art to make AI models? What percent (roughly) of your art is your input compared to AI?

I don't mean to sound combative, I think the use of AI to extend access to artistic creation is interesting. Just wondering what you think about it.

the art i use for input is all public domain or CC0 and thus is something i have permission to use, or my own art, which is based on things that are public domain or cc0.

i reject your framing that data scrapers "steal art" because theft requires taking with intent to deprive the original owner - under no legal, ethical, or moral definition is scraping large volumes of data "stealing". personally i don't care because i understand how ai works and i know it's not a magic collage machine so frankly the providence of the original data does not matter in the first place as none of the input images end up in the final image.

the final question is very silly. all of the image is my input, ai is the medium i use to enact it.

[sonicssweetheart]

do u do x reader fics / reqs ?

if so,,,, can u do prime characters x reader headcanons (none in specific js curious on your ideas!!)

sonic prime characters x gn!reader || platonic / romantic headcanons

ᝰ.ᐟ disclaimer: i’m simply sticking to the new yoke city + green hill universes since that would take a lot of time to write!

⊱ ─── [ 💌 ] ─── ⊰

— sonic ;

there’s no doubt that sonic needs you around at all times throughout the plot. any universe he goes, he wants you to go with, no excuses. however, this backfires because he never stops to think how something may be affecting you negatively and only thinks the opposite.

“i..i assumed you would want this too after seeing things the way i do.” (ref to THAT scene…)

that being said, sonic can be selfish at times, but of course he always has the best interest at heart. he simply needs to learn how to think before he acts.

he’s very playful and finds it hard to be serious when you need him to be so the most, all because he’s afraid of confrontation and constructive criticism. he can be a little stubborn when it comes to you trying to ease him out of denial, but when he finally lets go, you can tell how anxious he is.

is always reminding you how much you mean to him at random moments. it could be completely out of the blue, when you’re reading a book or doing laundry, he doesn’t see a restriction to remind you of your worth. you will never have to worry about not being enough for him.

— shadow ;

it takes ALOT for shadow to be direct about how he feels about you; it’s all about subtle things for him.

he will show up to your door with a gift and brush it off like it’s a daily thing and has no impact on your relationship, or completes a task for you that he deems as “not worthy enough for you to stress about.”

his compliments come off more as rude rather than genuine and polite. again, he can’t be too direct out of fear of embarrassment — so sugarcoating it with annoyance works for him.

“don’t wear that, what are you, ancient? that piece doesn’t give you any credit.”

“you’re undeniably fatuous. however, you’re not dull, i guess i’ll give you that.

secretly protective as well. he will sneakily follow you around or just keep an eye on you by a nearby tree whenever he has an instinct that something may go wrong. he unquestionably abuses the chaos emerald to get to wherever you are as fast as possible. if he were ever caught, a scoff and a “i’m ensuring you will not cause havoc by acting foolish.” is the most of an explanation you will get.

if you’re travelling the shatterverse, he is very precise in the rules you follow so you don’t get hurt or lost. he would blame it all on himself if that were the case.

— amy ;

in the green hill universe, she adores you like a bee loves a flower. she takes pride in being close with you, and i like to think she always her arm linked with yours. she’s comfortable enough to talk to animals around you, as it comforts her immensely. she loves when you do little things for her like tending to gardens around the terrain, making her little crafts and standing up for her over little disputes between her and whoever.

“you do so much for me, y/n, you are so… ugh, i don’t know! thank you, for everything.”

in the new yolk universe, rusty rose is indifferent about you depending on how you treat her. if you act as if you’re sorry for her and see her mechanical front as a disability, she will refrain from speaking to you. your best bet is to treat her as you would anyone else but still admire the small things about her that makes her her. she doesn’t want anything huge, like big favours or even small things that don’t matter to her, however she LOVES flowers, just like canon verse amy. when you finally confess how you feel about her and offer a rose, the poor girl is so confused, yet secretly beaming inside.

“…i do not comprehend what you are telling me. you… really? i do not believe i was programmed to reciprocate, but… i feel warmth. is that good?”

— rouge ;

in the green hill universe, she is infatuated by you, however she still makes you work for her friendship/love. she likes the reassurance that someone will fight for her, as for i believe she was wronged in her past. help her fight in battle, participate in her favourite activities, compliment her style; you will gain her trust and devotion quickly. rouge likes to tease, knowing that you feel something for her, whether it be just wanting her friendship or more.

“dear, you know if you want something, you can come get it, right? it’s upsetting seeing you so defeated. oh, what’s wrong? did i touch a nerve?~”

in the new yoke universe, she rests similar, however she is very devoted to the friends and acquaintances she already has. she isn’t looking to complicate her life anymore, and would rather look ahead then stay in place and relish in the moment. but, you can twist that fact by helping her out without getting in her way. she will begin to see your respect and appreciation, and might even reward it with a token of gratitude.

“i saw what you did back there. i gotta say, you’re.. something else. don’t, uh, be a stranger.”

— knuckles ; (new yoke —> no place. dread knuckles>>)

in the green hill universe, he’s pretty stern towards you at first, but grows protective fast. as much as he wouldn’t admit it, he shows off in front of you in hopes that you’re impressed by his manly attitude and confident demeanour, and holds pride for weeks on end when you acknowledge it. he’s the type to challenge you to different activities that test strength and skill, and whether you’re successful or not, all he admires is your willingness to try. he loves those who don’t care if they’re good or bad at something and does it anyway because they want to, not because they have to, which sort of makes him think of his younger self and soothes his self destructive behaviour over it.

“not bad, little one. best of five next time? …you’re tired? oh, don’t be indolent. we’re almost done.” (he wants to see you thrive sooo bad)

in the no place universe, he is very upfront. if he wants to hang around you, take you on a date, have a deep talk, or anything along those lines — he’ll let you know. this man knows he’s everyone’s dream to befriend and follow like a God, and he takes pride in that. he’s also very persuasive by convincing you to do things you would never do, whether it be something as simple as trying a new food or swan diving off of mount everest. you give him that rush he craves in life, especially since life can be plain out on the water, but you give him that spark whenever you comply to his challenges. sometimes late at night while you’re both coaxed in the mood on the dock, he’s sloshing whiskey in his tainted cup and muttering to himself you.

“err… without you, this ship’d be soulless for sure. ya’ bring a fire, a flame to this old lassie, and i’d be sure not even hell could melt the ice frozen upon its ol’ heart.

— tails ; [FAMILIAL/PLATONIC ONLY]

in the green hill universe, tails admires you. he looks up to you as his mentor similar to sonic and is always happy to help when you’re in need. since tails didn’t grow up with a parental figure, sometimes he catches himself imagining such with you, and he feels embarrassed. he isn’t used to relying on someone else to fix his problems, and usually he just plain doesn’t like it. but with you — you follow his boundaries perfectly which makes him feel immensely appreciated and seen, something he looks for in a friend. he’ll let you know once in awhile how he appreciates your kindness, but his insecurities slip through every time.

“you know you don’t have to do this, right? i know im a kid, but you don’t have to take care of me… you want to?” (he looks down at whatever he’s doing, where you can see the small smile creep on the corner of his mouth)

in the new yoke universe, he is very apathetic towards you at first. he sees you just as another sonic, trying to change him to be his opposite reality self, but when he’s met with acceptance and loyalty — he begins to change his mind. he would never say it out loud, but he has a small spark of hope that you could be a forever companion he wouldn’t have to worry about betraying it. his ways of showing how he cares differs from letting you watch/help him work, crafting you things you mentioned you needed, letting you ask questions about his past (which takes some time). however, the smallest inconvenience relating to your friendship towards him can trigger him such as mentioning going somewhere without him, wanting to hang out with someone else, or just seeming off throughout the day.

“did you just lie the whole time? is that was this is? a game? original, y/n. i can’t even look at you right now.”

but, of course, when the reassurance and gentle conversation follows quickly afterwards, he reverts to an embarrassed but now angry at himself front.

“… okay. just… you would tell me if you were a traitor, right? sometimes i’m stupid and can’t tell. sorry.”

[cum-a-calla]

on this fine morning i’m thinking really hard about Roman Roy finding my fucksongs playlist.

he’s just bored. he’s so bored that he can’t keep his own fucking hands to himself, and what’s privacy, really? it’s just my tablet, whatever. probably not gunna find anything interesting on there. but why not peek through my shit?

boring, boring. stupid. oh, a bunch of text files with his name on some of them…? he’ll save THAT for later, for sure, when i’m not going to come back into the room anytime soon. delicious.

opens up my spotify, parses through the stupid playlist titles.

…“fucksongs”? the fuck? am i fucking somebody else? i mean, whatever, but he’s never been privy to this information, so… not that it’s a big fuckin’ deal. but. am i?

scrolling through the list, there’s nothing inherently sensual or romantic or sexy. it’s a jumbled mess of different genres and artists. the songs have no running theme whatsoever. Roman’s immediately irritated. he’s not a big fan of not being in the loop or understanding what the fuck he’s dealing with. it makes him shift in place, reading and re-reading these song titles. he plays one or two. they fucking suck. who listens to this shit?

apparently i do.

“hey. hey, get in here, what - what’s this playlist? ‘fucksongs’? the hell is this?”

“uh - wow, that’s not really your business, can you - give me that! - stop it!” oh my god, he’s holding it out of reach, smiling in his lopsided, infuriating way. “stop waving it around, Roman, you’re gunna fucking drop it!”

“answer me and maybe i’ll consider giving it back. c’mon, ‘fucksongs’, spill the beans. indulge me with your musical whimsy.”

“fuck off, it’s none of your business”

“you keep saying that like it makes a difference. it is for fucking, right? haven’t been fucking me to it, so - are… are you fucking blushing? wow, look at you pretending to be all fucking virginal and shy, get the fuck outta here,” and he’s laughing, oh god he’s laughing so hard, and with a little time and ruthless teasing he gets it out of me, the whole song and dance, literally - all those nights i listened to specific songs that thrust right, that it makes me feel it, that my brain’s just connected to my pussy this way. the throbs. the hot, involuntary clench that comes with hearing/feeling it, the mental pictures it forces into my head, the way sometimes if i’ve been listening long enough or in the right mood, i can cum a little, little sweet bursts like i’m being fucked by it.

“oh, yeah? okay, okay - hold on. okay”

grabbing sets of headphones, bluetooth connecting them. he’s already half-hard when he yanks my pants off. for science, he says. because he doesn’t believe it. sounds stupid. and he starts going through some of these songs, pushing his fingers inside.

“i don’t get it. is it working? i think you’re defective. or full of shit. or both. hmm. this music fucking sucks, by the way, some of it isn’t even in english.”

and by the grace of stroking at the right pace, it all clicks, when he lines up with the bass, whatever it is - there it is. the stupid fucking look on my face, the way i squeeze my eyes shut when my cunt clamps down on his fingers.

“oh. oh my fuckin’ god, this is so stupid. are you actually cumming a little? fuck, my fingers are soaked, so you must be. this is sad, really. hold on. hold on, you fuckin’ freak.” pulling his cock out, smirking, yanking my thighs open. “let me give you a little more. yeah, stop struggling. shut up. listen to the nice music. god, you’re pathetic.”

barely even needing to work himself inside. already so slippery, face already so red, eyes all dreamy while he matches the beat, and good god i’m a mess. gasping, whining, rocking my hips, letting him take it all from me as long as he finds the beat. doesn’t matter how mean or hard he gets - in fact, it only makes me cum harder. it’s like a magic trick. thrust there at the right time and bam, another one, and god my cunt’s getting so fuckin tight, it almost hurts

“this is too easy. all i gotta do is play one of these songs and you’ll be ready for my dick, huh? bet i could make you drool for it. you really shouldn’t be telling me any of this, shouldn’t leave your shit out for me to go through. this is one-hundred-percent on you, you do know that, right? a thousand percent. now, point to the one you wanna cum the hardest to - i’m getting close. hurry up. fuckin’ pick so i can give you your prize.”

absolutely milking himself. “ohh fuck, there it is, yeah - yeah, good girl, fuck. oh, fuck, like a goddamn - vice - ffuuuuuck”

anyway good morning i’ve been up listening to spotify and vibrating out of my body thanks for coming to my ted talk

[lemotmo]

Genuinely don't understand how these people get these ideas.

Q. Theorizing stuff when we have no idea if he's even still on the show is insane behavior because he's not filming.

A. How do you know he's not filming? You're basing that entirely off of the bts of the calls the show intentionally wanted people to see and be distracted by. Eddie is in El Paso for that episode, duh he wouldn't have been in those BTS videos. You know who else we've barely seen? Jennifer, and none of you are predicting her exit as a result of that. None of you predicted Peter's exit when Bobby retired. Eddie is the only one you do this over. And most of you are following the lead of people who want him to leave, and even they don't genuinely believe he's gone. If he was leaving we would know by now. The show would have allowed that information to have been leaked. Then the cliffhanger would be rather or not his exit would be open ended or if they would kill him off. That's where the speculation would be. Neither the show, or ABC, would allow the show's entire promotional campaign to be built around a duo if one half of that duo was leaving. No one has ever or will ever do that because that's asking your audience to invest in something they can no longer deliver. This show is not stupid. Also Tim basically told you he wasn't leaving. He said the Buck and Eddie story would show both sides of the story. Meaning we will see Buck's side of the story as well as Eddie's side of the story. If Ryan was leaving there would be no Eddie side to tell. The show wouldn't care because he wasn't on the show anymore therefore Buck's did of the story would be the only side that mattered. Be serious for one moment.

Theorizing is part of fandom. You develop theories until you get new information and then you adjust your theories. Guess what? After the TVLine write up, I no longer think my earlier speculation is correct. That's part of the fun. It's part of the point. You all don't see him in clips he should absolutely not be in because his character is in an entirely different city and you immediately conclude Eddie is permanently leaving and he and Buck will call themselves bros for life as he drives off into the oblivion. Your freakouts make absolutely no sense and are invented from absolutely nothing.

Thank you Nonny!

🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

I cannot.

How many times do we have to repeat ourselves? This topic has been discussed over and over again.

NO! Ryan is NOT leaving! Eddie is not leaving!

Let it go already.

Oh... and you know what?

YES! Buddie is happening! 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

Heads up! For anyone who is giving me the shifty eyes for reposting Ali's updates instead of reblogging. Read this.

Remember, no hate in comments, reblogs or inboxes. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of Ali’s posts, you can find all of her posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[imeriayapping]

an angsty shark n' roses fic about their shift from childhood friends to current rivals? stranger? do whatever dynamic you want for them. Greatly appreciated, also I am in love with your work, you're lowkey carrying this ship on your back, goat.

Pedro misses the sea. He craves its’ comfort.

The dream of stepping into the water and never coming back is always there, lifting up the pressure of living off of him. Right now, that dream also contains Fermin, who is watching him make first step towards the place of no return. Fermin, who he also wants to steal; for them to seat on the beach after long day of training, before they’ll need to return to Pedro's childhood home because his parents are about to become too worried with how long they’ve been gone for.

He misses the sea. The calm and warmth that was there when he looked at the waves while sitting under the evening sun.

Right now, Pedro can't have none of those things.

Instead, he is sitting in his van. Silent, cold and alone. Somehow, this hurts more than any of his previous crashes.

But he knows that it’s the only right thing for him to do. They can't be close anymore. Not like that, at least.

They’re all grown up now and there’s no place for such a childish thing as love between them. It's the only way for them to be.

Pedro can't risk running into Fermin on track and have everything blow up right in his face.

Maybe, it will never stop hurting. Maybe, he will never feel as warm as he did once, sitting next to Fermin on the beach. Maybe, when he comes back to the sea, it won't calm him like it did once.

But it all will be worth it in the end. He is here; he fought for his place. No one will be able to take that away from him.

And Pedro will give anything away, if it means he will be able to chase all of the glory that there is left to get. Pole position was nice, but he knows, for a fact, that podium tastes better. Podiums are very nice too, but he can feel how much more his first win will be.

And, on some nights, he goes to sleep dreaming of the championship. It doesn't matter that the place on his bed beside him is cold.

It doesn't.

But not tonight. Tonight, instead of that, he's just laying in his bed that is simultaneously too small and too empty. He and Fermin spent too many nights cramped together in this place that now it feels cold and empty. It’s still and absolutely soundless, amplifying all of the thoughts in Pedro's head. Which is evidently doing no good for him. Obviously.

Right now, all Pedro can do is curse the whole paddock that made his van the safest and most convenient place to be themselves together.

Because, now, when he needs to hide, to pretend that no feelings were ever involved, it's impossible to do with every centimetre of the van being full to the brim with the memories of them.

And that's the last thing he needs at the moment.

It was hard enough to tell Fermin everything. To see hurt paint his features in real time. To maintain his indifference, not to rush to his side and comfort him.

But it was the right decision. They truly can't continue on like that. Can't keep getting even more intertwined. It will not only be huge risk at the track, but also...

What would happen if it comes to light? Their careers would be ruined without even starting properly.

So, Pedro truly made this decision for both of their sakes. Now, all that is left is to convince his stupid heart that Fermin should no longer occupy any space in it.

It hurts to even think about that, but it needs to happen no matter what.

He can't keep carrying Fermin in his heart like he had for the years before.

To be completely honest, Pedro is cursing himself at this very moment. Because, he should’ve predicted this. Should’ve never even let Fermin anywhere near his own heart. But what can you do, when you are ten and, suddenly, there is someone right in front of your face, whose passion for bikes is on par with your own?

There was no way Pedro could ignore him at the time.

He really should have, though.

With all of this, Pedro wonders: if he could go back in time to warn his old self of what was to come out of that innocent friendship - would he?

Because, even with how much it hurts to ignore Fermin now, he can't imagine going through his life without carrying this love inside of him. Honestly, looking at his life as a whole, he would probably be different person entirely. Love has the power to change people, and it clearly did so before.

So, Pedro needed to cut out the source of love, before it had the chance to influence his riding.

There is nothing more important than his riding.

He should focus on that instead of unnecessary feelings.

The gap in his heart is irrelevant.

[jadekillian]

BAD GIRLS WATCH

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝗕𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝗮 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝘆𝗮𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗚𝗼𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗠𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗲𝗳 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗖𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗔𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗸𝘀. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗱𝗼, 𝘁𝗼𝗼. 𝗜𝗻 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀, 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶 𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗱𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝗯𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗲𝘁, 𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗯𝗼𝘆 𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗻𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗷𝗼𝗶𝗻.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗦𝘁𝗲𝘃𝗲 𝗥𝗼𝗴𝗲𝗿𝘀/𝗳𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿/𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶

𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵𝘆, 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 𝟯.𝟮𝗸

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗜 𝗮𝗺 𝗮 𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝘄𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗲. 𝗗𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗲𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗺𝗮𝗹𝘀.

Loki circled the room, his arms folded and his mouth set in a thin, hard line. The sound of his boots was muffled by the heavy carpet, but each footfall seemed to hammer at your already-frayed nerves.

You were kneeling at the edge of his bed, knees separated and sunk into soft, emerald velvet—the same color as the silk ropes that bound your hands and kept them locked behind your straightened back.

Also on the bed, directly across from you, was none other than Steven Rogers, the famed Captain America himself. His stance mirrored your own, but his eyes were downcast and his cheeks were stained a bright pink.

He always was the shy one, even after months of being with both you and Loki. It was one of the many things you and the God of Mischief loved about him.

Loki paused in front of you, and you felt the intense gaze of his bright green eyes on your exposed skin. You did not look up at him; instead, you kept your head down and your attention focused on the floor.

He chuckled, low and dark. Soon enough, you felt his hand slip under your chin to lift it up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“What is it, pet? Not feeling very talkative anymore?” His lips curved in a small smile, but the look in his eyes was the opposite of gentle. He was not pleased. “I do wonder where all that defiance went. All that bravado and snark you showed me during Stark’s party just minutes ago... gone.”

Despite yourself, you glared.

You had been dressed in a stunning gown, the kind that clung to every curve and shimmered under the lights like diamonds. The same gown that now lay forgotten in a crumpled pile near the door.

It was supposed to have been a simple celebration, something for the Avengers to attend, drink and unwind. And it had been, at first. You were able to enjoy the lavish food, dance with your boyfriends and laugh along with your teammates.

But those type of gatherings always grew boring as the night wore on, and as per routine, you found yourself looking for something—anything—that could entertain you. Even if that something meant pushing the buttons of a certain Norse god until he snapped.

“I mean, honestly, what were you hoping to accomplish? Did you think it wise to provoke me? To embarrass me, in front of those pathetic humans and my fool of a brother?”

He was angry, yes, but not only that. He was aroused. It was obvious by the way he was breathing, slow and deliberate. The way his fingers were gripping your jaw a little tighter than they needed to be.

He leaned down until his mouth was just inches from yours. The heat of his breath beat against your face, the faint scent of wine tickling your nose.

“Did you really think I would stand idly by and allow such an offense to go unpunished?”

No, your brain responded. Of course not. In fact, you had been counting on quite the opposite. You were a ‘glutton for punishment’, both Loki and Steve often said. And they were right.

There was something so exhilarating about making Loki angry. Because no matter how soft and gentle he was with you, no matter how much he cared for you and Steve, there was a part of him that would always be the God of Mischief. The part of him that loved nothing more than to cause chaos and trouble. And when you made him angry, that part was let loose. And you couldn't get enough of it.

Feeling bold, you flicked your tongue out and licked his bottom lip. Weaving your voice with a bit of innocence, you said, "Tied up and at your mercy. I am having trouble seeing the 'punishment' in this."

He pulled away, and for a brief moment you saw the slightest hint of surprise on his face. But the emotion vanished, and the smile returned.

Loki turned his attention to Steve, who was still avoiding eye contact. "Did you hear that, Steve? Our pet thinks she is being rewarded."

"Yes, sir." Steve's response was immediate, and the words seemed to tumble from his lips without thought.

"And what do you think, my love?" Loki reached out and brushed his knuckles along the man's cheek. The touch was featherlight, and Steve leaned into it. “Do you believe her actions warrant a reward?"

The blond finally lifted his gaze, and you were greeted with those stunning blue eyes that never failed to make your heart skip. Guilt and desire danced within their depths, and his next words were filled with nothing but shame.

"N-No, sir."

You felt your insides clench. He could always count on Steve to play the good, obedient boy.

"And why is that?"

“Because she… she was bad?” Steve hesitated, unsure if he was using the right words.

Always so innocent, even after all this time. Shy where you were brash. Gentle where you were rough. It was no wonder why Loki enjoyed torturing him as much as he enjoyed tormenting you. Except in Steve's case, the torment was more along the lines of teasing words and coaxing him to break out of his shell.

“Yes, that is right." Loki's fingers moved down Steve's neck, and a visible shudder coursed through the super soldier's body. “But not you, my sweet boy. You have been behaving quite nicely this evening."

Your eyes dropped to Steve’s cock, which was already at full attention. The head was flushed and glistening, and you had to resist the urge to crawl forward and take it in your mouth.

It was almost a crime, you thought, how attractive the man was. Not a single ounce of attention to his poor neglected dick yet he was already a twitching, quivering mess.

As if he read your mind, Loki circled the bed until he stood behind the other man. His hand slid down the muscular chest, farther and farther until his long fingers wrapped around Steve's thick length.

Steve moaned. His hips bucked forward, thrusting his cock into Loki's hand. The action earned him a slap to the thigh, causing him to immediately freeze.

"Keep still," Loki demanded, his tone firmer. "If you move again, I will stop. Do you understand?"

A whine slipped from Steve's lips. "Yes, sir."

In slow, lazy strokes, Loki pumped Steve's cock. Up and down, up and down, his hand moving at a pace so agonizingly slow that Steve's breaths became ragged.

Always so responsive. So sensitive.

"So eager," Loki purred, unintentionally finishing your thought. He turned his gaze to you, his thumb smearing a drop of precum over the tip. "I can feel him pulsing in my hand. Can you see it, darling?"

You could. It was a subtle thing, the way his cock twitched and throbbed every time Loki twisted his wrist just right. The way the thick vein on the underside of his shaft became more pronounced as his arousal grew.

It was maddening.

Your own sex clenched with want. Your thighs were slick with your juices, and your nipples had hardened to stiff peaks.

You wanted to be touched. You needed to be touched. But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Not yet.

You tried to press your thighs together for some sort of friction, but the movement did not go unnoticed.

Loki’s eyes narrowed, and he tightened his grip around the base of Steve's cock. A strangled moan tore from the blonde's lips, a sound so raw and needy that it made your stomach flutter.

“This is what a true reward looks like. Pure, unadulterated pleasure. My attention solely focused on the one person who is not being a brat." He paused, and a wicked grin stretched across his face. "I do believe he needs visual stimulation.”

You clenched your jaw, trying not to look too irritated. You knew exactly where this was going.

“Open them. Allow him to see your neglected cunt, wet and wanting.”

“No,” you said, the word slipping out before you could stop it. You hated how it sounded, how weak and breathless it was.

You squeezed your legs tighter together, desperately attempting to get a few more seconds of friction. Because it did not matter how defiant you acted, how stubborn you were—Loki would eventually get what he wanted.

"I believe that was not a request."

Steve groaned. His head fell forward, eyes half-lidded and dazed. "Please," he whispered.

Whether his plea was directed towards you or Loki, you weren't sure. Either way, it was the final straw.

As if invisible strings were pulling your limbs, your thighs opened, exposing the swollen, glistening flesh between. Loki's magic, forcing you to obey.

A choked whimper left Steve's mouth.

"Oh, what a sight." Loki leaned forward and rested his chin on Steve's shoulder. "You are not here for your own enjoyment, pet. You are here for his. This is his reward, after all."

It suddenly dawned on you just exactly how Loki planned to punish you.

Withdrawal.

Denial.

It would be an exquisite form of torture.

"Look at her," Loki murmured. "No more than an armslength away, yet her weeping little quim is still untouched. Still aching. And all because she decided to play a foolish game."

You didn't say anything. Your teeth sank into your lower lip, and a wave of frustration washed over you. This was not how things were supposed to go.

"She would have you inside her right this instant if she could. Such a shame that she is not allowed the privilege."

Bastard.

"Sir..."

Loki continued, unfazed by Steve's plea. "But you.. You will get what you desire. What is it you want, my sweet?"

Steve's throat bobbed, and he swallowed thickly. "I want..." He trailed off, struggling to find his words.

"Be honest," Loki said. "Speak your mind."

It was permission enough, and Steve spoke again, the words tumbling out in a rush.

"I want to feel her." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"What was that?" Loki cocked his head to the side. "I'm afraid I did not hear you."

You were almost positive the God of Mischief knew exactly what Steve had said, and was merely toying with him.

"I-I want to feel her. Her..."

Silence stretched out between the three of you, and then,

"Her cunt." Loki supplied, and you didn't miss how Steve's cock jerked at the word, nor how his face grew several shades darker. "Such a crude word, isn't it? Yet, I believe it is the perfect term for what lies between her legs. Why don't you say it?"

Steve's Adam's apple bobbed again. His lips parted, but nothing came out.

"Come now, Steve." Loki's tone was gentle. Coaxing. Underneath, though, was a hint of demand. He got off on this, pushing Steve's limits. "You have satisfied me thus far. Why stop now?"

The Captain took a deep breath.

"I want to feel her cu- her cunt."

"yes," Loki purred, and the praise was enough to make Steve's skin flush. "Now, ask me. Ask me if you can have her. And be polite."

You watched, completely enraptured by the scene before you. Your pulse pounded in your ears, and your core throbbed in time with the beat.

Steve lifted his head. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with arousal. He locked eyes with you, and you were sure you would have melted under the heat of that gaze.

The captain America everyone knew, the perfect hero and paragon of virtue and justice, gone. Replaced with this. A man completely drunk off pleasure. Knowing that you and Loki were the only two people to ever witness him in such a state, it was something you held close.

"May I... may I have her?" A pause, then a broken 'Please.'

Yes, you silently begged, as if Loki could hear your thoughts. Please.

Loki clicked his tongue.

"No."

Your stomach sank, and you felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over your head.

"N-No?" Steve stuttered. He turned his head, his confusion apparent.

"No." Loki's fingers danced up and down the length of Steve's cock, the featherlight touches surely driving him mad. "You said it yourself. She has not behaved."

"I—" Steve stopped, his brows knitting together. You could see the gears turning in his head. Spoiled thing that he was, he wasn't used to being denied. "But... you said this was a reward."

"And it is."

"But—"

"Steven."

The name, spoken with a hint of warning, silenced Steve instantly.

You could almost see the battle taking place in his mind, but any thought was cut short when Loki grabbed his chin and tilted his head back. Their mouths met, a messy kiss that was all tongues and teeth and pure, unrestrained desire.

A whimper tore from your throat, and you weren't sure if it was out of jealousy or the fact that your core ached with an almost painful need.

They looked absolutely beautiful together.

And they were both yours.

"Lo," you whined, hoping the nickname would win you some sympathy. It was a manipulative tactic, sure, but it usually worked. This time, however, Loki did not even glance in your direction. Instead, his lips curved up against Steve's, and you had the feeling he was smiling.

The two of them broke apart, their chests rising and falling as they sucked in ragged breaths.

Loki’s own erection was straining against his pants, the material clinging to his form in a way that was nothing less than sinful. You would have loved nothing more than to peel those pants off and run your tongue along every inch of his pale skin, but, considering you were still tied up, the odds of that happening were slim.

Who were you kidding? They were next to none.

“You are an asshole,” you growled, quickly falling out of the sweet act in record time.

Loki raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. Like a wolf dressed in a sheep's clothing.

"Am I?"

"Yes!"

A brief glimpse of that sardonic smile flitted across his features. "My, such a filthy mouth you have tonight, darling. Maybe I should remedy that."

Your gaze softened and your head tipped up, just slightly. Hopeful and expectant.

Anticipating.

Loki was a deceitful god, but he never lied to you. Especially when it came to punishment. There would be no chance he allowed you pleasure tonight, but maybe..

Maybe he would allow you to stuff your mouth with cock instead. At this point, humiliating as it was, you didn't give a damn which one delivered it.

But your hopes were dashed when he continued, "On second thought, that might not be a good idea. I believe I have one better."

You threw him an irritated look, followed by an even more unamused, "And what would that be?"

He did not answer right away. Instead, his attention moved to Steve, whose mouth was agape in awe. His pace quickened. Long, full strokes, from base to tip and down again. A flick of the wrist here, a teasing squeeze there, and, on occasion, Loki's thumb smeared beads of precum over the head and down the shaft.

Moans and whimpers and breathless little gasps filled the air.

God, how you longed to touch him. Both of them.

He was close. You knew his body well enough to spot all the indicators. The way it tightened and coiled before release. The way his brow knit together and his face twisted in an agonized expression that was a mixture of pure euphoria and pain. Occasionally, his hips would twitch, as if he were fighting the urge to thrust forward and meet the steady motion of Loki's fist.

“He is going to make a mess soon." Loki's voice was calm, the words spoken in a languid drawl. As if they were discussing the weather. "And if you behave yourself, I will allow you to clean my hand afterwards."

Fuck.

You could feel tears gathering in your eyes. Your own arousal was still burning, screaming for release, but it was buried under the absolute frustration at not being allowed to have that particular treat.

Never have you felt so needy in your life.

‘Fuck you,’ you wanted to scream. Or, at the very least, a creative string of words laced with insults and curses. Words so vulgar, you were quite certain if Steve heard them in a casual setting, he would have scolded you like a petulant child.

But the retort died on your tongue, swallowed down along with the lingering bits of your dignity. Desperate as it may be, you wanted at least a morsel of what you were being denied.

"Are you ready, my sweet?" Loki asked. It was, again, directed towards Steve, but the question made your back straighten, nonetheless.

“Yes." Another gasped response. The word was barely audible over the slick, wet sound of Loki's hand. “Yes, please, I-I'm going to..."

He didn't get to finish the sentence. Steve's body quickly began to spasm and twitch. Thick ropes of milky-white cum painted his stomach and coated Loki's fingers, making a mess exactly as Loki had predicted.

You did not miss the way Loki’s free hand dove into Steve's hair, nor the gentle praise whispered to him.

You squirmed in your position.

You’ve never felt envy like this before. Your body was clouded with frustratingly light phantom sensations—as if his orgasm was powerful enough to reach you, too. Only ten steps away, and there was no soothing touch, no relief.

When the last tremor subsided, Loki pulled away and lifted his hand to your face, displaying your prize. Meanwhile, Steve's eyes dropped shut and he sagged, panting softly. If not for Loki's magic encasing his body in a light green mist, you were sure he would have collapsed onto the bed.

"Open."

Any last semblance of resistance crumbled in that moment. When his fingers touched your lips, they automatically parted. Eager, willing.

The bittersweet taste of your lover would be the only pleasure you would have tonight. You intended to enjoy every second of it.

You lapped at the fluid, devouring it like a an animal and savoring it as you would a five-star dessert. Gentle, cat-like laps up and down the length of his fingers and between each digit.

Loki hummed, a look of lazy, heavy satisfaction on his face. "You look absolutely exquisite, eating from my hand like this. Why can't you always behave so well? We could have had fun tonight, the three of us."

You didn't respond, too occupied to form a coherent word.

The admiration in his gaze, the delight... You were trapped, a deer in the headlights.

By the time he pulled away, his hand was nearly clean, and you desperately wanted to lean forward and follow it.

His eyebrows rose, and the corner of his lips twitched. You sat back obediently, but you couldn't stop staring at that drop of white on his thumb.

Your gaze did not go unnoticed, and the swoosh of his belt coming undone drew your attention.

“Oh, darling..” He licked his lips, and, oh god, that smile—half-amused, half-smug, and teasing all at once. “Don’t look so dejected. There is still more for you to earn."

[souyasbabyy]

• pairing: hanma x reader

• summary: he sees you with someone else long after your break up

• genre: angst!!!!!!

• note: i wanted to write angst and wanted to write something with hanma, this might be a little ooc idk

A heavy weight settled in his stomach as his heart sank at the sight of you with someone else, your hand in his while he helps you getting in the car. All this time, he thought he had moved on, that his feelings had disappeared. But now, they all came rushing back, hitting him like a punch in the face. For the next week, you're all he can think about, you and your shared memories, you and your smile. One night, after drinking with his friends, he stares at his phone, your contact looking back at him. He debates whether calling you is a good idea after all this time. His thumb hovers over the call button. Don't do it. He knows it won't change anything, probably make it worse even. But after a long minute he presses it. The phone rings once. Twice. "Hello?" you ask. He doesn't say a word as you repeat yourself "Hello? Hanma?", "Yes" he finally says, hating the way his heart beats fatser at the sound of his name leaving your lips "Are you okay? you inquire. He wants to say yes, act like this was just a casual call but he can't, the words that come out betraying him "I don't know". You sigh, already knowing where this was going, you hesitate, not knowing what to tell him. "Where are you?" you eventually ask "Home" he says. There's another silence, a longer one. "I saw you the other day" he admits, leaning back on his couch "You were with someone", "Is that why you're calling?" you ask him and he nods even though you can't see him. "Hanma you can't do this, you can't call me when you're drunk and-" you cut yourself, sighing loudly "I shouldn't have picked up" you mumble "But you did" he counters "Why?". You don't answer, the silence between you is tense, full of old feelings none of you want to face. "Where is he?" Hanma asks suddenly "The guy" "That's none of your business" you say. He clenches his jaw, wondering if he was in the appartment with you "I stopped seeing him" you then tell him and he's taken aback by the answer. "Why? I swear if he-" "No" you cut him, exhaling loudly "He just- He wasn't you" you add.

For a moment, Hanma says nothing. The words settle deep in his chest, sending a rush of emotions through him. Relief, confusion, something dangerously close to hope. His grip on the phone tightens. He wasn’t you. He wants to hold onto those words, let it mean something."What does that even mean..?" His voice is quieter now. You hesitate. "It means I tried, Hanma. I really did", there's heaviness in your voice, you're as tired as he is "I thought moving on would be easy. That if I found someone else, the memories would fade" A bitter laugh escapes you. "But they didn’t" His breath is unsteady. "Then why aren’t we-" He stops himself, running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to ask. "Because missing you doesn’t change what happened" you say softly. And there it is. The reality he was trying to ignore. The reason this call will never end the way he wants it to. Hanma leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He feels like a fool. Drunk and reckless "So what now?" he murmurs. There’s a long pause before you answer. "Now, we hang up" His chest tightens. "And then what?” he asks, almost desperate. "And then we let each other go" Silence. He doesn’t want to. He really, really doesn’t. But he also knows dragging this out will only hurt more. After what feels like forever, he exhales shakily "Goodbye then", "Goodbye Hanma" and just like that, the call ends. Hanma stares at his phone, the empty screen mocking him. He should feel relieved knowing you still miss him. But somehow, it only makes everything worse. Because it doesn’t matter. You’re still gone.

[mosertone]

via Volodymyr Vlad Kunko

I’m calling it as it is. I dont care whether you agree with me or not, just check your response with your gut. My gut never lies to me.

I’ve had my suspicions all along about this stooge. He’s not intelligent enough to pull this off by himself. We better hope that all the social security numbers and tax info that Muskrat just uploaded from SSA and IRS from every single american citizens account, doesn’t end up in Putin’s files. Whoever has that info can potentially wipe out every dime we have and can potentially fund a world takeover:

There is something rancid in America, a slow, creeping rot that smells like cold McDonald’s fries, aerosol hairspray, and the unmistakable musk of a country too sedated to recognize its own hostage situation. For years, the idea that Donald Trump was compromised by Russia was dismissed as paranoid fantasy—just another wild-eyed conspiracy theory, another overblown headline in the endless saga of American political dysfunction.

But now, two former Soviet intelligence officers—Alnur Mussayev and Yuri Shvets—are saying it outright: Trump was recruited by the KGB in 1987, groomed as an asset, and remains under Russian control to this day.

And the worst part? He’s already back in the White House.

That’s right, America. You did it. You walked face-first into the banana peel of history, slipped, and fell straight into the arms of Vladimir Putin. Trump was kicked out in 2020, spent four years plotting his comeback, and now he’s returned, like a bloated, orange cockroach that just won’t die. The Kremlin’s favorite stooge is running the country again, and this time, he knows exactly how to stay in power.

If you think this is just another round of the Trump Show, you’re not paying attention. This isn’t politics anymore. This is treason. This is foreign subversion. This is a goddamn coup in slow motion.

Let’s break it down, nice and simple.

Alnur Mussayev isn’t some Twitter conspiracy theorist with a tinfoil hat and a podcast. He’s the former head of Kazakhstan’s National Security Committee, which means he knows exactly how Russian intelligence works—because he was part of the system. And what he’s saying should make every American’s blood run cold.

According to Mussayev, Trump was identified, recruited, and compromised by the KGB in 1987 during his first trip to Moscow. They saw him for what he was: a narcissistic, greedy, attention-starved buffoon who could be easily manipulated. The KGB flattered him, promised him business deals, and planted the seeds of political ambition in his empty little head. And from that moment on, he was their man.

But Mussayev isn’t alone. Former KGB major Yuri Shvets said the exact same thing in 2021: Trump was cultivated by Soviet intelligence because he was an easy mark—too stupid to realize he was being played, too egotistical to care. They saw him as a useful idiot—a man who could one day be nudged into power, a walking, talking Trojan Horse for Russian interests.

And now? The plan has worked. Trump spent four years in office weakening America from within, got booted out, and now he’s back for round two.

If you had told the American public in 1962 that a Soviet-backed asset would one day sit in the White House, they would have burned Washington to the ground before letting it happen. But today? Nobody seems to care.

The media treats this like just another wacky subplot in the never-ending Trump reality show. Congress is too busy fighting over meaningless culture war nonsense to do anything about it. And the American public? Exhausted. Numb. Checked out. Years of scandals—Russia collusion, Ukraine blackmail, classified documents, tax fraud, sexual assault, an attempted coup—have fried the country’s brain like an overcooked steak at Mar-a-Lago.

Trump has done the impossible. He has committed so many crimes, so openly, so brazenly, that none of them matter anymore.

And now, with Mussayev’s revelation that Trump is an active foreign asset, we have finally reached the point where the biggest political scandal in American history is met with a collective shrug.

This is how democracy dies—not with a bang, but with a goddamn eye-roll.

This is the part where the skeptics start clutching their pearls. “Oh, come on,” they say. “If Trump were really a Russian asset, wouldn’t there be more proof?”

To which I say: Are you blind, or just willfully stupid?

Let’s go through the evidence, shall we?

Trump spent his entire first term doing exactly what Russia wanted. He attacked NATO, calling it “obsolete” and threatening to pull the U.S. out. He tried to blackmail Ukraine into manufacturing dirt on Joe Biden, because weakening Ukraine helps one man and one man only: Vladimir Putin. He pulled U.S. troops out of Syria, handing power over to Russian forces. He picked fights with Canada and Europe while cozying up to dictators.

Even now, in his second term, he is more openly pro-Putin than ever. He has made it clear that he will not protect NATO allies from Russian aggression. He is actively dismantling America’s alliances, just as Russia planned. And while Americans scream at each other over whether Target should sell rainbow t-shirts, Trump is quietly selling the country to the Kremlin.

At some point, you have to stop calling it a coincidence and start calling it what it is: treason.

The United States is running out of time. If Trump serves out this term without being removed, America as a functioning democracy is finished.

The media needs to wake up. Enough with the “Trump fatigue” excuse. This is not just another scandal—this is the single greatest infiltration of American power in history. Journalists need to dig into Mussayev’s claims, demand declassification of intelligence files, and treat this like the national emergency that it is.

Congress needs to subpoena Mussayev immediately. His testimony must be public, and every document he has should be reviewed. If there is proof that Trump has been compromised since the 1980s, the American people need to know.

The Justice Department needs to stop pretending that Trump is just another politician. If there is evidence that the sitting president of the United States is working in Russia’s interests, he must be removed from office and prosecuted for espionage.

And the American public? You have one last chance. This is not about Republican vs. Democrat. This is not about taxes, gas prices, or whatever nonsense outrage is dominating the news today. This is about whether the United States remains a sovereign nation, or if we spend the rest of the century as a Russian client state with a golf course.

The sheer volume of Trump's corruption, the blatant nature of his crimes, the mountain of evidence that should have ended his political career a hundred times over—none of it mattered. He survived it all, not because he was innocent, but because he drowned the country in so much scandal that nothing stuck.

But this time, it’s different. If Mussayev and Shvets are right, this isn’t just another chapter in the endless Trump circus. This is the culmination of a decades-long Russian intelligence operation to install an asset in the White House.

There is no coming back from this. If America lets Trump serve out this term without removing him, then the United States as a democratic republic is finished. The country won’t collapse overnight. There won’t be tanks in the streets. Instead, the destruction of democracy will happen in slow motion—buried under lawsuits, propaganda, and corruption so blatant that people stop caring.

If America lets this happen—if Trump is allowed to complete his mission—then Putin wins. The West crumbles. And the people who could have stopped it will look back, years from now, and wonder how they let it happen.

Good night, and good luck. Because if people don’t wake up, America is going to sleepwalk straight into its own funeral.

Hangnailias Nix

18h

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