#cw prisoner of war

[naavispider]

can you make a fanfic in wich the recoms and quaritch are fed up with spider behaving like a navi and try to "humanize" him?

I might ask you a lot because I like the way you write, sorry.

Let me do you some angsty headcanons instead! For all my angst loving, I'm not sure I could do a whole fic on Quaritch and the recoms essentially torturing Spider.

Quaritch (and Wainfleet because he is the most observant one out of the squad) notice that Spider holds his bow the 'wrong way' with his left hand like the Na'vi do, and so to fix this he decides to make Spider just write lines with his right hand. And.... that's how he found out Spider is barely literate.

They would obvs force Spider to wash off the blue stripes - but what if they stained into the skin and couldn't be easily washed away, like henna? I can see Quaritch getting frustrated and just rubbing Spider's skin until it got so red, (potentially burning it) and eventually giving up forcing him to wear long sleeved shirts and pants.

For extra angst: the recoms take Spider's armbands and anklet (which Kiri and Jake made for him) and throw them out.

Every time Spider hisses or does something too 'Na'vi' they use some kind of stun weapon to shock him, negative reinforcement all the way (in a veryyyy alternate reality)

Obvs his locs have to go, if they were being super mean they'd probably just shave his whole head, I can't see them bothering to give Spider a 'nice' hairstyle.

[liberaljane]

🖤 Our current drug laws are unjust and nonsensical – and disproportionately harm Black and brown communities. 🕷️🕸️🖤

Digital illustration of a young witch with brown skin and pink hair wearing a green cape and hat. Next to her is an owl sitting on a book along with an open spell book. There is a variety of objects scattered on the table in front of her including a cauldron, a bag of soil and candles. Text reads, ‘to be blunt, drug criminalization is racist.’

[codename-freya]

~*~ Small and young, still inexperienced in her rank but experienced in trauma that threatened to completely break her. Her gaze stayed trained on the ground. Hearing that this powerful Espada had lost a part of herself brought some sorrow to the shinigami. Both had befallen someone that could only be described as a monster. Even after being a subject of Szayelapporo, Quilge’s cruelty was what almost made Kaisa give up completely. She still had some fight in her until the Quincy captured her.

Kaisa had no peace within her. She was so lost she felt as though she couldn’t fulfill her duties. The words Tier spoke gave her some semblance of the hope she’d thought would never come back, “I know we are of two separate worlds, we are two separate beings… but… I don’t know how to find myself again…”

Her voice was tiny, showing how young she truly was.

“I implore your help Hallibel-sama.”

@codename-freya:

The small blonde looked up at her, emerald eyes dark and haunted. She felt small in comparison, both physically and by power. Kaisa averted her gaze, then bowed out of respect for the queen of Hueco Mundo. Both of them had survived that monster of a Quincy and yet the Espada seemed to have recovered and coped better with what happened. She didn't look back up as she straightened her posture, "please tell me, how you seem as though you didn't lose yourself."

❝ 𝐀 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐃. ❞ tier spoke, once the moment of silent was full and filling lungs with fake air ----- baited breath now released. no doubt the young shinigami was also the same one szayelaporro had captured, or so she heard from around the area. she was lost, soul unbound to the ground yet incapable of finding peace. the king stares at her with a small narrowing of her own gaze.

not in cruelness toward her, but tier herself for being weak at that moment and not being able to save those around her once again. ❝ but from the ruins, one rebuilds themselves from the ground up. it is easier to do so with others to show you the right way. ❞

[sforzesco]

THE BROTHERS PAOLO AND VITELLOZZO VITELLI

man. the fucking. cycles of violence going on here. war, condottieri brothers, the execution of paolo vitelli (but the on the matter of guilt: questionable! no proof besides the absence of potential violence, but what conspiracy-betrayal wants to leave behind proof? torture and execute him anyway. maybe machiavelli has a point! unfortunately you left a surviving brother), the congiura della magione, all of it coming together at the strage di senigallia. just blood and gore and war all the way down, never stopping for a breather, already on to it's next battlefield. also malaria is there!

in other news! it turns out if you want to draw a comic about the strage di senigallia, you have to figure out designs for all the people in the room, but if you draw vitellozzo, you also have to draw his brother because he's like. there. in a dead way. something something vitellozzo's desire to avenge his brother manifesting in his desire to brutalize florence for their role in his brother's death.

that said, I did not want to draw military armor for an illustration that was partially designed to test out some splatter brushes. in the future though….I will have to revisit that visual…..

[athena5898]

🚨 13-year-old Iyad Ashraf Da'is from #AlQuds was released today from occupation prisons after 7 month of detention with the marks of zionist torture and medical negligence against the prisoners clear on his body. Iyad suffers from severe scabies due to the deliberate inhumane measures taken by the occupation administration against the prisoners as part of collective revenge against them. He was also sentenced to house arrest and his ankle was fitted with an electronic bracelet and was banned from Al-Quds to Taybeh. Iyad was arrested on March 27 from his home in Shu'fat, occupied

[howlsofbloodhounds]

what does it say about me that some of my most favorite characters that incite deep protective instincts in me are killer sans, mikasa ackerman, and bucky barnes. and like, all of these characters are perfectly capable of protecting themselves.

thats not even to mention that all these pairs have their opposites or important person. color sans, eren jeager, steve rogers.

[ohsalome]

https://apnews.com/article/ukraine-russia-prisons-civilians-torture-detainees-takeaways-38f9405d4f7c7520e3d93a60d2edad5a

Just wanted to share this article, things are even more awful than we ever thought about ukrainian civillian prisoners

With russia, you should always prepare for the worst, and even then you'll be shocked

I especially "love" the order to build more camps till 2026. The audacity to think they'll still control Ukraine by that time. They'd better start making plans around how much ~russian territory~ will be under their control by then.

[todaysdocument]

Women’s Army Corps Cpl. Barbara Fenster (left) and Cpl. Genevieve E. Guethlein secure information from German prisoner of war Pvt. Frederick Bonk, captured in Tunisia. September 7, 1943, at Hampton Roads Port of Embarkation.

Record Group 336: Records of the Office of the Chief of Transportation

Series: Photographic Albums of Prints of Hampton Roads Port of Embarkation

Image description: Inside a tent, a young man in a German uniform with “AFRIKAKORPS” on his sleeve stands to the side of a desk. Seated at the desk are two women in Women’s Army Corps uniforms, who are writing. In the background are more desks and more German prisoners of war. 

[fictionkinfessions]

marie,

did you forget about me? i'm still here waiting in inkopolis plaza. i did what you asked. i fought octavio and saved callie. i made sure octavio couldn't escape the snowglobe. i even had sheldon's machine thingy upgrade my dualies to the best they can be.

i saw you on the news for grand festival in splatsville. it would've been nice if you invited me, y'know. but here i am. waiting for you. to come back. you and callie and eight and pearl and marina. and your new friends too, i guess. i just wish you remembered me. it was fun going and saving callie. i wish i could work with you guys again. but what can i do? nothing. so i just sit here in waiting.

i've been getting better at my substrafing techniques. i occasionally go out for turf wars, i don't really play any anarchy games anymore. i really wish you were still here. maybe in the next life, right? bye mom.

-AGENT FOUR💛🔫

[gumpistol]

✏️

𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑! / @code01746

[jaysen-vor-hee-hees]

{#} If All Is Fair In Love And War {#}

A little thingy about the second war between the upperworld and the underworld cause by a break of the peace treaty :3 (note “The Boy” ™ is a reference to an rp concept with the sona of @v-3-ll-1-ch-0-r!!)

WARNING!!: The following my contain themes referencing to war, religion(?), POW practices, starvation, dehydration, and similar related themes. Reader discretion is advised, and I will not be taking responsibility for ignorance of this message.

=====================================

Malthine breathed a heavy sigh as he slumped back against the wall, the metal crucifix necklace feeling cold against his bare chest.

He hated this. He wished to see the sun again, even if it was a blinding crimson that painted the earth in a red haze. Even if it was a warzone out there.

Originally, the young prince been captured by the enemy to draw information out of, but now, they weren’t letting him go until a truce was drawn between the Upperworld and the Underworld.

It had been three years. And the war was still escalating, showing no sign of stopping.

It’d like he’d almost been completely forgotten. Kept in this cell day and night without any sort of interaction. His feeding had gone from twice a day, to whenever they remembered to, and now to never at all.

His stomach was growling at him, and his throat felt dry. What he’d give for even a sip of water, or at least a half decent meal. It’s not like it’d kill him, no, you can’t kill something that’s already dead.

But he still felt so sick. He just wanted this to be over. He’d never look at angels the same again, not after this. He almost wished he’d taken up the offer to leave before the war begun from that kind, albeit strange, boy he’d met all those years ago.

He’d never admit it, but he could help but feel he’d been developing feelings for that boy, that had just grown stronger the longer he was here. How he just yearned for someone to care for him. He felt so lost…

Malthine was snapped from his long stream of thoughts by a sharp knock on the door of his cell.

=====================================

[blackcur-rants]

Sylvia Jacqueline Carton dove her face into her bowl of noodles, greedily devouring every last inch of her meal with the intensity of a jackal going down on a piece of meat. Her face was absolutely getting messed up and dirty and would probably end up smelling stronger and more pungent than a figgy pudding at Christmas time, but Sylvia didn’t care. It tasted good and that was all that mattered.

And once the meal was finally finished, Sylvia groaned with satisfaction, for that was the most filling meal she had ever had in her entire life. Sylvia had not been poor growing up, in fact quite the opposite. Though being a poor orphan of mixed Irish and Chinese descent growing up in the middle of the rolling fields and tranquil village squares of rural Shropshire had had its difficulties for sure, Sylvia’s aunt Christina had always made sure she was fed and well-cared for as she occupied her strange life of living halfway being the scruffy, dirty village tomcat and the magnificent and noble honours student of the local school. Aunt Christina (the older twin sister of Sylvia’s father Peter Gerald Carton, a rather stout and peculiar but kind-hearted man who had raised Sylvia on his own for the most part after his Hong Kong-born wife Melissa Elaine Sima had died of bowel cancer when Sylvia was four years and three months old before dying himself in a freakish car accident when Sylvia was eight years and seven months old and leaving his sole child in his own sister’s care) had been the bartender at the local pub in their hometown of Upton Magna, and thus had been a master of cooking fabulous and wonderful feasts for her little niece even before she became the girl’s official guardian. As a result of growing up with all of this good food and drink in her life as a grieving and rather lonely but highly intelligent child, Sylvia had always turned to eating and drinking a nice meal or two whenever she was stressed out by something or other, which was honestly rather frequent in the profession where she worked.

“Wow” a friendly and well-meaning voice called out as Sylvia was finishing the last of her broth, “You really were super, super hungry in the aftermath of that case, weren’t you?”

Sylvia stopped for a while before accidentally spitting out all of her remaining broth all over poor Charles Jonathan Stryver’s face. Stryver was somewhat bemused at this turn of events and did nothing much other than just calmly and carefully pick up a towel and wipe the hot soup broth off of his face.

“Yeah, I was” Sylvia responded after not much time, “I don’t know. There was just…something about that woman that just…captured my imagination or something else in me in a way no one else ever has”.

“She does kind of look like you, to be quite honest” Stryver said at last as he finished wiping the last of the soup broth off of his face.

“Yes, I am aware of that” Sylvia said again, “but thank you for stating the obvious, Professor”.

It was true though. Catherine Elizabeth Darnay had gotten stuck inside of Sylvia Jacqueline Carton’s head and just refused to get out of there. There was just something about the way she laughed at some bad, cheesy joke or another, the way she had smiled when Sylvia had gotten her off the hook for whatever stupid, bullcrap charges had been hurled at her for her time as a Red Cross nurse serving in Iraq, as if caring for human life and well-being had made her somehow complicit in the atrocities of Saddam or Osama. There was not much that Sylvia knew about Catherine, only that she had been born in Algeria, the daughter of a French businessman and his Algerian wife, with both of her father and her maternal grandfather having some connection or another to the infamously awful Evremonde Industrial Manufacturing, one of the cruellest and most disgusting military industrial war crime-profiting criminal leagues in the whole entire world. Fortunately though, it seemed to Sylvia at least that Catherine was a good and kind and noble woman who had long since rejected the wicked ways of her vile family and had chosen to be good and kind and just to all of God’s children.

(It’s so funny how I’m for the most part an atheist and yet I still think of Cat Darnay as almost a woman of God Themselves. Must be Aunt Christina’s upbringing again or maybe iit was just being brought up in proximity to a church and having a vicar’s daughter for a first crush).

Of course, it was not to be. Catherine was already deeply, deeply in love with another person, a local nurse from Bloomsbury named Lucine Manette, who was said to be as beautiful and intelligent as they were also gentle and kind and loving. It was said in almost all of London’s finest queer circles that they were the hottest and most eligible panromantic bisexual in all of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. And yet they had never married at all, for they were most prominently invested in taking care of their father Alexandre, a journalist who had attempted to blow the whistle on American war crimes in the first Gulf War and had been imprisoned on Riker’s Island for eighteen years until Lucine had successfully smuggled him out of New York to London in 2011. Sylvia sweated a little and rubbed her left hand through the jet black buzzcut that was her recently cut hair at the thought of both Catherine and Lucine, whose beautiful performances of the feminine gender made Sylvia feel even more than usual like she was the butchest butch who ever butched. Of course, Sylvia was not the super-butch lesbian that either she or her compatriots sometimes imagined her as being. Of course, she had very much been the village tomboy when she was little, always more comfortable running around in tattered jeans and light white t-shirts with a freckled smile on her face as she sat by herself with a book under the old ash trees that made up the forests around her home village of Upton Magna than trying to be a pretty little girl laughing and giggling with the other village children. However, she had never held more “girly” things in all that much contempt. In fact, she had loved the brave and headstrong young women she saw in her childhood princess movies and classic novels even as most of them had worn dresses rather than pants and ended up with hot boys rather than with other beautiful girls. In fact, for most of her childhood, Sylvia had dreamed of moving to the city to find a beautiful, strong woman to take her up into her arms and spirit her away into a new life of wonder and love…only to come to London and find that all of the eligible and beautiful queer women had been taken and she herself was left all alone. And that, sadly, was when her heart had started to turn as cold and bitter as a winter snowstorm, and when she had begun to harden herself to the idea of love and companionship and had resigned herself to the fate of being alone and fairly miserable with only her mentor Professor Charles Jonathan Stryver and her books and Hakkasan food to keep her company through her darkest times.

However, no sooner than Sylvia Jacqueline Carton started on the depths of these musings when she saw none other than Catherine Darnay and Lucine Sophia Manette coming into the Hakkasan and sitting down together on a date. Sylvia was rather reluctant to be seen by them for fear of embarrassing herself in front of both these supremely lovely and most excellent individuals. So instead of even trying to sit in the same vague vicinity as both of these beloveds, Sylvia Jacqueline Carton bolted straight up from the table and ran to the bathroom to gather her thoughts as she stared into the mirror. Once there, Sylvia Carton plopped herself down onto the toilet and tried desperately not to scream loudly at the top of her lungs as she held her head tightly between her hands. Part of her just wanted to quiet down and head silently home through a way that nobody else could see until she could flop down upon her bed and let the tidal wave of emotions ride all over her until she could fall asleep at last…and meanwhile, another part of her just wanted to strip off all of her clothes then and there and scream naked into a mirror until she passed out at last and had to be carried home by Stryver…until she then remembered that the London autumns were, to put it very bluntly, not the warmest and most pleasant experiences in the world, and she decided that being able to get home calmly and quickly was a much, much better thing than being carried home in her birthday suit by her old professor. And so it was that, once the pounding in her ears had died down into a barely audible crawl and once her heart had ceased pounding and settled down into a quiet yet still constantly eternal vibration that kept the human body alive for as long as it could, the lawyer known as Sylvia Jacqueline Carton finally exited the bathrooms of this humble London Hakkasan and reentered into the world of normal conversation.

However, when Sylvia Carton reentered into said world of normal conversation, the conversation that was wholly surrounding her was anything but normal, to put it very, very bluntly. For there was on the restaurant TV screen at the moment a special presentation from the BBC about how national hero John Arthur Barsad had been caught trying to play hanky panky with Jeremiah Isaac Cruncher, a local bank teller for Tellson’s Bank. And one must know, dearest reader, that when your narrator refers to “hanky panky”, they are in fact referring to a massive blow job that Mister Cruncher administered to Mister Barsad and which Mister Barsad had decided to record on video and had accidentally posted to his Facebook account and which was now going viral across the nation.

(And possibly the world, if we’re being quite honest)

[too-many-blorbos]

Part Three of Prisoner's Dilemma fiction

The fall felt like an eon. 

No, that's the wrong word– an eon is an immeasurable length of time, in which anything can happen. The fall was a mere moment, but it was a frozen moment. No time for change. Just the world pausing, letting my mind take in that sliver of time to the fullest before moving to its inevitable conclusion. I felt many things during that pause. Surprise at the interruption. Outrage at the timing. Fear, shockingly–though I blamed the fall itself for that.

 Acceptance soon pushed out the other emotions, though. Whatever awaited me, I couldn't avoid it, so there was no point in dreading it. Perhaps it would even be a boon– perhaps in death, I would rejoin the men I called family. That thought brought me comfort, and I greeted my end with serenity as the rope yanked taut. 

And then just as suddenly went slack. The next thing I knew, I was on my back with the wind knocked out of me. I stared up, dazed. Above me, the rope's frayed end swayed in the wind. 

The executioner leaned over the hole and met my eye again. "You're one lucky louse," she remarked, sounding almost impressed. "It's been five years since a rope snapped on me."

I sat up and felt at the noose still collaring me. The rope had indeed snapped; a foot of it dangled above the knot. I stared at the unraveling fibers, at a loss for words. At a loss for thought, even. This… was not an outcome I'd anticipated. 

"Stop the executions!" The colonel repeated. From my vantage point, I could only see her boots and the dyed legs of her steed. In my stupor, all I could think was that the dye pattern was surprisingly simple for such a high-ranking officer. Practical.

The warden came from the sidelines to greet her. "What are your orders, Colonel? I was told to empty the jail."

"And you will." The colonel snapped. "I'm taking custody of the remaining inmates. They must be prepared to march out by day's end."

The whinging among the prisoners turned to baffled mumbles. The prison staff around us reacted much the same way.

"My lady," the warden ventured delicately, "They are, of course, at your disposal. But please enlighten me on the reason for this sudden change in orders."

The colonel huffed. She indulged him in a professional, though impatient, tone. "Commander Grey is plotting a new strategy. We require extra hands, and as THESE hands were going to end up lifeless in a ditch anyway, we're commandeering them for more productive things."

Ah. They needed expendables. I rose and dusted myself clean, or as clean as I could manage. The prison staff, still confused, herded my peers back into the shade of the prison. One man resisted, shoving past the guards to confront the colonel.

“What have you in store for us, high-cap?” He glowered at the soldiers. “Is it not enough to take our freedom and dignity in this hell-forsaken place? Must you also drag us like cattle to be slaughtered on the front lines?”

“You can be slaughtered here if you prefer,” the colonel quipped back mockingly. She spurred her horse toward the stables, not deigning to give any more attention to her lessers. The petulant prisoner was pushed back into line, and I along with him. As we filed into captivity once again, I tugged the noose off and tossed it to the ground. My end had been postponed.

For now.

[startrekmemequeen]

CW: Politics, homophobia

I live in the part of Ukraine which is currently occupied by R*ssia. Right now i don't have any means to leave this territory. Today r*ssian government enacted a new law. According to it, LGBT+ is a "forbidden extremist organization" (i know it sounds ridiculous but it's what the law says) and any "LGBT activity" is now a crime. Even having a pride pin on your backpack can cost you at least 6 years in prison.

I can't post about this on any other social media because it would reveal my identity which would put me in danger. I'm posting this for awareness. I'm posting this so people from other countries would know what sick shit is happening here. I'm not asking anybody to do anything. I don't know what can be done to stop this. I don't think anything can be done at this point. R*ssia is going down. They've criminalized LGBT+, they're about to criminalize abortions. They've started a fucking WAR, they're killing my people. They're oppressing their own citizens.

I don't know what to do, i can't leave, i have no money, no education yet, and i have a family, i can't just leave them. I didn't ask to live in this insane country with inhumane laws, they came here and fucking occupied the place where i live.

If you're from another country, please spread awareness, educate yourself and don't support r*ssian government. If you're from r*ssia, hold on. I know you're scared, i'm scared too. But you're not alone. Just hold on.

[obsessivevoidkitten]

The Centaur King

Yandere Centaur King x Gender Neutral Royal Elf Reader CW: Noncon, kidnapping, massive centaur dick, belly bulge from massive centaur dick, belly bulge from massive load of cum from said massive centaur dick, general yandere behavior. Word Count: 425 (Not beta read and barely edited but I hope you all enjoy, it isn't anything special I just had a centaur craving.)

Being made the centaur ruler's prisoner. You never saw it coming. Peaceful relations had been in place between the centaur kingdom of Crestwood and the elven kingdom of Fallfeather for over 20 years. Resentment between some individuals lingered, but most people were amicable. 

You had been the royal ruler of the elves. A fair monarch who had reigned since your father had perished in the great war before the current treaties with the centaurs had been put into place. 

But the highborn horse-men were playing the long game. If they couldn't take the realm with might and magic, then it would be theirs by other means. 

They had long since gotten your court wizard Elyrifel, the most trusted advisor to the crown, to serve them in their ambitions. 

When King Farendale of the centaurs made his first nonviolent bid for dominion over the elven lands it was through a marriage proposal. Though Elyrifel pushed hard for your acceptance, you refused to hear it out. A merger of two kingdoms wasn't something done so flippantly and you had scarcely met him outside diplomatic functions. 

Though at those functions he had always given you his undivided attention. Much to your annoyance, you thought it was likely feigned to get you to accept one of his many offerings of marriage. 

But a marriage for power wasn't all King Farendale had been after. He had genuinely wanted you for years, ever since his first fell upon your elven form, and his patience had run out. Your grace, regality, and devotion to your subjects had captured his heart even easier than he had captured you.

You had gone to sleep in the safety of your chambers and had woken up in his. Elyrifel had whisked you off to the centaur's kingdom with his magic.

Farendale knew everything would have been better had you been willing. But it was clear that the willing part would just have to come later. As long as you were his to treasure and fuck silly for the rest of your days and his.

You had been forced to marry him with your close allies and friends threatened if you didn't comply in a public ceremony.

And then you were utterly his. 

King Farendale's cock slid into your conveniently stretchy and pliant elven form almost daily. The massive dick leaving a perfect stretched outline in your belly every time it was sheathed within you. His large nuts filled you until it filled your inside and bulged out your belly, dripping everywhere when he finally pulled out.

[fictionkinfessions]

Canon Tunes:

Well before WWIII, what started it all, I didn’t seek out music very often. I heard classical pieces at the lavish parties I was strung along to, and I experienced a few orchestras with the women who invited me. I can’t say I was very interested in it, not at that time.

After the war, or more accurately after AM imprisoned the five of us, I felt a semi-appreciation for music. We didn’t have access to it in the way we had before, but occasionally Ellen would hum or sing under her breath. The other men never appreciated the small gesture, but I did. I yearned for music, something to remind me of what life had been like. Something familiar.

Long, horrible years passed and eventually turned to decades.. how many, I’m not sure. But oh, once AM had begun to run out of adrenaline-fueled fury he realized that he enjoyed the intricacies, the finer methods of torture he could construct.

For a long while, the complex alternated between music blaring so loudly it would knock you off your feet, to quiet rustling snaps of distorted classical piano. After decades of near silence, I welcomed the times quiet music lazily drifted through his hollow caverns.

We had no concept of day or night in there, but when we all settled down to sleep I could hear it again. That slow, distorted melody. Piano notes, quiet and artificial in nature, buzzes of electricity interjecting rudely.

I theorized that it was less for us, and more for himself. He allowed us to sleep at times, knowing it was imperative to our function. With seemingly no one awake to hear it, why would he play it? For himself. I found it sickeningly endearing, and a lump of sympathy settled heavily in my chest.

Nowadays, I’m interested in music again. All sorts of genres, I don’t harbor a strict preference.

Also, thank you to the kind person who reblogged my lament and said my writing is interesting. I appreciate it.

-Ted (IHNMAIMS) (#🔏🎭)

x