#i’m just going off of his own account of the philadelphia show

[dog-day-morning]

WRONG MESSIAH WRONG PEOPLE Acts 1:1-14 Israel is run by gentiles who are not Israelite by blood. They call themselves Jews by declaration not by lineage. Jews are in the midst of casting out God's chosen people from Israel for fear of the prophetic word that states these Edomite gentiles, along with an admixture of the people of Alkebulan’s (Israel), whose DNA the Father anointed has blessed them will bow down, and worship at our feet. They fear the truth knowing we’ve determined the lies they’ve told us were intended to hide our identity from us, and the world out of hatred. The Jewish holocaust lasted for 4yrs whereas the curses of Deuteronomy have lasted 400yrs, and counting. No other tribe of people has suffered like the Israelites according to the curses, and accounts in Deuteronomy 28 save a peculiar people. And it shall come to pass, that as the Lord rejoiced over you to do you good, and to multiply you; so the Lord will rejoice over you to destroy you, and to bring you to nought; and ye shall be plucked from off the land whither thou goest to possess it. And the Lord shall scatter thee among all people, from the one end of the earth even unto the other; and there thou shalt serve other gods, which neither thou nor thy fathers have known, even wood and stone. This is why I don't worship other religious faiths or religions. I'm cautious when it comes to Christianity knowing the deviltry of man, and the depths he will go, and has in order to maintain his stranglehold on us as a people. What allows a person to never be held accountable for their sins on Earth, but makes a race or tribe of people the burden bearer for all of Earth's iniquity? The devil is an accuser whose minions are fearful of the word manifesting in this generation. What we see on display isn't just a show of rebellion, but a fear of an arrogant people losing their position in the Earth which was only meant to be temporary, but in truth it wasn't meant to be at all. If 5 Black males congregate on a street corner it puts fear, spite, and hatred in the hearts of the so-called fragile psyche of those who want to control us. They call the Police in the hope of getting innocent people arrested or murdered. But 200 members of the proud boys can march through Urban Philadelphia in a show of defiance with Police protection, and nobody confronts them except a different breed of Black, Brown, and white people who are not like their fathers of old who relish in the thought of sending Jethro back to the woods with the rest of the hood boogers. The Jewish cabal worships Satan in the literal sense. They are the Devils cronies who know their time is up. Therefore rejoice, ye heavens, and ye that dwell in them. Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of the sea! for the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time. They understand that the God of our fathers isn't playing games. If you ascribe this to my person as I’ve done in theory, how can God's 2 faithful witnesses see the Son of God and His Father if their hearts hadn't been tried like some of you? Revelation 11:3-13 3 And I will give power unto my two witnesses, and they shall prophesy a thousand two hundred and threescore days, clothed in sackcloth. 4 These are the two olive trees, and the two candlesticks standing before the God of the earth. 5 And if any man will hurt them, fire proceedeth out of their mouth, and devoureth their enemies: and if any man will hurt them, he must in this manner be killed. 6 These have power to shut heaven, that it rain not in the days of their prophecy: and have power over waters to turn them to blood, and to smite the earth with all plagues, as often as they will. 7 And when they shall have finished their testimony, the beast that ascendeth out of the bottomless pit shall make war against them, and shall overcome them, and kill them. 8 And their dead bodies shall lie in the street of the great city, which spiritually is called Sodom and Egypt, where also our Lord was crucified. 9 And they of the

people and kindreds and tongues and nations shall see their dead bodies three days and an half, and shall not suffer their dead bodies to be put in graves. 10 And they that dwell upon the earth shall rejoice over them, and make merry, and shall send gifts one to another; because these two prophets tormented them that dwelt on the earth. 11 And after three days and an half the spirit of life from God entered into them, and they stood upon their feet; and great fear fell upon them which saw them. 12 And they heard a great voice from heaven saying unto them, Come up hither. And they ascended up to heaven in a cloud; and their enemies beheld them. 13 And the same hour was there a great earthquake, and the tenth part of the city fell, and in the earthquake were slain of men seven thousand: and the remnant were affrighted, and gave glory to the God of heaven. The God of Israel has decreed this. The Jews in Israel will suffer a harsh penalty for their crimes against the Nigerian, Igbo Israelites, the Ethiopian Beta Israelites, the Ugandan Abayudaya, and other sects of Israelite people including the American tribal people of Ghana Africa (Judah), Gad (Native American), Reuben (Aboriginal Australian), and Issachar (Mexican South American descendants.) They are deporting the Yisraelites in Alkebulan out of Yisrael as though this can inundate God's plan. You’re bringing God to a higher and greater glory, fulfilling the promises He made to His people in this day for this generation. Joshua 24:13 13 And I have given you a land for which ye did not labour, and cities which ye built not, and ye dwell in them; of the vineyards and olive yards which ye planted not do ye eat. It’s a shame to construct a global economy only to be denied the American dream; it's a nightmare. For those that cater to the State of Israel like some Congressmen, and women who are Edomite Jews that are not willing to put in place a reparations plan for the ADOS, FBA, and all indigenous people of North America based on the Western Nations financing of the temporary inhabitants of Israel is an injustice to humanity. Our oppressor isn’t going to give up his throne or authority willingly, he’s drunk with it. Look to God to deliver us not man, especially those who historically have shown their extreme distaste and revulsion for us. God tells us: If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land. God foreknew, He's all knowing, and all seeing. If one of them were to cosign a reparations bill for Black people they would’ve been found dead inside their congressional office within days or maybe hours. When your own people who look as you do, but think according to their massa’s will, in order to live a season of sin with the wicked advocating for the gentiles who live off our promised inheritance, and this nonphysical, hidden, unseen, but shrewd, devious bit of craft called white privilege, that Black people who believe in Yeshua spiritually call favor with God. What this microwave generation has asserted, and addressed as privilege in actuality is sinister, and diabolical. It's a Janus-like, double minded, spirit of torment that has caused a lot of agony to a people they refuse to relinquish that will bring a harsh judgment to them and the Earth, and yes, I’m paying my price. The people of Canaan were destroyed after having knowledge of the true living God. The Father isn't one who relishes in the spilling of innocent blood. He will always send you a warning before calamity comes to your doorstep. He's been doing it for the last 2,000 years. Like the Egyptians they refused to believe in the God the Israelites praised, and worshipped thinking He finds favor in them who shed innocent blood. This is the situation we find the Earth in once more with the Israelites who this time are being forced out of their homeland waiting for a deliverer. The people that lived in Canaan were not ignorant of

the God of Israel. Many times the impression is given that God ordered the Israelites to swoop in and destroy innocent people. But these people were neither innocent nor ignorant. They had heard about the God of Israel; it was they who rejected Him. When the 2 spies were sent to spy out the Land of Promise they were told by Rahab the prostitute: Joshua 2:9-11 9 And she said unto the men, I know that the Lord hath given you the land, and that your terror is fallen upon us, and that all the inhabitants of the land faint because of you. 10 For we have heard how the Lord dried up the water of the Red sea for you, when ye came out of Egypt; and what ye did unto the two kings of the Amorites, that were on the other side Jordan, Sihon and Og, whom ye utterly destroyed. 11 And as soon as we had heard these things, our hearts did melt, neither did there remain any more courage in any man, because of you: for the Lord your God, he is God in heaven above, and in earth beneath. They had heard of the true God but had rejected Him. Consequently, their entire society acted in a sinful way. The Apostle Paul spoke of these people: Though they knew God they refused to believe let alone acknowledge Him as the true living God. The Father let their minds become reprobate following their flesh. What comes good of the flesh people? Nothing. They were shapen in iniquity, and in sin did their mothers conceive them. Israel is the biggest Nation on Earth that supports the Trans community being led by a morbidly, corrupted government overrun with rampant homosexuality, and like Amerikkka they endorse pedophilia. Of all the Nations on the Earth, Israel ranks number one in unnatural sex, and relations more so than the United States of Amerikkka, and Amerikkka’s European counterparts. When Jews here in the states get arrested for unlawful sexual acts committed against children those who have convenient connections are able to seek refuge, and fly to Israel fleeing prosecution. Oftentimes this is warranted, by US gov’t protection agencies who assist them in their transition back to Israel. Larry Nassar whose last name is Jewish, but they claim him not. The faith he was raised in makes him a Catholic which reeks of corruption, and entitlement that exceeds the realm of sexually deviant malfeasance executed by this religious sect that historically has gotten away with the most egregious sins committed against God's innocent ones. The FBIs handling of his high profile case was a case study in buffoonery, and an insane margin of flexibility that cannot be explained to a person of a simple mind. Hopefully this gov’t will learn which is doubtful. Pray that the payoff of a high monetary lawsuit will make the US government look at this flawed system, and send Goober Pyle back to law school or a police precinct to learn how to do his job. This is not privilege, it’s sin. Romans 1:21-25 21 Because that, when they knew God, they glorified him not as God, neither were thankful; but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened. 22 Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools, 23 And changed the glory of the uncorruptible God into an image made like to corruptible man, and to birds, and four footed beasts, and creeping things. 24 Wherefore God also gave them up to uncleanness through the lusts of their own hearts, to dishonour their own bodies between themselves: 25 Who changed the truth of God into a lie, and worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator, who is blessed for ever. Amen. The inhabitants of Canaan were neither ignorant nor innocent victims of an angry God. They were committing these terrible sins being fully aware of the true and living God. Because they rejected Him, God judged them harshly. How do you explain the people of Israel, Amerikkka, Europe, and the rest of the West in this day and time? You can't without condemning them, and the rest of humanity which the Father had all authority to do. Instead, He sent His Son to die for Yisrael whom we rejected giving the

gentiles a pathway to His Kindome. Why do you refuse to accept His truth? Forgiving a jackass is like storing wine in old wineskins or plastic garbage bags. The messenger has made your hearts cold, and bitter towards the Father, and His Son Yeshua? Learn from us, and prepare for a New World in its natural order of things because this right here ain't it. Good evening people, Elohim 9/25/2021

[ruminativerabbi]

Kindness in the Time of Cholera

I’m still up in the air about the whole thing in terms of where this potential catastrophe may be heading. But what seems beyond dispute to me is that we should be heeding the advice of those wise experts specifically whose counsel is to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. And equally clear to me is that we should be insisting unwaveringly that the government put the responsibility and authority to deal with this looming crisis squarely and solely in the hands of scientists, public health officials, physicians, and epidemiologists…and as far as possible from the hands of politicians.  

One of the most intelligent essays about the coronavirus outbreak that I’ve read, by Donald G. McNeil Jr., was published in the New York Times just this week (click here) and I recommend it highly to you. Basically, he observes that there are two ways to deal with a looming pandemic. There’s the modern method of bringing to bear the full force of modern technology to identify the infected, to perfect a vaccine, to develop new strains of drugs to deal with the already-ill, etc. And then there’s the medieval method of locking the infected inside their own cities, closing borders, forbidding international travel or commerce, and quarantining people who may have inadvertently been exposed to the virus until the danger passes and the infected either recover or die.

The latter approach, the one McNeil calls “medieval,” surely does have an old-fashioned feel to it. And it equally surely features a harshness that will make most moderns uncomfortable. But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t work and hasn’t worked. President Benjamin Harrison, for example, apparently successful kept America safe from an outbreak of virulent cholera in 1892, for example, by closing American harbors to any ships arriving from Germany, the epicenter of that particular epidemic in Europe. But, as McNeil goes on to muse, just how possible would that approach be today really? The word “quarantine” derives from the Italian word for “forty” and came to have its current meaning because the Venetian Republic had the very successful idea during the Black Death plague epidemic in the mid-fourteenth century of requiring that all ships arriving in their port be isolated for a full forty days before their crew could come ashore or their cargo be unloaded. But Venice has one harbor and its masters had the ability absolutely to control the comings and goings of boats in and out of their city, whereas it is very hard to imagine that approach being fully successful in our globalized world of highly porous borders and uncontrolled (and uncontrollable) interstate travel. Nor am I only theorizing here. The Chinese actually have turned Wuhan, the city where the virus first erupted into the world, into a single huge quarantine zone. But the virus behind COVID-19 is still spreading dramatically in the world, both inside and outside of China.

The Jewish world has yet another way to combat a pandemic, one that was the subject of a fascinating piece on the Lehrhaus website that I read just last week. The essay, by Jeremy Brown, the director of the Office of Emergency Care Research at the National Institute of Health, concerns a long-forgotten ceremony developed specifically to address the possibility of epidemiological catastrophe: the shvartze chasaneh, literally “the black wedding.” (To read the full essay, click here.) The name, derived from the fact that brides normally wear white to their own weddings, was intended to suggest that the wedding in question is not just the union of an affianced couple eager to wed under a chuppah, but something else entirely—something rooted not in love and devotion, but in fear and community-wide anxiety.

As far as anyone knows, the last time anyone participated in a shvartze chasaneh was in 1918 at the peak of the Spanish flu epidemic. I’ve heard people mention that specific epidemic many times in the last few weeks, but even by today’s standards the numbers are still astounding. Five hundred million people around the world were infected, about a third of the entire population of the world. (Click here for more on that almost unbelievable number.) The death toll is estimated by most authorities to have been somewhere between forty and fifty million people, but some authorities put it as high as one hundred million. Life expectancy in the United States dropped by twelve years after just one year of the epidemic. This was a terrible time, the cataclysmic coda to the orgy of senseless killing that was the First World War. And the pandemic lasted for three full years, from the beginning of 1918 through the end of 1920.

The idea of the shvartze chasaneh itself is a simple one: the community seeks out a single man who is disabled, orphaned, and/or impoverished and arranges for him publicly to marry a similar destitute and handicapped woman. The ceremony takes place, as would any normal Jewish marriage, under a chuppah. But this chuppah is set up in a cemetery—perhaps as a way of inviting the dead to participate in the simchah—and then the community showers the couple with gifts, including gifts of cash, in the hope that this great act of kindness towards the especially needy will somehow avert the plague.

To document his research, Brown uncovered an account of one of these “black weddings” that took place in Philadelphia in 1918 during the height of the Spanish flu epidemic. Citing from a contemporary newspaper account published in the Public Ledger of Philadelphia, Brown reports that one Fanny Jacobs and one Harold Rosenberg were married just behind the first row of graves in the Jewish cemetery near Cobbs Creek, Pennsylvania, on Friday afternoon on October 25, 1918. A certain Rabbi Lipschitz presided; a full thousand spectators showed up to witness the union. And then, to quote the newspaper story directly, “spectators filed solemnly past the couple and made them presents of money in sums from ten cents to a hundred dollars, according to the means and circumstances of the donor, until more than $1,000 had been given.” And the point of the operation was also made explicit in the newspaper account: so that “the attention of God be called to the affliction of their fellows if the most humble man and woman among them should join in marriage in the presence of the dead.”

Nor was this something invented on the spot to deal with the influenza epidemic. The earliest report of a shvartze chasaneh goes back to 1785, when one was performed in the presence of two of the greatest hasidic masters, Rabbi Elimelech of Lizhensk and Rabbi Yaakov Yitzchak Halevi Horowitz (the latter better known today as the Seer of Lublin), and was intended to address an outbreak of cholera. Brown reports that similar wedding ceremonies took place for orphaned teenagers in Jerusalem and Tzfat in 1865 during an infestation of locusts that threatened to destroy the food source for the entire country. (The picture is of the one in Jerusalem.) They must have been quite something to see, those ceremonies: the one in Jerusalem took place amidst the graves on the Mount of Olives and the one in Tzfat took place in the old Jewish cemetery there, where the chuppah was set up between the graves of Rabbi Isaac Luria and Rabbi Joseph Karo, each in his own way the spiritual leader of an entire generation of Jewish people. Other such ceremonies took place in Berdichev in 1866 and at Opatow in 1892, which town Joan and I actually visited last summer. 

The Philadelphia ceremony inspired at least one further attempt to ward off the flu epidemic: on November 11, 1918—the very day of the armistice that ended the war—a similar wedding was held in Winnipeg, duly reported in the Winnipeg Evening Tribune under the headline “Hebrews Hold Wedding of Death to Halt Flu.”

I do not think—at least not yet—that we should consider going this route at the current time with respect to COVID-19. But I do think that we could be inspired—and profoundly—by the idea that underlying our response to what could conceivably turn into a world-wide pandemic should be the same sense Jews of a different day had that one responds to the possibility of disaster by being kind and generous, by reaching out formally and publicly to the most needy, by focusing on the future and not solely on the calamity at hand, and by refusing to abandon our most basic values merely because we suddenly find ourselves negotiating straits that even a few months ago were unknown to any of us. The notion that the correct response to looming catastrophe lies in deeds of compassion and charity is very resonant with me personally. My plan for the moment is to wash my hands carefully and often, to leave the real decision making to the kind of public health experts who actually know what they are talking about, and to try to avert the worst by ramping up Joan and my gifts of charity to the poor and the most needy, and I encourage you to do the same!

[thebachelordiaries]

Clare seeks HIMBO: ‘The Bachelorette’ cast first impressions

The Covid-19 pandemic has been rough for the entire world, but Bachelor Nation faced some dark days too. Going eight months without a single new episode from The Bachelor franchise is something I would really like to not relive.

Fortunately, those dark days are over. Clare’s season has me sucked back in. 

The quality of this image is atrocious.

Most of these men—presuming they followed CDC’s social distancing guidelines— haven’t seen a woman in months, are touch deprived, possibly unemployed and contemplating moving back to their hometown while stalking the housing market on Zillow. Everyone’s desperate. That makes for some pretty good TV.

This season features men ranging from ages 26 to 41. We’ve got a boy band manager, a grooming specialist, several men who look like they masturbate in front of full length mirrors and even more who probably want me to join their MLM pyramid scheme. 

I’ve never been more ready to roast a bunch of men who have nightmares about going bald. It’s all I’ve wanted to do since March.

Let’s go:

AJ, 28, Software sales

AJ is the kind of guy who writes “Looking for the Pam to my Jim <3″ on his Bumble profile. His bio is generic and probably not reflective of who he is as a person. If I were Clare I’d swipe left.

Ben, 29, Army ranger veteran

“Ben's favorite indulgence is an ice bath.“ Well then.

Alexa, play “Run” by AWOLNATION.

Bennett, 36, Wealth management consultant

Bennett’s profile is the biggest red flag I’ve ever seen. This man says he is the total package but hasn’t always been "this successful and good looking.” But wait, there’s more: “According to Bennett, his high school girlfriend is the only girl he's ever had to work for.“

Can someone tell me what NYC neighborhood he lives in so I can blacklist it?

Blake M1, 31, Male grooming specialist

Blake’s just another stereotypical “29th round draft pick who sat on the bench of the practice team before getting cut, but claims he left the sport due to an injury on his own accord.” 

Blake M2, 29, Wildlife manager

This Blake is an outdoorsy Canadian who seems pretty genuine and cool. Unfortunately, he has the face of someone who’d get sent home on night one. I hope I’m wrong.

Brandon, 28, Real Estate Agent

Just another boring hot person. Nothing to see here.

Brendan, 30, Commercial roofer

Brandan, not to be confused for Brandon, “loves some good true crime, working out and hanging out with his friends.” I can’t even make fun of this man. We have the exact same interests. 

Chasen, 31, IT account executive

The Winklevoss twins are actually triplets and Chasen is their long lost brother. But more seriously, have you ever seen someone who looks more like their name than this man?

Chris, 27, Landscape design salesman

“Chris hopes to find a woman who is sharp and witty but also easygoing.” Chris, sweetheart, have you met Clare? Easygoing...? There’s still time back out of this before it’s too late.

Dale, 31, Former pro football wide receiver

Dale aggressively screams “Bachelor material.” I’d say he’s auditioning for that role but Matt James already scooped it up. Better luck next year, Daley.

Demar, 26, Spin cycling instructor

Demar is a “very popular spin instructor in Scottsdale and says he can get on that bike and spin to any beat thrown his way.” Imagine how many trophy wives Demar has f*cked? 

Eazy, 29, Sports marketing agent

Eazy is very similar to Dale on paper. Except his name is Eazy so he automatically loses that battle.

Ed, 33, Health care salesman

“Ed is looking to find a woman who has natural beauty without looking overly fake.” Ed deserves to die alone.

Garin, 34, Professor of Journalism

Garin’s bio is giving me hubby material vibes. And maybe a little bit of a “gets eliminated on night one” vibe too.

Ivan, 28, Aeronautical Engineer

Ivan, what are you doing here? We’re in a recession. Please go back to your normal job before it’s too late. 

Jason, 31, Former pro football linemen

“He is a former NFL offensive lineman who, after suffering too many concussions on the field, decided to prioritize his health and change the direction of his life.” A big, brawny HIMBO with CTE? I feel like he’s Clare’s type.

Jay, 29, Fitness director

There are too many things about Jay that I dislike and I’m trying to keep this brief. Jay says “it's time to take a break from worrying about others and focus on himself instead.” I am willing to bet money that this man has never made a woman c*m.

Jeremy, 40, Banker

Jeremy is the oldest contestant ever to come on "The Bachelorette,” which may seem like a monuments accomplishment but he’s literally only one year older than Clare. 

He also “hates Instagram models, both male and female,” so he should have a lot of fun here.

Joe, 36, Anesthesiologist

Before I even saw his profession and location, I thought Joe looked like a doctor I’d find on a NYC dating app...and...uh...I probably did see him on there now that I think about it.

Anyway, this man has apparently been through seven stages of hell while on the front lines fighting Covid-19 in NYC so I definitely think he deserves to find love. Someone marry him please.

Jordan C, 26, Software account executive

I can already tell Jordan is going to get the “I’m young but mature” edit which means he’s probably not going to be good TV.

Too bad someone a tad younger (like Tayshia) wasn’t the Bachelorette. I feel like they’d make a cute couple.

Jordan M., 30, Cyber security engineer

I was going to say something mean but Jordan’s into cyber security and I don’t want my blog to be deactivated, so never mind. Cast photos are historically bad so I’m sure he looks much better in real life.

Kenny, 39, Boy band manager

I could go for the obvious drags regarding this man’s profession (or his sh*tty chest tattoo, or his suspiciously boyish face relative to his age), but I like to think I’m more clever than that. 

I’d like to take this time to talk about men, who are obviously difficult people, who rant and rave about how they want an “easygoing” woman. Look into the mirror, bud. No, not the one you use to jerk off to your reflection; the mirror that looks into your soul. Out of respect for the rest of humankind, have some self-awareness. Or maybe just see a therapist.

Mike, 38, Digital media advisor

Mike is seemingly a decent catch, but I can’t help but wonder why he’s still single or how he never (accidentally or on purpose) impregnated a woman in his 38 years of life. 

And now that I’m thinking about it, do any of these men have children? I have yet to see any mention of it in their bios. But there are eight men left to review, so there’s still time.

Page, 37, Chef

I spoke too soon. Page is a father! He also hates football! I’m a fan of this man. I was initially going to drag him for his name and say that Page is not a real name. PAIGE is a real name. PAGE is a piece of paper. I’m allowed to say this because we have the same name except mine is spelled the correct way. Based on my (mostly positive) review of his cast bio, I have decided not to hold his name against him.

Riley, 30, Long Island City

Riley, once married with children, would like to go on a family vacation that consists of touring every single MLB stadium in the country. If i were his wife, I would simply never give this man children.

Robby, 30, Insurance broker

No more Robbys on The Bachelorette. Society has evolved past its need for more Robbys.

This Robby described his dream woman as: “Incredibly athletic and able to throw back a few beers with him after a day of hiking. She has a sweet personality and won't mind that he spends his Sundays on the golf course.”

Someone please give this man a sex doll. He just wants a hole.

Tyler C., 27, Lawyer

“Tyler C. is a badass lawyer who says he is a businessman by day and a cowboy by night.” How does that make him a lawyer? Does this mean he’s into cosplay? I’m confused.

Tyler S., 36, Music manager

Tyler makes an honorable living off riding his brother’s dick success as a country singer. “He just LOVES his job!” Uh yeah, I would too if I had a low-show, high-paying job off the merits of nepotism. It’s the American dream.

Yosef, 30, Medical device salesman

Another dad! He’s totally going to pull the “girl dad” narrative. That saying is kind of sexist to me but the masses generally eat it up, so I’m fairly confident Yosef will get the "sweet guy” edit he’s looking for.

Zac C., 36, Addiction specialist

“He loves Philadelphia sports and dreams of sharing a Philly Cheesesteak with his future wife while watching the Eagles win a Super Bowl.” This man is so South Jersey it hurts. 

On a more serious note, I don’t think anyone in recent history has spoken openly about their personal struggle with addiction on this show, so I hope Zac gets a chance to tell his story. 

Zach J., 37, Cleaning service owner

Zach is seemingly obsessed with Clare already and hopes to introduce her to his mom as his fiancée. Since Zach watched Clare on Juan Pablo’s season, you’d think he’d know that Clare would first meet his mom during the final four hometown dates. Assuming he makes it that far. My prediction is that he won’t.

Final thoughts

After eight long months Bachelor Mondays are back!!!

Uhh....wait.

Actually, we now have the less-exciting Bachelor Tuesdays. Yeah, it definitely doesn’t have the same ring to it. But I’ll take anything at this point.

Here are my final predictions:

First impression rose: Dale. It just looks like he can turn on the bullsh*t charm

Final rose: Jason. Clare wants a HIMBO I just know it.

Bachelor: nobody (Matt James is The Bachelor)

Most likely to get engaged on Bachelor in Paradise: Blake M2

Most likely to get canceled online: Bennett

Most likely to get sent home night one but deserve better: Chris

Who are your favorite men cast on this season?

[tainted-sentimientos]

Barack Obama’s DNC Speech

“Good evening, everybody. As you've seen by now, this isn't a normal convention. It's not a normal time. So tonight, I want to talk as plainly as I can about the stakes in this election. Because what we do these next 76 days will echo through generations to come.

I'm in Philadelphia, where our Constitution was drafted and signed. It wasn't a perfect document. It allowed for the inhumanity of slavery and failed to guarantee women -- and even men who didn't own property -- the right to participate in the political process. But embedded in this document was a North Star that would guide future generations; a system of representative government -- a democracy -- through which we could better realize our highest ideals. Through civil war and bitter struggles, we improved this Constitution to include the voices of those who'd once been left out. And gradually, we made this country more just, more equal, and more free.

The one Constitutional office elected by all of the people is the presidency. So at minimum, we should expect a president to feel a sense of responsibility for the safety and welfare of all 330 million of us -- regardless of what we look like, how we worship, who we love, how much money we have -- or who we voted for.

But we should also expect a president to be the custodian of this democracy. We should expect that regardless of ego, ambition, or political beliefs, the president will preserve, protect, and defend the freedoms and ideals that so many Americans marched for and went to jail for; fought for and died for.

I have sat in the Oval Office with both of the men who are running for president. I never expected that my successor would embrace my vision or continue my policies. I did hope, for the sake of our country, that Donald Trump might show some interest in taking the job seriously; that he might come to feel the weight of the office and discover some reverence for the democracy that had been placed in his care.

But he never did. For close to four years now, he's shown no interest in putting in the work; no interest in finding common ground; no interest in using the awesome power of his office to help anyone but himself and his friends; no interest in treating the presidency as anything but one more reality show that he can use to get the attention he craves.

Donald Trump hasn't grown into the job because he can't. And the consequences of that failure are severe. 170,000 Americans dead. Millions of jobs gone while those at the top take in more than ever. Our worst impulses unleashed, our proud reputation around the world badly diminished, and our democratic institutions threatened like never before.

Now, I know that in times as polarized as these, most of you have already made up your mind. But maybe you're still not sure which candidate you'll vote for -- or whether you'll vote at all. Maybe you're tired of the direction we're headed, but you can't see a better path yet, or you just don't know enough about the person who wants to lead us there.

So let me tell you about my friend Joe Biden.

Twelve years ago, when I began my search for a vice president, I didn't know I'd end up finding a brother. Joe and I came from different places and different generations. But what I quickly came to admire about him is his resilience, born of too much struggle; his empathy, born of too much grief. Joe's a man who learned -- early on -- to treat every person he meets with respect and dignity, living by the words his parents taught him: "No one's better than you, Joe, but you're better than nobody."

That empathy, that decency, the belief that everybody counts -- that's who Joe is.

When he talks with someone who's lost her job, Joe remembers the night his father sat him down to say that he'd lost his.

When Joe listens to a parent who's trying to hold it all together right now, he does it as the single dad who took the train back to Wilmington each and every night so he could tuck his kids into bed.

When he meets with military families who've lost their hero, he does it as a kindred spirit; the parent of an American soldier; somebody whose faith has endured the hardest loss there is.

For eight years, Joe was the last one in the room whenever I faced a big decision. He made me a better president -- and he's got the character and the experience to make us a better country.

And in my friend Kamala Harris, he's chosen an ideal partner who's more than prepared for the job; someone who knows what it's like to overcome barriers and who's made a career fighting to help others live out their own American dream.

Along with the experience needed to get things done, Joe and Kamala have concrete policies that will turn their vision of a better, fairer, stronger country into reality.

They'll get this pandemic under control, like Joe did when he helped me manage H1N1 and prevent an Ebola outbreak from reaching our shores.

They'll expand health care to more Americans, like Joe and I did ten years ago when he helped craft the Affordable Care Act and nail down the votes to make it the law.

They'll rescue the economy, like Joe helped me do after the Great Recession. I asked him to manage the Recovery Act, which jumpstarted the longest stretch of job growth in history. And he sees this moment now not as a chance to get back to where we were, but to make long-overdue changes so that our economy actually makes life a little easier for everybody -- whether it's the waitress trying to raise a kid on her own, or the shift worker always on the edge of getting laid off, or the student figuring out how to pay for next semester's classes.

Joe and Kamala will restore our standing in the world -- and as we've learned from this pandemic, that matters. Joe knows the world, and the world knows him. He knows that our true strength comes from setting an example the world wants to follow. A nation that stands with democracy, not dictators. A nation that can inspire and mobilize others to overcome threats like climate change, terrorism, poverty, and disease.

But more than anything, what I know about Joe and Kamala is that they actually care about every American. And they care deeply about this democracy.

They believe that in a democracy, the right to vote is sacred, and we should be making it easier for people to cast their ballot, not harder.

They believe that no one -- including the president -- is above the law, and that no public official -- including the president -- should use their office to enrich themselves or their supporters.

They understand that in this democracy, the Commander-in-Chief doesn't use the men and women of our military, who are willing to risk everything to protect our nation, as political props to deploy against peaceful protesters on our own soil. They understand that political opponents aren't "un-American" just because they disagree with you; that a free press isn't the "enemy" but the way we hold officials accountable; that our ability to work together to solve big problems like a pandemic depends on a fidelity to facts and science and logic and not just making stuff up.

None of this should be controversial. These shouldn't be Republican principles or Democratic principles. They're American principles. But at this moment, this president and those who enable him, have shown they don't believe in these things.

Tonight, I am asking you to believe in Joe and Kamala's ability to lead this country out of these dark times and build it back better. But here's the thing: no single American can fix this country alone. Not even a president. Democracy was never meant to be transactional -- you give me your vote; I make everything better. It requires an active and informed citizenry. So I am also asking you to believe in your own ability -- to embrace your own responsibility as citizens -- to make sure that the basic tenets of our democracy endure.

Because that's what at stake right now. Our democracy.

Look, I understand why many Americans are down on government. The way the rules have been set up and abused in Congress make it easy for special interests to stop progress. Believe me, I know. I understand why a white factory worker who's seen his wages cut or his job shipped overseas might feel like the government no longer looks out for him, and why a Black mother might feel like it never looked out for her at all. I understand why a new immigrant might look around this country and wonder whether there's still a place for him here; why a young person might look at politics right now, the circus of it all, the meanness and the lies and crazy conspiracy theories and think, what's the point?

Well, here's the point: this president and those in power -- those who benefit from keeping things the way they are -- they are counting on your cynicism. They know they can't win you over with their policies. So they're hoping to make it as hard as possible for you to vote, and to convince you that your vote doesn't matter. That's how they win. That's how they get to keep making decisions that affect your life, and the lives of the people you love. That's how the economy will keep getting skewed to the wealthy and well-connected, how our health systems will let more people fall through the cracks. That's how a democracy withers, until it's no democracy at all.

We can't let that happen. Do not let them take away your power. Don't let them take away your democracy. Make a plan right now for how you're going to get involved and vote. Do it as early as you can and tell your family and friends how they can vote too. Do what Americans have done for over two centuries when faced with even tougher times than this -- all those quiet heroes who found the courage to keep marching, keep pushing in the face of hardship and injustice.

Last month, we lost a giant of American democracy in John Lewis. Some years ago, I sat down with John and the few remaining leaders of the early Civil Rights Movement. One of them told me he never imagined he'd walk into the White House and see a president who looked like his grandson. Then he told me that he'd looked it up, and it turned out that on the very day that I was born, he was marching into a jail cell, trying to end Jim Crow segregation in the South.

What we do echoes through the generations.

Whatever our backgrounds, we're all the children of Americans who fought the good fight. Great grandparents working in firetraps and sweatshops without rights or representation. Farmers losing their dreams to dust. Irish and Italians and Asians and Latinos told to go back where they came from. Jews and Catholics, Muslims and Sikhs, made to feel suspect for the way they worshipped. Black Americans chained and whipped and hanged. Spit on for trying to sit at lunch counters. Beaten for trying to vote.

If anyone had a right to believe that this democracy did not work, and could not work, it was those Americans. Our ancestors. They were on the receiving end of a democracy that had fallen short all their lives. They knew how far the daily reality of America strayed from the myth. And yet, instead of giving up, they joined together and said somehow, some way, we are going to make this work. We are going to bring those words, in our founding documents, to life.

I've seen that same spirit rising these past few years. Folks of every age and background who packed city centers and airports and rural roads so that families wouldn't be separated. So that another classroom wouldn't get shot up. So that our kids won't grow up on an uninhabitable planet. Americans of all races joining together to declare, in the face of injustice and brutality at the hands of the state, that Black Lives Matter, no more, but no less, so that no child in this country feels the continuing sting of racism.

To the young people who led us this summer, telling us we need to be better -- in so many ways, you are this country's dreams fulfilled. Earlier generations had to be persuaded that everyone has equal worth. For you, it's a given -- a conviction. And what I want you to know is that for all its messiness and frustrations, your system of self-government can be harnessed to help you realize those convictions.

You can give our democracy new meaning. You can take it to a better place. You're the missing ingredient -- the ones who will decide whether or not America becomes the country that fully lives up to its creed.

That work will continue long after this election. But any chance of success depends entirely on the outcome of this election. This administration has shown it will tear our democracy down if that's what it takes to win. So we have to get busy building it up -- by pouring all our effort into these 76 days, and by voting like never before -- for Joe and Kamala, and candidates up and down the ticket, so that we leave no doubt about what this country we love stands for -- today and for all our days to come.

Stay safe. God bless.”

- Former President Barack Obama

To the decided:

To the undecided:

To the opposed:

[wholeanimal]

Quietly Shitty Men

“There is a specific type of person who will siphon the gas right from you because they’ve never learned how to shine their own light.” My ex is engaged.  That shouldn’t bother me, should it?  Oh, but it does.  It bothers me because I saw it coming.  Tell me, what makes a woman “crazy”? Is it when she follows her own instincts? Or is it when she suppresses them? Is she crazy for sensing something is wrong, or crazy for acting like it?  It would be one thing if this was someone new. Good luck and God bless.  It would be another if he said, at any point in the relationship, how he felt. That he was anxious or nervous or angry or scared or hurt or apprehensive or lost. You know, feelings.  I can’t blame a person for having feelings. Had he stepped up and said “you know what, I can’t stop thinking about my ex, I want to give it another try with her.”  That would have been fine. Not in the moment, but nine months later, I wouldn’t be feeling like this. Feeling like I’ve just clicked the last piece of the puzzle into place. 

It wasn’t me. It was, obviously, never me.  I wouldn’t still be putting myself back together after riding the world’s shittiest, least exciting roller coaster.  I wouldn’t be having nightmares that I was somehow still dating him, still subjected to his unfortunately not unique brand of emotionlessness and quiet disdain. Like I was the freak for feeling.  When things were really, truly over, that’s when I learned the most about who he was. I remember sitting at the kitchen counter, having a silent panic attack, wondering where I was going to live, what I was going to do, how I was going to make this all work. The pandemic and riots had hit my neighborhood hard, and I was trying to imagine starting life over when everything else was figuratively and literally crumbling.  Granted, I can’t remember the conversation word-for-word, but this is my best attempt.  “What’s going on?”  “Nothing, I’m just freaking out.” “Why?” “I have to move. I have to start over. I have to figure out so many things.” “Yeah, well...” “What?” “I just don’t know why you’re so upset.” “Are you fucking serious?” “Yeah. I don’t know why you have to have so many emotions.”  “Do you mean now, or in general?” “In general.” I was about ready to fly apart.

“You don’t...understand...why I have EMOTIONS?”  ”Yeah. I guess I just don’t see the point.” I don’t remember much after that. I remember going back upstairs and crying so hard I vomited. So much made sense: it wasn’t that he couldn’t empathize with me. It’s that he saw no value in it. Only his emotions were valid. Anything beyond that was simply not worth caring about. It was chilling, and nauseating, and heartbreaking. My heart broke many times over the course of the month I spent living there after we decided to part ways. I had several conversations like this, where I realized just how long I had been having a one-sided relationship. It also made me feel white-hot, clench-fisted RAGE. How DARE he?  NOTHING about his daily life would change. He would wake up in the same bed, go down the same set of stairs, putz around his merry fucking way. He wouldn’t have to spend a dollar or dime sorting out what came next. Me, on the other hand? I lost my job the same day I found my apartment.  I wanted to claw the paint from the walls I had meticulously restored. I wanted to splinter the floors I had paid to have refinished. I wanted to take all this hard work with me, somehow, to show that I had not truly given up everything. That I had something left. I’m not writing this for you to feel bad about me. I’m more than fine.  I’m not looking for words of encouragement. I don’t need them.  I want him, and other quietly shitty men, held accountable.  Nothing my ex did was actually abusive. It was juuuuust under the line, just enough for him to be able to walk away with his hands up, all “Guess it just didn’t work out!” And I know, I KNOW I’m not the only one.  He made me feel crazy and stupid and weak and small and pathetic. I contorted myself into impossible shapes, trying to make the relationship work. I did things he would never do, that I would never do again. I moved across the country. Twice.  I downplayed all the porn he watched. I pushed the fact that he had an active FetLife account out of my mind. I ignored my dealbreaker about being with a smoker - something he claimed he quit, then started up again in secret, then held against me when I called him out. Making me the bad guy.  It got so bad, I suspected I had R-OCD, or relationship-based OCD. That was my only explanation for how I was always so anxious and he was always so calm. It was MY fault that something felt off. He was aware of my tendency to blame myself, and used it against me. Then, he would get to be the patient, understanding boyfriend while I broke down again and again, hating myself for being so “weak.” I wasn’t weak. He was keeping me in the dark on purpose, because it was easier to do that than to, I don’t know, be fucking honest?! 

Every time I got really bent out of shape, when the little slights and coldness and disdain had built up to a breaking point, he would let me say (or scream) my piece, and respond: “You’re right.”  Wow. Thanks!  I see now that you don’t have to do much work on yourself when you just agree with the person who is upset with you.  I’m also not writing this to paint myself as an angel. Yes, I was frustrated and confused and upset, which came out in outbursts of tears and anger. But the difference is, I was trying to connect with him in everything I did.  He was trying to push me away. it dawned on me, during one of those horrible post-breakup conversations, that he had fully checked out many months ago. I finally asked him to define a phrase I had heard him use during couples counseling (another suggestion of mine). “What do you mean by ‘I’m deeply invested in your happiness?’” “What?” “Well, like an investment, do you mean time, money, emotions? Or do you just want me to be ok?” “Yeah, that.” “Ok. so you just want me to be “okay”.” I’ll take “Performative Allyship” for 200! I’ve told myself I should have known. Should have left sooner. Should-ing myself to death, sparing him from any fault. Remember, he’s the long-suffering partner of an overly sensitive woman. Another wince-worthy excerpt from couples counseling: Our therapist asked us, at the end of a session, to each tell the other something we loved about the other person. I turned, with tears in my eyes, and told him I appreciated how consistent he was. I was always able to count on him being stable and calm.  He told me he liked how nice and clean I kept the house.  Cool! He could have saved himself about six months of this bullshit if he had just spoken his mind. I wonder, now, if he even had the capacity. But no, he preferred to wait and let me figure it out on my own, until I was so depleted that I was having almost nonstop migraines. But, just like the sibling who can’t get into trouble because they’re “NOT ACTUALLY TOUCHING YOU!!!”, nothing he did was exactly abusive.  But it was plenty shitty.  Mr. Social Justice. Mr. Feminism. Mr. Don’t Comment On That Topic Or I’ll Shut Down Emotionally. Mr. We Have To Move Away From Montana For Vague Reasons Including Racial Tension Which I Never Actually Experienced But That’s Reason Enough For Me!  And when we got to Philadelphia, it was Mr. Why Don’t You Take More Walks Outside Even Though You Get Harassed and Followed? You’re In The House Too Much (Yeah, Even Though It’s a Pandemic).  He’d spend hours on the phone talking to the nurses he helped at work. But when a woman in need lived in his own house, ew, gross! Too close to home!  There’s a line in a very funny Chris Fleming song called the “Grad Student Shuffle”, which takes the absolute piss out of white male graduate students. A few of the lines apply, but these especially: Call yourself a community organizer Even though you’re not on speaking terms with your roommates! Stand tall and look mindful Even though you're addicted to porn! C'mon! Now close your eyes Say fair enough "Fair enough" Now you are doing the Grad Student Shuffle I’ve gone back and added to this post a bunch of times since I wrote it. I like having a record, even if it’s one-sided. I realize I’m writing this as much for myself as I am for anyone else. To put my story down somewhere, and not to be too concerned if it’s fair or balanced. What happened to me wasn’t fair or balanced.  Which reminds me of the worst confrontation we ever had.  It was just an hour or two after we decided to break up. It was a sad, but quiet conversation. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved. I went upstairs to let the new reality soak in, and asked if I could steal a puff from his vaporizer. Not weird, right? What was weird was that I felt like a guest in his room. We kept separate bedrooms, which I highly recommend to any couple who can spare the space. But there is a difference between having the option of separate spaces, and feeling relegated to separate spaces. I didn’t feel welcome in his room, and he made no secret of it.  So, as usual, I asked to go in.  He had left his laptop open on the bed, and I stared off into space as I waited for the vaporizer to heat. I must note, here, that I am not a person who digs. I will run circles in my own brain, but by and large, i leave stuff alone. So I didn’t go looking for what was already on the screen, which was a conversation between him and his best friend.  I read maybe a couple sentences before realizing, oops, probably shouldn’t. It was enough to see one exchange, less than two hours after we had officially broken up. “That sucks, man. How long do you think til you’ll be back on Tinder?” “I don’t know. Probably before she moves out.”  I’d like to say I don’t remember what happened next, but I do remember. I marched down two flights of stairs, yanked two giant plastic bins out of basement storage, and rage-packed everything I owned outside of my own room in less than ten minutes. 

He, of course, had no idea. Nuanced as a fucking turtle, he told me he was going out for a walk, and then asked if something was wrong.  I let him have it. Everything that had been building inside of my body came spewing out, all at once. I stumbled over my own words, laughing-crying-screaming-asking him what the fuck he was thinking, who the fuck he was, and what the fuck was this relationship? Was any of it even REAL?  He had nothing to say.  And that, my friends, was my main mistake. Thinking anything I could ever do could ever get a reaction out of him. Could ever draw the sort of love or support or attention that I used to get from him, before he decided to turn off the tap. 

I spent another month there until I could finally move out. I could tell he was annoyed that I was still there. I remember telling him people aren’t disposable. They don’t disappear when you decide you’re done with them. Thirty days was the absolute minimum I could manage, and even that was an incredible feat.  He asked me to watch the dog, the one he adopted only a couple of months before, while he went out. I remember thinking, “Am I watching this animal so he can go out on dates? No fucking way.” I still don’t know, and I’m glad I don’t. 

He’s not the only quietly shitty guy. There are many. I’m sure bunches of them are being congratulated on their engagements or promotions right now, by people who have never dated them. Have never had the soul-wrenching realization that oh, this person who told you you were their dream and their angel and their moon and stars actually decided like a year ago that they just weren’t feeling it and didn’t have the balls to tell you.  But, feel free to question reality in the meantime! 

Women reading this, beware. There are men who hold up their hands and shrug and say shit like “I wish her the best” and know to use phrases like “emotional labor” to fake enough self-knowledge to start a relationship that they don’t know how to finish.  I encourage you to ask questions. Find out how much they know about themselves. How long their relationships tend to last. If their friends really know them. If they change jobs frequently. If they move states frequently, and why.  But most of all, know yourselves. Know that you deserve to have your questions answered, your emotions validated, and your opinions heard. There are plenty of quietly shitty men to choose from.  You don’t need to choose one. 

[losersclubbitches]

Cuddles After a Long Day Is Just How Much I Love You

It had been a long day for Freddy Freeman. First, he’d missed the bus and had to have his foster parents drive him to school, making them all late, then, he’d forgotten his lunch and couldn’t eat and then passed out in gym class. The nurse couldn’t get in touch with his foster parents and he’d had to go back to class. He’d forgotten his homework on his desk at home and another was completely destroyed by his shitty bullies. His whole awful day was topped off by those same bullies, Martin and his goons, hanging him by his underwear from the hook on the bathroom stall and dumping old lunch foods on his head. He’d just finally gotten down when the janitor came to clean the bathroom half an hour after school had ended. Freddy had missed the school bus home and had to take the city bus back. Subconsciously, he realized he’d been going not to his own house, but his best friend’s. He got off seven stops past his own, at 30th, and walked the five minutes; which took him ten on account of his leg, to Billy’s house.

Billy Batson had been Freddy’s friend for as long as he could remember. They were in the same first house together until the parents turned out to be abusive. Both boys were moved to separate houses but went to the same school up until just last semester. Billy was probably the only person Freddy trusted with everything. Just as he was knocking on the door to Billy’s house, his decrepit backpack broke not only at the shoulder straps, but at the bottom, too. The backpack fell from his shoulders and dumped his books on the ground. Freddy’s bottom lip quivered and he broke down on the front doorstep of Billy’s house. He heard the door open and looked up, tears streaming down his face.

“Freddy? What are you doing here?” Billy’s foster mom, Rosa, asked. “It’s freezing outside!”

“I...I...I.” Freddy couldn’t form a proper sentence.

“Oh, honey. Come inside. I’ll get you a cup of hot cocoa and call Billy, okay?” Rosa offered, leaning down to pull Freddy up. Freddy grabbed his books and crutch and let her help him inside.

“Ok-kay.” The tears were slowing now, but his voice still shook. Rosa sat him on the couch and went to the kitchen to boil hot water.

“Why don’t you go take a shower while the water boils, okay?” she suggested, handing Freddy a towel from the closet and taking his coat.

“Thank you.” Freddy took the towel and headed upstairs to shower. When he was done, he changed in Billy’s room, grabbing pajamas that were his from the last time he’d stayed over and one of Billy’s hoodies. Freddy dressed himself and tugged on the hoodie, breathing in the scent of pure Billy. He got back downstairs to find Rosa on the phone.

“Billy, amor, Freddy’s here,” she spoke to the person on the other line as Freddy walked into the kitchen. “Okay. Okay. Just be safe, alright? I love you. Bye.” She gave Freddy a mug of hot chocolate with seven mini marshmallows. “Billy’s on patrol right now, but he said he’ll be home soon,” she informed.

“Thank you, Rosa,” Freddy expressed, blowing on the cocoa slightly.

“Of course, sweetheart. You’re always welcome here.” Rosa kissed his forehead and left the room. Billy had told Victor and Rosa about him being Philadelphia’s newest hero after he and his foster siblings had disappeared to fight Sivana. His parents were super cool about it as long as the kids got their homework done and came back safe and sound from patrol. Freddy hadn’t told his own parents for fear they might make him stop hanging out with Billy. Freddy sat on the couch, history textbook open and jotting down notes as he carefully sipped his hot chocolate. Seconds later, Billy was running down the stairs(he’d probably flown through the window in his room), jumping over the bump step, sliding across the floor, and skidding to a halt in front of the couch.

“Freddy! I wasn’t expecting you today!” he exclaimed before he saw Freddy’s downtrodden face and ripped backpack. “Wh-what’s wrong?” Billy sat down next to Freddy and pulled the boy into his arms. Freddy relayed everything that had happened to him throughout the day and Billy just nodded, taking in the information.

“Oh, Freddy, I’m sorry that happened to you. Want me to kick their asses?” Billy spoke when Freddy had finished his ramble.

“No. They’ll just hurt you,” Freddy replied.

“Aww. Even when you’re having a bad day, you’re worried about me,” Billy cooed, holding Freddy’s hand and rubbing his thumb over the knuckles. “I’ll be fine. I can handle myself.” He brought Freddy’s hand up to his lips and kissed each knuckle in turn.

“Please just don’t do anything stupid, Billy,” Freddy urged. “I can’t have you getting in trouble because of me.”

“Mmm.” Billy kissed his cheek. “But I’d love to get in trouble defending your honor.”

“You wouldn’t be defending much,” Freddy refuted, looking down solemnly. Billy reached out and cupped Freddy’s face, making the boy look at him.

“Hey. Freddy, you’re the most important person in the world to me and if it takes all night, I will make you believe it,” Billy insisted. Freddy laughed, looking into the emerald green eyes of his best friend, his lover.

“I have to get home at some point. Mark and Junie will freak if I’m gone for too long,” Freddy replied.

“I don’t care. You’re mine now and forever,” Billy declared, leaning forward and capturing Freddy’s lips. One hand was still cupping Freddy’s face, thumb running along the boy’s cheekbone, and the other balancing himself against the cushions of the couch. They kissed; softly, yet passionately, for a moment before pulling away to take a breath.

“Forever,” Freddy repeated, resting his forehead against Billy’s.

“Got any homework to work on?” Billy asked, nudging his nose against his boyfriend’s.

“Yeah. A bit.” Billy pulled away reluctantly and went back to his room to grab his own books. When he got back, he was carrying two backpacks, his own and a spare which he handed to Freddy.

“Here. For your books.”

“Thanks.” Freddy’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, seeing the face of his foster father show up on the screen. He answered it. “Hello?”

“Freddy, where are you? You were supposed to be here over an hour ago!” Mark exclaimed, clearly concerned. Freddy checked the time. It was nearly 5:30. He’d gotten off of school at 3:30, been stuck in the bathroom until 4:00 and got to Billy’s house at around 4:45. The school bus should have dropped him off at home around 4:15.

“Sorry. I got stuck at school and then accidentally took the bus to Billy’s house. I was hoping I could stay the night?” Freddy answered.

“Is it okay with Billy’s parents?” Mark asked. Freddy looked to Billy, who nodded.

“Yep. They said I’m welcome any time,” Freddy relayed.

“Alright. Just make sure you catch the right bus tomorrow for school and you thank them for letting you stay,” Mark reminded.

“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mark.”

“I love you, Freddy.”

“I love you, too.” With that, Freddy hung up, looking to Billy, who was smirking.

“What?” he asked. Billy didn’t answer. “What you dork?”

“Nothing. I love you.” Billy’s tone was teasing and Freddy laughed.

“What, you never loved your parents?”

“No, it’s just nice to see you get a family you deserve,” Billy chimed, smiling his signature smile that made Freddy’s heart melt.

“You got one, too, dummy,” Freddy refuted, cheeks heating up as he shoved Billy’s shoulder.

“We both did,” Billy replied, grabbing Freddy’s hand and pulling him close. Freddy rested his head on Billy’s shoulder, taking in his distinctive smell. He couldn’t exactly describe the smell as anything other than home.

“I love you, Billy Batson,” Freddy whispered into his boyfriend’s neck. Billy turned his head to kiss Freddy’s curls.

“I love you, too, Freddy Freeman.”

@freddyfreebat, @lyrics-poems-other-musings, @httpgrazer, @toesure, @heartislubbingdubbing, @billiesbatsons, @maggotqu33n

[mechadress]

Saw a literary challenge to write about one of your average days in quarantine. They picked Tuesday May 12th. Since all of my days keep blending together, I thought it would help me set a benchmark for how I handled quarantine. So here it is-

May 12th 2020,

My alarm goes off at 7am. I roll over to turn it off and promptly go back to sleep. This was a normal practice even before the world shut down. I don't have set hours at work, but I prefer to start around 8am. Since my work computer is only across the apartment, the motivation to wake up before I absolutely have to is extremely low.

8am rolls around and I can't bring myself to leave the bed yet. It all seems so pointless as no one seems to care what hours I keep and I don't have any early morning meetings. I scroll through Facebook and Tumblr on my phone, I check my email more times than I really need to, and pet whichever cat is closest, usually Sierra. I find a post from a page that I follow that talks about Victorian parlor games and I share it to the Steampunk group I administer. There hasn't been much content in the group for awhile. I wonder if it's because steampunk isn't as popular as it once was or if no one has anything to say. It gets a few likes and one 'Care' emoji. I think it's because it indicates that people miss hanging out together.

Around 8:15 I need to use the toilet, which is enough to get me out of bed and sign into my work computer. CY yells out from his work station at the living room table to remind me to buy the camper table and a spray bottle he wanted for grilling. I order them from Amazon and feel guilty about getting nonessential items in the middle of a pandemic. I spend the first few hours of work scrolling through FB or Tumblr and knitting. While I knit I watch an hour and half long youtube video from ContraPoints about different types of second-hand embarrassment or 'cringe'. I identify a lot with what she says.

I am knitting a pair of socks simply because I have the yarn and I've never done it before. I tested out the gauge to make sure I had the right sized needles and I do. They are long dpns that were given to me by CY's mother once she realized I enjoyed knitting. Apparently she used to knit as well, but it would hurt her hands so she gave up on it. I had tried to use the dpns as intended, even looking up a video and practicing a few times, but I kept dropping stitches and getting annoyed with them. I eventually decided to order a circular needle from Amazon to use instead. I felt very guilty about this since there's all sorts of post-people and delivery people out there who are at risk moving all these boxes around, and here I'm ordering a stupid pair of needles that are a duplicate size to ones I own, but I just don't want to use. The circular needles are extremely nice and easy to work with and it is a pleasure to knit the socks. I still use the dpns as a stitch holder while I knit the heel. Today I'm connecting the insole and knitting along the foot. It's easy and enjoyable work especially after already completing the first sock.

I eat a prepackaged ube cake while I drink my tea and appreciate the nice pairing of flavors.

I feel bad about not getting more of my actual work done. However, I can't bring myself to concentrate on anything related to work. I keep moving my mouse around every 10 or so minutes so it looks like I'm active.

An old D&D friend of mine named Sam posts on FB about how he is proud of his company for continuing to let people work from home despite Ohio loosening some of the Stay at Home restrictions. I reply "We were told to expect to work from home until at least August. I'm grateful since it's one less thing to think about." Sam and I go back a forth a bit more, expressing gratitude and an interest in meeting up again once its safe. It's the first I've interacted with him in about 5 years and it makes me glad to hear from him.

I start lunch early because I don't have anything better to do. For lunch I make myself and CY a sandwich. We have some really good Italian bread we got from the grocery store that we can make into a decent replica of a Philadelphia style hoagie. I already chopped up the veggies so I can just take them out of the fridge and start layering them on. CY likes his sandwich with mayo and turkey. I don't like handling either of those things, but it's easy enough. I make his first then make a veggie version for myself. We use the new hoagie oil which isn't as bad as I had originally feared, but it isn't as good as the name brand one we had before. Pity they were out of it at the store when we went.

My 2019 tax refund from Ohio lands into my investment account. I plan to use it to invest in assorted stocks I feel will bounce back once the economy recovers.

After lunch I watch a few more youtube videos while I knit. One is a career review of the one-hit wonder band 'Living in a Box' and another is a recording of 'the world's worst singer' Florence Foster Jenkins. I had found an article that talked about people who had a medical condition which made them unable to percieve how poorly they performed a skill. In her case, she was a renowned as a very poor singer who believed she was very good and people would come to watch her ironically. I try to watch a congressional hearing where they discuss the health crisis with Dr. Fauci, but it's too depressing so I stop.

My anxiety related to work continues to grow. I figure that I'm not able to bring myself to do any investigation on my own, but I'm still able to ask people questions. I reach out through Skype to a colleague who I believe had worked with this business group before. I am surprised by how helpful she is and how quickly she is to respond. We get on a call and she shows me some reporting she did that is similar and directs me towards a table she thinks would have the values I'm looking for. She recommends another colleague to talk to and I schedule a meeting with him for the next day since he was busying for the rest of today. I feel instantly better. My anxiety about my work plummets and I find the energy and motivation to start investigating another task I've been given. I quickly find 1) the task was way easier than I initially estimated and 2) the data I want isn't available where I thought it would be. I even find out a new way to pull code out of Tableau and I excitedly share my discovery with another colleague. Around this time it's getting close to 4pm, my usual time to stop working and just become available for questions, should anyone need to reach out to me. I feel better about myself and allow myself to take more pleasure in my activities.

I start to prepare for the online D&D game I host each week, Tuesdays at 7:30pm. One of my favorite things about quarantine is that it's given me the time and ability to play again. I've missed having a regular D&D game badly. We had a very good game the previous week and I'm excited to make new material for this new game. I decide to include a villain who is a Banksia Man, one of the anatognists from the Australian fairy-tale Snugglepot and Cuddlepie. CY had helped me over the weekend come up with a cool backstory for him. I take notes and save some pictures so I can display them to my players through screen share.

A group of our friends are doing a Plank Challenge while we try to stay in shape while in quarantine. Colette set up a FB group with a list of exercises to do for 13 days. Each day, you do your assigned exercise then you post to the group to indicate you completed your day's tasks. CY and I made a point to work out for a bit each day after work and were already doing a fair amount of planks so the challenge as it was written was too easy for us. We tend to double the amount of time for each exercise or we double up the reps. My tasks for today are 30 seconds each of planks, rocking planks, hip dips, and up downs. I do all the exercises straight through twice with a short break in between sets then post to FB in the group.

After doing planks, CY and I go out to a nearby park to walk for a bit. We go for about 2.5 miles. It's a nice day, nearly 60 degrees. I am happy to see wild flowers starting to sprout up and the leaves coming back to the trees. Most people in the park are polite and keep their distance. It's rare to see people wearing masks while they are walking or running, so it almost feels normal.

We make it back with enough time for me to start getting my notes ready for game. CY offers to make me food and asks what I'd like to eat. We had just gone to Trader Joe's the weekend before and gotten a truly ridiculous amount of frozen food. He insists I pick something from the freezer to eat. In the end we decide he'll cut up the jackfruit crab cakes and make them into 'seafood tacos'. He even makes some sriracha ranch to go with it. The crab cake is surprisingly greasy, but it's very tasty and filling. Not sure I'd get it again though.

I go into the gaming group call and we quickly realize that only Gene and Aaron are going to be able to join game. We don't think it will be enough to continue the campaign I prepared for so I offer to do a one-shot just for them. I show them a cute rpg I found awhile ago called 'Fuck! It's Dracula' and we give it a shot. We have fun but I feel a bit unprepared since I have to ab lib most of the plot and come up with secret plans on the fly so they can be betrayed by their NPCs. The game is much shorter than I initially anticipated and we finish up around 9:30pm, much earlier than normal. I don't feel like Aaron and Gene enjoyed this game as much as they would have enjoyed the larger campaign I made, but at least we got to play together for a bit. I appreciate the social contact at the very least.

We dismiss ourselves from game and I join CY on the couch. He is watching some cooking tutorial videos, trying to teach himself how to smoke brisket properly. I go back and forth between different apps on my phone, not really paying attention to the TV. I try to read for a bit, but we eventually settle down to sleep before I get very far. I feel good about how the day went and I'm proud of myself for getting work done on the sock and researching my projects. I feel better about my life than I did when I first woke up this morning.

[theentiregdtime]

mac buys a motorcycle.

PHILADELPHIA, PA 11:15 ON A MONDAY

"Come on, it's badass, dude! I thought you'd be excited! It's like I'm Ghost Rider and you're- Wait, no, it's like I'm Michael Carrington and you're Stephanie Zinoni!"

"... I'm Stephanie Zinoni."

"Yeah, man, but not like, because of the romance and stuff, because of the motorcycle!"

"That's not even the original, Mac, why is that your first thought-"

"Because I am no ordinary boy, Dennis. I am now a rider... that's cool."

Dennis pinches the bridge of his nose.

Mac assumes it must be because of the mid-morning sun or a hangover or a migraine, not that he's annoyed- because there's no way he could possibly be annoyed with this. It's basically the best thing that's ever happened to them.

One Mac Mcdonald is now the proud owner of an actual, working, not-stolen, bought-with-real-life-money motorcycle. Sure, it's a little... antique and... rustic... and some of those other words people on fixer-upper shows use to describe garbage. But it was cheap and it runs and Mac kinda sorta mostly knows how to ride it- and that's enough for him.

"This is why we never have money for the goddamn groceries, Mac-"

"Dennis, Dennis..." Mac holds out his palms like he's trying to steady a spooked horse, "I didn't take it out of our account."

"Then how- You know what?" Dennis flits a dismissive hand through the air. "I don't care, I don't want to know."

This isn't exactly playing out how Mac had pictured it in his head. He'd tossed in bed for hours last night fantasizing about rolling up on his bike, leaving a trail of gravel and skid marks in his dust. Then Dennis sees him and his jaw drops just before his mouth curves into that big, disbelieving smile, and he thinks Mac's just as cool as Country Mac was (God rest his soul) and he hops on and they speed off and Dee and Frank and Charlie are so jealous and-

It's not going like that at all.

But he could fix this!

Mac curves his eyebrows up into a knot and pouts his lips, staring Dennis down without so much as blinking. Dude could act frustrated all he wanted, but he never said no the puppy dog eyes.

Dennis folds his arms across his chest, lowers his shoulders, and visibly softens. This is working...

"So you want me to ride it with you?" he asks quietly and matter-of-factly, all of the sting gone from his voice.

"Uh-huh."

"And you expect me to sit on the... the bitch seat of this Mad-Maxian death trap?"

"Oh," Mac chirps. "Well, if you're scared, then you don't have to-"

"I am not-!" Dennis steels himself, glaring at the triumphant grin on Mac's lips. His tone is calm when he speaks again. "I am not scared. That's absurd. I am a very impetuous man when I want to be."

Mac simply shrugs. He has no idea what that means, but it sounds like a yes, so he'll take it.

"Then prove it," he teases, turning back to the motorcycle.

Mac knocks the kickstand off the ground with his boot and throws his leg over the seat. He grips the handlebars, just clenching them in his hands, squeezing until his knuckles turn white. Taking a deep, full breath, he revels in this moment. Sure, he was already badass before, but on this thing, he's like fucking Maverick in Top Gun. It's an incredible feeling-

Until Dennis' damn reptilian monster claws dig into his shoulder blades.

"You're supposed to put your arms around me, dude," -Mac clicks his tongue in chastising disapproval- "so you don't fall off and get, like, shredded."

"I am not a goddamn wedge of parmesan cheese, Mac, I will not be shredded by anything," -he slackens his already loose grip- "and it's humiliating enough I have to sit behind you like I'm an aging Harrison Ford, I'm not going to wrap my arms around you."

Mac sighs through his nose in quiet annoyance, like he's dealing with a bratty child (because he essentially is), and revs the engine just once. "Fine, but I'm not paying your hospital bills when you get, and I repeat, shredded."

"I'm skeptical that you could."

Eh, that's fair. He'll let him have that one.

"And aren't you going to put on a helmet?" Dennis keeps rambling. "You do remember how this ended for your cousin, right? And he was certainly better at this than you."

Mac suppresses a grumble in his throat.

"Oh, sure, Dennis," he scoffs, "and while I'm at it, why don't I just slap a sticker on my head that says pussy?"

There are- finally- no more protests after that.

Good.

The motorcycle gets going with a bit of a struggle, sputtering like a kinked hose, but once it's off, it's off. The streets are uncharacteristically empty, giving the bike a lot of room to swerve and move around- not that Mac needs to, he knows how to work it! After a couple of twists and turns through Philly, once he really gets a feel for the thing, Mac starts gunning it and blatantly disobeying all posted road signs. He's not sure how far over the limit he's going, but it's hard not to speed when there's no one on the road. The few cars he does pass, he weaves in and out of and drifts around, earning himself a few frustrated honks in the process. They're just jealous of how cool he looks with his boy-

His boy. His guy. His dude. Bro. Buddy. Den. Dennis. Dennis Reynolds. His friend.

"You're going to get me killed, you know!" Dennis, think of the devil, shouts over the sickly cough of the struggling engine.

Mac can't figure out why the hell Dennis is so stressed out. It's not as if they're going to take a wrong turn and careen off the edge of the Grand Canyon, they're in fucking Philadelphia. Worst case scenario, they'll ram into some bozo's car, tip over, and walk away with a couple of scrapes and road rashes.

Not that that's going to happen.

He's definitely holding on now, though. Each time they pick up a little speed or take a sudden corner, Dennis curls against his back like an agitated cat, hands clutching fistfuls of Mac's tee shirt and grinding into his sides. Den is all knobby bones and sharp knees and jagged edges, but Mac doesn't mind- he's gotten used to it over the course of... basically their entire lives. He's never minded. Not in high school when they crashed together under the bleachers, not during movie nights at their apartment, not getting brownout drunk in the same side of a booth at the bar, and definitely not now. He figures some people would probably find being prodded in the backside like this unpleasant, but it's just... just Dennis. It's familiar.

"It's not- not that I'm scared or anything! I just think everyone would be a lot happier if you slowed down a little!"

"I don't know, that sounds pretty scared to me, man!" Mac yells back as sharp fingernails burrow into his ribcage. He likes the way it feels, like God himself cracking the rib of Adam in his hands to set the world in motion.

"It's not about that, it's about obeying the goddamn traffic laws so you don't end up with a ticket that I have to pay out of our- my bank account!"

Mac pretends not to hear him. Maybe if Dennis would just shut up and enjoy the wind in his hair, he wouldn't be so testy. He can't figure out what the big deal is. Dennis hadn't been upset last night. He was sober (not totally sober, that would be dangerous, but mostly), took a long shower before bed, did his nightly skincare routine, sat across the sofa from Mac while they watched Food Network, complained about every single dish even though he himself almost never cooked or ate, fell asleep with his head flush against a throw pillow and his balmed lips slightly parted as he breathed softly-

Stoplight! They're at a stoplight!

Mac hits the brake hard to avoid rear-ending the car in front of him, which sends him lurching forward. As he sways, two ridgid hands clamp onto either side of his head and a sharp, anxious breath is drawn behind him.

What...?

He glances back at Dennis over his shoulder, brow tense with confusion. Before he can ask him what's up, he's struck by the gentle look of concern on his face, by the teeth rolling over his lip as he tentatively lowers his hands back down, by the way all of his edges go soft...

Oh.

Oh.

Oh!

"Oh my God, Den, are you worried about me?" Mac slaps a hand on the bike in surprise. "Dennis, that is so sweet, dude!"

"Well..." Dennis swallows a lump, avoiding direct eye contact. His hands are pulled back now, resting on his own thighs instead of around Mac. "If you die, we both die, so... I simply have my best interest in mind."

A long moment passes between them, neither moving back into position or saying anything more. Mac watches a bead of sweat roll down Dennis' forehead, watches him lick his chapped lips, watches him like he's the only fucking person in the whole entire world because, to Mac, he-

Some dick is honking at him. Asshole. He could just go around or whatever!

"You want to head back to the bar, man?" Mac asks sympathetically, like he's asking him if he needs medicine for a headache or a warm blanket.

Dennis doesn't answer immediately.

Then the jerk behind them honks again.

"Would you-" Dennis does a one-eighty, then whirls back to Mac. "Yes, I would like to go home and get away from," -he waves a hand in the car's direction- "this rude man who honks!"

And just like that they're back to normal... which is kind of a relief. Totally normal. Just hanging out. That's a good thing.

Mac repositions himself and starts back towards the bar, slower this time, at what he guesses is a reasonable speed. He has no idea, honestly, but he's pretty sure he's supposed to go faster than the cars because the bike is smaller. That makes sense to him.

Dennis' hands are no longer jabbing into him like a couple of Swiss army knives with all of the tools loose. They aren't exactly around him, either, but they're definitely on him. They're trained at either side of his torso, not hesitant in any way, just there. One of Dennis' fingers is drumming against his rib, presumably to some song he's got stuck in his head. His breath is steady on the back of Mac's tousled hair and, every once in a while, at a stop, he adjusts and Dennis' chest and thighs brush up against his back- just for a second.

Mac will never admit that he takes the long way back to the bar.

By the time they return, he figures it must be about half past noon. The middle of the day on a Monday isn't exactly a busy time for them. No one is really drinking (themselves excluded, of course), so hopefully Dee and Charlie won't nag about where they've been and how they haven't worked all morning. Then Dennis would get annoyed and probably never do this again.

They'll probably never do it again, anyways. He is not Michael Carrington and Dennis is not Stephanie Zinoni.

Mac hangs back for a minute after Dennis hops off and heads into the bar, muttering something about how he has to go fix his hair and reminding Mac to pick the bugs out of his teeth- the ones that weren't already there before.

They're back to normal. That's a good thing. It's definitely a good thing.

He drifts off thinking about that scene where Michelle Pfeiffer somehow climbs around onto the front of the motorcycle and flips her hair and blocks the view, but it doesn't matter because the road is empty and they're together and they're in love, and Dennis is kissing him and he doesn't even complain about the metal prodding into his back and bruising his pale skin because he just wants to kiss Mac that badly and-

He's going to have to say some Hail Marys later for that one.

Mac isn't sure how many he has to say to repent for how badly he wants Dennis' hands in his hair again. If he asks a priest, he'll have to confess to it out loud, so he'll just guess. Maybe there aren't enough breaths in him to make up for the things that he feels. Maybe he'll have to pay in the afterlife instead.

The bike is still worth every Hail Mary, and every penny.

[everlarkbirthdaygifts]

Happy Birthday, niceworksherlock!

Today, we wish Happy Birthday to @niceworksherlock! We hope you had a wonderful day, and celebrated in style! To keep your party going a little while longer, the lovely @mega-aulover has written a story just for you!

FOR: @niceworksherlock

PROMPT: I would love something sweet, no angst, maybe a bit of arranged marriage?

A/N: Happy birthday, Niceworksherlock! I hope you have a wonderful day. I hope I did the prompt justice, I  took your prompt and added a little bit of one my favorite movie a White Christmas...hope you can spot the scene. Special thanks to my beta @booksrockmyface

Rated: G

Special Delivery

Katniss stood on the platform of the train station waiving to Annie. Taking a deep breath, she was next to leave. Miss Effie classified her as Special Delivery.  Katniss was to travel first class all the way to Ohio.

She was glad to be leaving the complicated city life for a chance to start over as a mail order bride. It didn't feel  real. Less than a year ago she and her family had migrated to the United States from a tiny province in Europe that was no more.

She'd experienced so much death and violence. They left their country of Panem because of civil war. They arrived New York and, almost immediately, her father became ill and died. Soon afterwards, her sister and mother succumbed.

Penniless,  she ended up working in a factory  ten hours a day, six days a week. Those first few weeks by herself were the hardest. She lived on the streets until she met Annie at the factory. Together they scrimped all of their money to pay for a room. It was Annie who first saw the ad in the papers for Miss Effie's School For Refinement of Young Ladies. The ad promised at the end of the course young women would be matched in marriage with an eligible well-to-do husband. At first Katniss wanted no part of it, but Annie begged and pleaded. On a  bright Sunday morning, their day off, they schlepped all the way  from the slums of Brooklyn to Hamilton Heights, in Manhattan. 221B Baker Street was an ornate elegant brownstone townhouse. Katniss wore her best dress and so did Annie.

Miss Effie was the most unique woman Katniss had ever met.  She dressed in the Regency style but her dresses were bright, loud concoctions; her hats were filled with birds, nests, twigs, and leaves to reflect the season. Miss Effie spoke English like no one else and she was a great stickler for manners. But she did provide Katniss and Annie a great education. Katniss learned how to read, write and do numbers. Miss Effie prepared them for marriage and everything in between, from how to cook outside to how to cook in the most expensive kitchens using the most expensive ingredients to the simplest. Three months later they  graduated, Miss Effie had kept her bargain. Annie was betrothed to a gentleman from the Bayou region. Katniss was going to Ohio. She watched the train leave with an Annie on it, before turning to find her own train.

Miss Effie gifted each one of her students a trunk full of clothing. Katniss only had two garments: her day-to-day garment that she wore  to work in and her best outfit she wore to Miss Effie’s school. Her garments were simple and well-worn since she had sold everything after her family's death to settle accounts and to provide them with proper burials. Miss Effie's gift was generous, it included a corset, two pairs of knit stockings and a pair of silk stocking, garters, green ribbon, two shifts, four petticoats, four aprons, three gowns, and a proper bonnet. She'd never had dresses before or one of the new corsets, she'd only had worn stays.

Katniss presented her ticket and was dashed away to a private compartment. Katniss had never seen such opulence. This was going to be her home for the next few days until she had to change trains again.

Sitting down, she took out the letter from her reticule. She hoped her husband was kind as the letter promised he would be.

His name was Peeta Mellark and Katniss hoped they would be compatible. She clutched the letter in her hand. She was married by proxy Peeta’s older brother, Degory, stood in Peeta’s stead since Peeta lived in a remote region of Ohio. Degory described his brother as average height and stocky. He said Peeta had the trademark blonde wavy hair and blue eyes of their family. He gave her a picture and he was in her eyes handsome. Katniss clutched the picture.  Hope bloomed in her heart. She wanted peace and the West offered it. She couldn't wait to meet her new husband in less than a fortnight's time.

Two Weeks Later:

“You what?” Peeta exclaimed. His partner Haymitch Abernathy didn't flinch at his outburst. The man calmly slid his hand into his pockets.

“We got you a bride and she'll be here on the next stagecoach. She's travelled all the way from New York...special delivery,” Haymitch reiterated. He sat back in his chair as if waiting for Peeta to explode.

Peeta shook his head, dumbfounded, “I'm sorry, you what?”

“Now don't be acting dumb boy you know perfectly well what I said,” Haymitch said, scraping back his chair. He unfolded from the chair slowly.

Peeta couldn't believe what he had just heard. It was too early in the day for this. He hadn't even had his tea. “When you mean we, who is we?”

“Degory and I.”

Peeta should have known that his meddling eldest brother would be involved somehow. If his brother was involved that meant his mother was involved as well. Looking at Haymitch dead straight in the eyes he said, “No.”

“I knew you would say something like that so here…” Haymitch slid the marriage license onto the table.

He was angry and his hands shook as he picked up the the paper. Her name was written on it, but he was so upset he couldn't read straight. “This is the most boneheaded...how could you have done this Haymitch? With my brother!” Peeta yelled. He wasn't one for yelling or screaming. Normally he had a temperate personality, but when he got mad he tended to lose it and, if necessary, he was known for throwing a few things.

“Son your brother and I did the best thing for you. A man out here shouldn't be alone.”

Peeta wasn't dead set against getting married. He hoped one day to be able to meet a girl, fall in love and eventually propose. What his brother and Haymitch did bothered him greatly, he had no say in the matter. He was married to a virtual stranger, a girl he knew nothing about.

“I know you you're mad, madder than a cat on bath day. But listen to me, you've been working like a dog ever since you left home. For the past four years you've done nothing but work, work, work, work. If Sunday wasn't a religious day I suppose you be working on a Sunday too. You're going to burn yourself out. You need a woman, someone who can work with you, someone who can help ease the burden, a partner.”

Everything Haymitch said was true. If Peeta had a partner, someone he had chosen, they could share the workload. It wasn't easy being in the middle of nowhere with just Haymitch to look at across the dinner table. The only company Haymitch kept, besides Peeta, was those damned geese.  They had one neighbor and it was a good half-Aday's ride. Town was another half-a-day's ride, if he rode his team at a brisk speed. Peeta didn't show the other man had a point. He grimaced, stood of akimbo, letting his muscles bulge to show he was upset.

“Listen, boy, your brother met the girl. He said she was hard-working, smart, quiet, quick, just the type of girls needed out here.”

“If she's so great, why don't you take her?”

Haymitch looked like he was ready to slap him upside his  head. “I'm an old man, ’sides she's already got a husband.”

“Well, you can buy her ticket back and get rid of her. I ain’t going with you.”

Haymitch only shook his head at Peeta, and Peeta felt a twinge of guilt for being so rough with Haymitch. The man had uprooted himself from his cozy life back in Philadelphia to come out here with him. It had been a rough four years, but the farm was starting to make a profit.

“I'm going to go outside to hitch the horses so that we can go meet your bride in town.”

Peeta took his hat and threw it on the table as he ran his hand through his blond hair. He left his mother's side because he could no longer take the abuse. Coming out to Ohio was a grand gamble for him. A day didn't pass by when he wanted to bury his hands in some dough and do something familiar. He was a baker at heart but he needed to do this to show that he was not under his mother's control. Getting this “bride,” undermined all the work he had done for the past several years.

He placed his hands on his hips and looked around at the cabin that he had painstakingly built. He built this house with a family in mind. It had two bedrooms and a loft where children could sleep comfortably. There was an expansive living area with a large fireplace, a pot belly stove, a sink with a pump from a well he made, and a pantry. He even had cold storage space built underneath the house so that they could store food in the winter.

This was his dream, to have a family of his own. His children would be loved and cherished. He wanted to share all of this with the woman he loved, the woman he chose.

He felt cheated. But even in the midst of his dilemma his mind went to the girl who was traveling all the way from New York to the wilds of Ohio. A girl who had hopes and dreams just as he did when he had hopped on the wagon trail from Philadelphia.

“Confound it, Haymitch,” Peeta said under his breath. He took the pitcher of water and rinsed his face and washed his hands, then put his hat back on. He didn't know what he was going to do with this girl under foot. There had to be a way to get rid of her, he just had to find it.

Haymitch had a darned grin when Peeta walked outside.

“Not a word, Haymitch,” Peeta warned as he hopped onto the wagon. He wanted no sass from Haymitch.

They were halfway to town when Peeta found his voice again. “How do you know if she's even a quality girl?”

“Well you know Gale Hawthorne?”

Peeta thought about his ornery neighbor to the east of him. The only time Gale smiled was when his wife Delly was around. They were the oddest couple. He was quiet and brooding and she was always smiling and talking. Delly was a sweet woman and fiercely devoted to Gale.

“Yeah.”

“Well his wife Delly came from the same agency as your bride.  I had no idea Delly was a mail order bride. Miss Effie trains young women to be good wives.”

Peeta had heard of Miss Effie's School For Refinement of Young Ladies from Delly. He had no idea the woman was a matchmaker. He reasoned his bride had to be a good woman, Delly was a testament. Though even with all his reasoning, the fact was he didn't want to be married to this poor girl who was coming here. And maybe, just maybe, he could get his marriage annulled. It wasn't a church marriage after all.

“How did you ever come up with the scheme in the first place?” Peeta asked. To say he was curious was an understatement. The only thing Haymitch knew besides geese and horses was the bottom of his whisky flask.

“I was at the Hawthorns' one day  complaining about how I didn't get a break from you  and  Delly said you needed to get married and have a family.”

Peeta raised an eyebrow the muscle in his chin twitched, he was frustrated.

“What Delly said got me thinking. If you got married and had a couple of youngins, say five. If you spent six minutes with each kid a day that would give me thirty minutes a day to myself. We work from sunup to sundown. You have me so busy I can't even think for myself and thirty minutes sounded like a holiday.”

Peeta had no idea Haymitch felt this way. He squirmed in his seat. There were times in the summer they worked well past nine at night. Haymitch was older than Peeta and Peeta supposed Haymitch needed time to rest.

“So I got the agency's name from Delly and wrote to Miss Effie on your behalf. When she arranged the marriage, I wrote to Degory to help me. Degory promised he would not involve your mother.  He wanted to make sure the girl was good enough, so he paid a visit to Miss Effie. Upon meeting her, your brother was convinced. He arranged to marry her by proxy.”

“How did you get my signature?” Peeta hoped they forged his signature or the paperwork. This would give him his out.

Haymitch cleared his throat, “Remember a while back you signed some papers.”

“You said those are for the purchase of some livestock?” Peeta nearly stopped the wagon.

“I snuck the contract in there.”

The situation really was quite funny if you look at it from an objective point of view. He would have laughed if this happened to someone else.

“Trust me, Peeta, you're going to love her.”

Peeta didn't think so.

They arrived in town and parked the wagon by the general store. The stagecoach had just pulled into town.

Haymitch jumped off the wagon Peeta didn't follow. “You coming, boy?”

Peeta shook his head. No. There was no way he was going to go see a girl he wasn't even interested in meeting. He pulled his hat over his head and leaned back in the bench to take a nap.

It wasn't a big town, so noise traveled even on a busy day like today. Peeta heard Haymitch coming toward him. Sighing deeply, Peeta sat up ready to crush the poor girls dreams.

“Peeta, this is Katniss Everdeen, I mean Mellark.” Haymitch introduced.

When Peeta saw her all the arguments he had mounted in his mind disappeared. She was as lovely as the sunset on a clear crisp evening. Her eyes were the color of lit embers of charcoal, they possessed a fire that stole his breath away. His heart thumped in his chest loudly and he became deaf and dumb from her beauty.

Katniss offered him a shy smile.

Peeta was a goner. He offered her his best smile as he jumped down from the wagon. He fumbled with taking off his hat. He was wrong and he would eat every single one of his words. He had found the girl he would share his life and home with and she'd come special delivery.

[kylorengarbagedump]

No Accounting for Taste (NSFW)

Read on AO3.

Summary: Where the eyes should be, there is a void bordered by rows of chrome lines, and the mouth is muzzled by a flat, carbon slate. It is as human as it is inhuman, an echo of something familiar, like the look of death on the face of a stranger.

Heart pounding, you speak, your voice creaking inside of your throat. “What the fuck is happening?”

The voice that responds crackles inside the mask, mutated and mechanical. “Something very unfortunate for you.”

Word Count: 7100 (oops)

Warnings: Literally everything. This is NSFL. Rape, verbal abuse, literal torture, graphic violence, death. This is a Red Room fic.

Characters: Kylo Ren x (Fat!)Reader A/N: Hello, and welcome to the actual Worst Thing I've Ever Written. I went through this for a few reasons--one, just to prove to myself that I could, two, out of spite, and three, to gift this work to my beautiful friend @daddyrenn / @rosalinaballerina. She has listened to and supported me for like, years now, which is crazy, and I realized I never wrote her anything to thank her. So, here ya go, cupcake. I love you so much, and I hope you enjoyed this.

I also hope that whoever else enjoys gross nasty shit like this enjoyed it. It was really cathartic for me to write, so, I'm happy to put it out there for anyone else. Love y'all so much! Thank you for all of your support all these years. <3

laetus_lacrimosa: when’s the show starting?

blueeyeswhited: are you new here? he’s always late

laetus_lacrimosa: it’s been 30 minutes already

xwaifusayorix: yup

laetus_lacrimosa: i’m paying how much for some dickhead who’s always late?

mg3453: hopefully not as much as the rest of us

kyloren has logged in.

kyloren: Five minutes. Bidding at .52 btc begins now.

kyloren: Any other complaints will be addressed by me. In person.

kyloren has logged out.

A droplet of water hits your forehead, and your eyes open. The lights are still on, but you are alone. 

The roof is leaking, and not just over your bed, but in several spots across the room. You’re not particularly surprised--you hadn’t paid a fortune for the hostel, but to wake up to cold rain was still not an expected consequence. Sighing, you sit up, wipe your head, and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Thankfully, your mattress is entombed in plastic.

Your brain spins. You’d wanted to sleep through the storm, but it doesn’t seem like that will be an option. And you’re not sure if you can manage sitting on your bed, alone, for the next however many hours. The last time you’d tried it, your legs ended up with a bunch of knife-slashes from the three-inch blade you keep in your backpack. The rest of your hostelmates have abandoned you, apparently, but there’s no surprise there. A knot in your throat grows thick. You can’t run away from your inferiority.

Planting your face in your hands, you draw in a deep breath, hoping the air will quell the burgeoning volcano in your chest. They left because you had said you wanted to sleep. That doesn’t mean you’re inherently uninvited from wherever they went. In fact, you could get up and meet them right now, if you wanted. And want you do.

You stand, shaking the jitters out of your fingers, and step through the sleeping quarters to the living area. Under the heavy rhythm of rain, you hear music, like a stereo blasting from inside a wave--and in its direction, flashing, rainbow lights. A party. A grin tugs at the corners of your lips. That didn’t sound like such a bad way to pass the time. Better than sitting in your room, alone. You snatch a hoodie from your bag and slip on your flip flops before darting through the storm, skipping over stone and sloshing in the tiny puddles already pooling in the grass. And after a few hops, you see it, beyond the curtains of rain: a tent, a safehouse by the shore.

By the time you reach it, your grin is erupting into a full smile, laughter eking out of you as you pull the hood off your head. You can’t remember the last time you’d run through the rain. And as the lights splash onto your face, you realize that you can’t remember the last time you’d danced, either. The music is spirited and electric, a classic reggaeton beat under lyrics in a language you don’t understand. Before you know it, you’re sliding further into the tent, looking for familiar faces, your hips rolling to the beat 

You spot a younger woman you’d shared a few light-hearted conversations with this afternoon--she looks totally trashed, but she’s definitely having a good time. Hopefully, being drunk allows her to be even more forgiving of your social awkwardness. But before you reach her, a hand on your shoulder halts you, and you yelp into the noise, whirling around to face the intruder.

“Evening,” he says, sounding as if he’d somehow whispered into your ear from feet away. “Thought you wouldn’t make it.”

“Hey, yeah, I did!” You search his face, brow furrowed. It’s a handsome face--hazel eyes, dark hair, full, pink lips--and it’s on top of a tall, muscular frame. But somehow, you don’t remember him. You’re more self-centered than you thought. “I’m so sorry, can you remind me who you are?”

A tight grin crosses his face, and your name rolls off of his tongue in mock-disappointment. “Really? I’m hurt.”

“Aw, no!” Frowning, you latch onto his forearm, trying to placate him. It’s thick and firm in your grip, and a shudder crawls up your spine. “I’m so sorry! I’ve just been… kind of off. Remind me, please!”

Smiling, he tugs you closer, and your cheeks grow hotter. “It’s Kylo.”

You nod. “Ohh, okay! Hi, Kyle!”

“No,” he says, “Ky-lo.”

“What?” Your face twists, and you turn your ear toward him. “Kylo?”

“Yes,” he replies, and his breath brushes your face. “You’ve got it.”

Hiding an idiotic giggle, you inch back. “This is kind of cool, huh?” What you can’t hide is how your gaze travels his body. All he has on are black jeans and a black t-shirt that clings to his thick chest and arms. Fuck, he’s built. “I mean, uh, the party.”

“The what?”

You cup your hands around your mouth, shouting over the music. “The party!”

“It is.”

Kylo stands there, staring, his eyes like voids, absorbing every flash of color in the tent. Under his gaze, your heart throbs, and in the back of your skull, the reptilian bit of your brain catches flame, screaming. But you can’t figure out what it’s telling you. Is it to run? Or to stay?

“Let’s dance,” he says, and barely waits for your nod before he curls one of his large, strong hands around yours and spins your back against his chest. Now you are on fire, your hips rocking with his, your face ready to melt when he leans his lips close to your ear. “Have you ever been to El Salvador before?”

“No!” Heat courses through you when you realize how loud you’ve been. The black-sand beaches of El Salvador weren’t your first choice for a runaway destination. But they happened to fit the three primary criteria: cheap, secluded, and U.S. dollar-friendly. Squeezing his hand, you tilt your head. “I mean, um, no.”

“Really? I come here all the time.”  Kylo tugs you closer. The air seems thicker, now. “It’s beautiful.”

“I think so too.” Your palm is slippery, and you adjust your grip again.

Kylo’s mouth scrapes the shell of your ear. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

Silent, you nod.

He leads you through the rain back to the hostel, through the living area and into the sleep quarters. You wait by the doorway as he saunters over to his bag, his shirt sticking to the rippling muscles in his back. Holding a sigh, you chew your lip. Kylo reaches into his backpack and pulls out a wine bottle--it’s wrapped and corked, brand-new--and urges you over with a nod. Lizard-brain wailing, you oblige.

“Where are you from?” Kylo is peeling the foil from the bottleneck while he speaks.

You glance at your feet. “The States.”

“Mhm.” The foil floats to the floor. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

“What?” Head snapping up, you meet his gaze. It’s empty. “No, no. Not at all. What?”

“I meant where in the States.” His fist is tight around the wine. “Given your accent, though--New Jersey?”

“Philadelphia.” Blush creeps onto your cheeks.

“Really,” he says. “Say w-a-t-e-r.”

Your lips twist into a mock-frown. “Wuder.”

Something twitches on his face. A grin, you think. “Right.” Kylo twists the cork, easing it free. “What does your family think of you traveling alone?”

“Oh.” Your thoughts tangle. For some reason, you want to lie. “They, uh, they’re okay with it.”

“Hm.” A pause, and he locks you in his stare again. “They don’t know, do they?”

“Um…”  A swift twist and tug, and the cork pops out. You flinch. “No,” you admit. “They don’t.”

Kylo shrugs. “No shame in that.” He sits on the bed, beckoning you with a nod. “Sit. Have a drink.”

You gnaw your lip again, looking at your backpack. You consider grabbing your knife, just in case. He’s incredibly fucking hot, and you’d love nothing more than to hop on what you are sure is his massive dick, but something about it seems wrong. But you aren’t sure if what you’re feeling is real discomfort, or your own fucked-up brain working to deny anything good might ever happen to you.

“I don’t know… Something seems weird about a strange drink from a strange man.”

Kylo smirks. “You saw me open it. And besides…” He pauses to take a long swig, the knot in his throat bobbing with each gulp, and then pulls off with a short gasp. You find yourself wanting to swallow, too. “I hope that’s satisfactory.”

Sweat beads at your nape. “Uh…” Shrugging, you shuffle over and sit next to him. He radiates heat. After the rain, that seems particularly inviting. “Sure. Why not.”

You wet your lips and tip the edge of the bottle into your mouth, the lukewarm liquid spilling out. It’s tart and dry with a lingering salty tang, and you wince as you swallow, smacking your tongue against your palate. You pause for a moment, waiting for the inevitable wooziness and unconsciousness to hit--but they don’t. Maybe he isn’t full of shit. Warmth ebbs through you, and you look over at him, holding out the wine.

“Weird taste. What is that?”

His eyes scan your figure. “You didn’t like it.”

“No, no,” you say, shaking your head. “That isn’t it. It’s just weird and salty. I’ve never had anything like that before.”

“Hm.” Kylo blinks, gaze flitting to the bottle, then back to you. He takes it from you and has another drink, imitating you by smacking his tongue. “That’s what it is.” He does it again. “You’re aerating it. Don’t do that.”

You raise a brow. “Really? I’ve never heard of that before.”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

“Oh, shut up.” You roll your eyes. “You’re fucking with me.”

He presents the bottle. “Try it.”

Pouting, you grab it, taking a long, slow drink, and pull off, fighting the urge to--how did it he put it?--aerate. But you still taste salt. Your brow furrows, and you look at him. The sirens in the back of your head are deafening, now, and you swallow, fingers starting to tremble. You glance at the wine, but the label is in Spanish.

“Um, hey, so… what… what is this? This wine?”

Kylo’s blank gaze meets yours. “Oh. Right. I forgot you asked.”

“Yeah. I did.” Your heart slams against your ribcage.

“It’s gammahydroxybutyrate.”

Shaking your head, you play it over in your head. “Gammahydro--what? What? Kylo--” You reach for him, but you miss. “What the fuck?”

He is flat. “Ecstasy.”

The next thing you remember is hitting the floor.

Darkness is torn from your face, and a matrix of light blinds you, pain leaking from you in gasps as your ears are swallowed by a shrieking whine. Groaning, you shift, attempting to jerk away from the brightness beyond your lids, but your arms stall, your body rocking into the chair. Wait--the chair? You kick, but your legs strain against the bonds around your calves. Wincing, you bow your head, waiting for the ringing in your skull to die before you even try to remember what the hell happened. Then, shade, interrupting the assault on your eyes, cooling your skin for a brief moment. A grunt escapes you; your lids flutter open. 

Light is a halo around shadow, the figure in front of you the shape of a man, if men are shaped how you remember. Your vision is water, the sound dull, like you’ve been plunged into a shallow tub. But as it clears, you make out details. He is tall, broad, muscled, wearing… black. A black tank top, black leather pants, black boots, all melting in the murky slime of your brain. The one detail you can’t discern is his face--because it is obscured by a mask. Where the eyes should be, there is a void bordered by rows of chrome lines, and the mouth is muzzled by a flat, carbon slate. It is as human as it is inhuman, an echo of something familiar, like the look of death on the face of a stranger.

Heart pounding, you speak, your voice creaking inside of your throat. “What the fuck is happening?”

The voice that responds crackles inside the mask, mutated and mechanical. “Something very unfortunate for you.”

“What? What are you talking about?” You want to shout, but every bit of effort you make to speak or move is tripled against the weight of your scrambling consciousness. “Let me go. Please. What the fuck is happening?”

He is silent. Your gaze darts around the room--the floor is dirt, the walls are blank, and there isn’t a single window that you can see. To your right, a large, flat screen displays text… lines of it, you think, discussing something. A chatroom. You see one of the names--kyloren--and your blood turns to ice.

El Salvador. The wine. Ecstasy.

Kylo.

Before you can speak, your gaze catches the lines on the screen moving, talking. And they’re talking about you.

laetus_lacrimosa: i love how fucking scared she looks

blueeyeswhited: it’s awesome. she has no idea what’s about to happen

gawinulim11490: what are the limits?

mg3453: are you serious?

xwaifusayorix: lol

Your stomach lurches, and Kylo moves, the light burning your vision again. You squint while your pupils adjust, and see that he’s walked to a terminal where a camera and laptop are arranged. The acid in your belly roars like a wave, eroding your esophagus and singeing the back of your throat, and your chin quivers, quakes resonating to your toes. Fighting your fear, you overcompensate, instead, and glare at the camera, hocking a thick wad of mucus and spitting it at your captor. It falls short, a glob in the dirt. Kylo doesn’t seem to even notice, but the chatroom has.

blueeyeswhited: she’s an animal

gawinulim11490: like every other female who doesn’t get her way. strip them of their privileges and they resort to this.

xwaifusayorix: lmao are you an incel

kyloren: Bidding begins at .29 btc. Open now for the next 30 seconds.

As he types this, the screen explodes with chatter. From what you can tell, there are five people in this room, watching you. Bidding on something. They spit out different numbers, trying to one-up each other in a value you don’t recognize. .88 btc, 1.46, 2.19. The integers climb and climb.

laetus_lacrimosa: 2.93 to strip her and cut her fucking nipples off.

xwaifusayorix: oh shit 

mg3453: yeah i withdraw, i wanna see that lol

Breath flies out of you, and you choke. “What? What the fuck? What the fuck is this? What the fuck?”

kyloren: Going once. Twice.

No other person speaks.

kyloren: 2.19 btc to watch. Beginning now.

Kylo clicks something, and the chatroom changes. One, two, three of the people who had been in the previous room appear in this one. Kylo appears to adjust the camera pointed at you and turns, pulling a knife from his belt.

You whip your head back and forth, straining at your bonds, toes digging into the dirt, hips twisting to rock the chair. “No, please, stop, what are you doing. Please stop. Kylo, or whatever your name is. Please don’t do this. Please--”

He doesn’t appear to respond, but grabs the back of the chair, stilling it while he slides the knife underneath your shirt. The metal is ice on your skin, and you shiver, whimpering as tears blur your vision. You can’t stop your chin from trembling, your heart from wanting to explode out of your chest. Kylo turns the blade to the ceiling and rips, standing to the side so the camera catches when your belly, chest, and breasts are uncovered. Noise wants to escape you, but it doesn’t--you can only whisper as the tip of the knife shreds the hem of your top.

“Please… please stop…”

If he is moved in any way by your display, his only reaction is to tear the fabric to the side, making sure the entirety of your torso is exposed for the three strangers watching you on camera. Snot slips out of your nose, and you whimper, a chill washing over you. Kylo stares at you--or at least, you think he is. The inability to identify any hint of humanity from his facade makes your blood run faster.

The pause is only brief, however. He grabs the chair again, and slips the tip of his knife underneath your shorts. You want to struggle, but the threat of a blade against your belly paralyzes your limbs. All you do is sob while slices open the front of your shorts, digging the knife into the fabric of your crotch until the mound of your pussy peeks out. You thank your stars that you’re fat enough that your belly sits on top of your thighs, but Kylo sighs.

“I forgot how fucking fat you were.”

Growling, he takes the knife and rips open the hems on your sides, tearing the fabric away so that your front is now completely naked to the camera. After that, he bends forward, working at the bonds at your feet, and for a moment, there is a tease of relief. The ropes--or zipties, or something, you can’t tell--come off, and your heart roars with adrenaline. You pitch forward, attempting to leap up, but the chair only squeaks, and Kylo’s head snaps toward you.

“Fuck you!” With a shriek, you try to drive a heel into his shoulder, but he snatches your ankle in a large, gloved hand, and before you even move your other leg, that one is seized, his strength so overpowering that you wilt in his grip, collapsing against the chair.

You realize that was his goal, now, all along, while he spreads your legs wider, revealing your cunt to the camera. Another sob wells up in your chest, and you wiggle in protest, feeling helpless as he rebinds you to the chair. Under his breath, you hear him laughing.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “It’s so much easier when you behave.”

“Fuck you.” Your breath shudders in your chest. “Please stop.”

Through your tears, you glance over at the chat--and immediately wish you hadn’t.

blueeyeswhited: christ she’s so fucking disgusting--her body is a fucking mess. has anyone ever actually fucked that? lmfao

mg3453: her tits are fucking embarrassing. she’s in her 20s and they’re already sagging to her pussy

gawinulim11490: are you kidding. her tits have looked like that since she was a teenager. her body is just fucked up.

laetus_lacrimosa: females actually do this to themselves

The terror and anguish inside of you boils, and you glance over at Kylo. You see nothing but a silhouette of darkness.

“Fuck you! Fuck all of you!” You’re spitting, now, snot and saliva soaring from your face. “You’re all sick pieces of shit! Fucking sick misogynistic pieces of shit!”

xwaifusayorix: LMFAO

blueeyeswhited: “misogynist” is she a fucking feminist LOL

gawinulim11490: yes she is, but she doesn’t know the first thing about it. she’s a fucking idiot.

You hate that person in particular. They seem to know you. They talk about you like they’re an expert. You glare at the camera.

“Fuck you, whoever you are. I swear to god, when I get out of here, you will fucking pay for this!”

xwaifusayorix: lol

mg3453: well it makes sense that she looks like that now if she’s a feminist

laetus_lacrimosa: cutting off her nipples will be an improvement

Out of the corner of your eye, Kylo moves toward you, and you snarl. “Fuck you. Don’t even come near me.”

“You have no choice in that matter.”

He tosses the knife, catching it by the handle, and grips the chair again. Heart in your throat, you cry out, thrashing against your bindings, muscles tensing and untensing as words and spit fly, unfiltered.

“Please! Please, fuck no! Don’t do this! Don’t fucking do this Kylo please fuck don’t do this! Please!”

Underneath the mask, you hear a low, quiet laugh. Kylo stands behind you, steadies the chair against his body, and grabs one of your tits, pulling the skin of your areola taut. Your breath is rapid, drool streaming out of your mouth as you scream again, begging him to spare you. He brings the knife to your flesh, and you thrash, trying to slam your head back into his hips, hoping to knock him off balance.

Grunting, he crushes your breast in his hand, making you squeak. “Might not be smart to struggle while I have a knife so close to your chest.”

Face crumpling, you release a shuddering whine, tensing as you watch the knife pierce your flesh.

Searing pain streaks through your nerves, echoing in your fingers and toes, and you screech, throwing your head back in broken sobs while cuts through the layers of skin. A warm fluid spills down your abdomen, pooling in the crevices of your thighs and dripping onto the floor. Your teeth pinch your lower lip, lids shut tight as he carves through you, jolts of hot pain hitting you with each millimeter of skin removed. You can’t decide if you want to go to sleep or wake up.

Your breast flops against your stomach as the last bit of your flesh is removed, and you hear him toss it onto the ground. The thought of opening your eyes makes your stomach turn, but you find yourself cracking open a lid.

Blood has painted you in crimson buckets, and the fleeting pace of your heart is only making it pump out faster. Gasping, you feel faint, and close your eyes again, focusing on your breath, hoping to slow your heart rate so you don’t bleed out. Your entire body is pulsating, and you are trembling--you don’t want to go into shock, either.

Kylo clutches your other breast, tweaking your nipple in his fingers. Another laugh rumbles under the mask, and he cuts into your skin once more. The pain is duller, this time, your adrenaline still spiked and your brain focused on keeping calm. Yet you feel like a fish, filleted live on television, strands of hanging skin snipped and ripped from you, and you are bathing in warm fluid pumping from your own heart. Your second breast drops, and you groan, dizzy. It’s a lot of blood, leaving you--you don’t even need to look.

“That’s an issue,” says Kylo. His voice sounds filtered through water.

You hear rustling, and then the flicking of something--a lighter--and your lids pop open. Dread sinks into your bones when you watch him wipe his knife on his pants and hold it over an open flame. Whinging, you shake your head, the tears coming again.

“No, no, no no no…” You heave, swallowing vomit. “Please, no, no, we can do a tourniquet or something, please, no no no…”

“You’d rather bleed out?” His voice is dull, even under the modulator. “Besides,” he says, spinning the knife over the lighter. “We need you awake for every part of this. Otherwise it isn’t any fun.”

Vomit threatens again, but you swallow, shuddering. “Fuck you.”

Kylo releases the lighter and moves forward. Before you can even protest, he presses the flat end of the blade against your wound, and you scream, tears streaming down your cheeks, shivers wracking your body as blinding pain whites your vision. A sob crawls out, and then another, and another, before you are heaving, drooling, and wailing in desperation. You try to breathe, but can’t, gasping and whining for air--and you finally vomit, hurling onto your chest, the rest bubbling out down your chin in an acidic burble.

“Stop. Stop, please,” you wheeze. “Please, just stop.” A rare breath fills your lungs, and you cough. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

The weight of his gaze heavy on your frame as he re-heats the knife over the flame. “Because someone paid someone to pay me.” He steps forward and cauterizes your other wound, and you screech again, agony wracking you as your skin sizzles and pops under the heat. The smell of burnt flesh permeates. You want to vomit again.

Finished, Kylo wipes the knife on his pants again and puts it back into the sheath on his belt. You are quaking with terror and pain, sweat has drenched your lower back and hair, and you are still trying to focus on your breath. Kylo clicks something at his terminal, the rest of the voyeurs are back in the chat.

blueeyeswhited: holy shit she looks fucked up

laetus_lacrimosa: dumb fat bitch lol

mg3453: this is exactly what all these commie cunts deserve

gawinulim11490: don’t compliment her by insinuating she knows anything about being a communist.

xwaifusayorix: lmao shit

Your head is spinning. Is that it? With the bidding done, are you just going to be tossed out like this? Maybe he won’t even let you go.

“Kylo, please…”

Then, he types.

kyloren: Bidding open again. Starting at 2.93 btc. Open now for the next 30 seconds.

mg3453: 2.93 to shut her up. rape her mouth and make her vomit again

blueeyeswhited: nice

gawinulim11490: he’ll rape her?

xwaifusayorix: lmao cuck

laetus_lacrimosa: he’ll do anything--he’s a monster

kyloren: Going once.

gawinulim11490: i’ll double it. 5.86 btc to rape every disgusting hole. choke her. make her lick cum off the floor. remind her how repulsive she is.

Your heart sinks into your gut. Your mouth is dry.

kyloren: Going once. Twice.

kyloren: 5.24 to watch. Beginning now.

The chatroom changes in the same way it had before, only now all five people who had been in the chat before slowly join. After the last person appears, Kylo turns, pulling the knife out from his belt once more. You can only swallow, staring at him with pleading, wet eyes, hoping that if you seem pathetic enough, he’ll let you go, or spare you, somehow, with any hint of kindness.

When he cuts you free of the chair, you kid yourself into thinking, for a moment, that he’s done just that. You swivel to try and look at him, to catch his intention, but find yourself horrified when you turn to see him pulling his cock out of his pants, guiding his hand up and down the hardening shaft.

Heat licks up your spine, and you babble something nonsensical before shaking your head, blinking away the tears.

“Bend over the chair.” His voice is even darker, more commanding, under the mask.

You don’t want to bend over the chair, but you are so weak and tired, the thought of what might happen if you don’t bend over the damn chair is even more terrifying. You try to move, but find yourself slipping on your own blood. Puke hits the back of your throat again, and you gag.

“Bend. Over. The chair.”

“I’m trying, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry who?”

You pause, and stare up at him. Static has blanketed half your brain. I’m sorry…

A flash of black leather smacks you hard across the face, and you whimper, too exhausted to even grasp at yourself in shock. “You’re sorry who?” he asks, again.

Clenching your quivering chin, you look at the ground, the dirt spattered with your blood. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Much better,” he says. “Now move.”

“Yes, sir,” you mumble.

You sit up, and the parts of your shirt that hadn’t been shredded stick to your sweat. Your shorts, however, stay on the chair, matted a dark red. When you try to stand, wooziness slams you, and you stumble, grabbing onto the chair as your vision doubles, spinning out like a car wreck. Part of you wants to look at the chat screen--see what they are saying--but the other part turns with tiny steps until you are facing the side of the chair. Wincing, you lay yourself across it, ass in the air, knees off the ground. It’s hard to be still, as the seat is still slick with your blood.

“Let’s see if we can find your pussy in all of this mess.”

Leather gloves grip your ass, and you close your lids, wishing that you wouldn’t shiver as he pushed aside the hills of your flesh to find your cunt between your legs. You thought back to when you’d met him at the club--you would’ve happily had consensual sex with him, then.

“You really thought I wanted to fuck you?” he says, as if he’d read your mind. “Answer me.”

Your cheeks flush with fire. “Um… I, uh, guess I did…”

Thwack--your ass and hips jiggle with tremors of pain. He just fucking spanked you. “You what?”

Choking back, a sob, you say, “Yes, sir. I did.”

He laughs with an inhuman derision. “You’re fucking pathetic. I would never be desperate enough to fuck something like you.”

Kylo’s fingers dig into your hips, and the head of his cock pokes between your thighs--but before he can drive himself inside of you, you glide off the chair and collapse in a pile on the ground, and you retch while your burned tits scrape the dirt. Dust erupts in clouds, and you roll to avoid the pain, particles getting into your mouth, forcing a cough.

“Fuck,” you groan. “Fuck…”

Through your fit, you look up at Kylo, who is still stroking his cock--now fully erect. Your heart drops even further. It’s enormous.

“Get up, bitch.” Behind the mask, you know he’s smiling. “Get back on the chair.”

You push yourself up on buckling elbows, dragging yourself like a corpse back onto the chair. Shaking, you drape yourself across it, and Kylo once more grapples your hips. The warm, throbbing head of his dick slides across your legs, seeking out your cunt, aching to tear it open and make you scream. You bite your lip, grimacing in anticipation--but when he thrusts, you lose grip on the chair again and tumble back onto the ground, rolling onto your back while you stifle a whine.

“Stupid whore.” Kylo kicks you in the stomach with the toe of his boot, and you heave, curling into a ball. “Can’t even stay on a chair.” He sighs, his erection bobbing in need. “But you’re used to being fucked like an animal, aren’t you?”

“What--”

Kylo pounces, clutching a fistful of your hair as he whips you around, shoving your face straight into the dirt. You moan in pain, drool dripping in globs from your face, caking your mouth and cheeks in mud. Gloved hands pull your legs apart, and then a hard, thick cock is pushing at the folds of your dry cunt. Grunting, Kylo cranks your head back, his voice low in your ear.

“Not wet for me yet?” A smothered laugh. “That’ll change soon.”

Gasping for breath, you almost beg for him to stop--but then he rams into you, ripping through your walls, and you screech, bucking against him, arms flailing. He lays his entire weight on top of you, like a boulder pressing you to the ground, and curls his fingers in your hair before thrusting again. A throttled shout escapes you, and Kylo’s other hand wraps around your throat, strangling any other noise. All you can do is slobber as tears trickle along your jaw.

“Mm, fuck,” he hums into your ear. “I feel you getting wet. You like this, don’t you?”

A long, agonizing pull out, and then another excruciating drive in. Shame seeps out of your pores as you realize--he’s right. The base of his dick pulses when he seats himself inside of your pussy, and your body reacts, walls instinctively squeezing. He laughs, tugging you somehow closer, the cold muzzle of his mask settling in the crook of your neck.

“That’s right,” he says. “You feel like a whore.” He drags out, and slams back in. “You look like a fucking pig.”

Kylo finds his rhythm, punishing you with his dick as he growls into your ear, hand just tight enough around your throat to keep you conscious while you fight for lucidity through the pain. Your pussy is wet, now, a humiliating and automatic reaction to the painful fucking he’s forcing upon you. It’s only then that you can actually process it--he’s raping you. This is all actually happening. The realization is almost anesthetizing--you can’t feel your face anymore, anyway, you think it’s been numbed with tears--and any sound you make escapes as guttural, animalistic sobs.

“That’s right, little pig,” he says. “Squeal for me.”  Kylo releases your neck to smack the side of your face, and the sharp pain provokes something inside of you--you squeal, like a rutting, dirty farm animal, and when he returns to choke you, you squeal again, in shame. He snickers. “Good pig…”

The constant raking across the dirt has rubbed your body and pained nipples raw, making every movement above you torturous. Kylo pumps deep into your cunt, piercing your cervix over and over and over, his breath leaving in dark, mechanical huffs. You want him to cum so badly, just so this will be over. In angst, you groan, loud and long.

“It feels that good?” he asks. “You love taking cock, don’t you? You’ll take it wherever.”

Kylo pulls out, but before relief hits you, you feel the tip of his slickened cock pass over your asshole. Horrified, you groan again, but in his grip, under his weight--you are weary, helpless. You can only whine and screech in protest as he presses against you.

“You want it so badly. You’re fucking disgusting. But I knew that the second I realized you wanted to fuck me.” He huffs when he pushes the tip of his dick into your ass, and you grunt in pain. “You were so desperate. So lonely.” Another thrust, deeper, more unbearable. “And those cuts on your legs…” A hard, deep thrust this time, and you howl. “Do you think anyone actually wants to give you attention?” He pauses. Smacks you, and gasp. “Do you?”

Voice ragged, you reply, “N-no… No, sir…”

Kylo tugs you back and slams his hips against your ass, and you wail in agony as he splits it open. It feels hot and cold and empty and full all at once. You are dizzy with pain and exhaustion, overcome while he pounds you, fucking into you harder than before. His cock is hard and sharp, a nail trying to splinter you like a board.

“Go on, pig,” he growls. “Squeal for me like the filthy little swine you are.”

He slaps your cheek, and like a stupid, trained pig, you squeal--a horrible, wretched sob that scrapes its way out of your throat. Another moan leaves him, and he gives you two hard thrusts before pulling out of your ass, his dick like sandpaper against your sore flesh. You gag, and then yelp as he yanks you to your knees by your scalp. He is quick, smacking the side of your face to part, and then shoving his dirty cock straight into your mouth.

You retch, the taste revolting, but Kylo grips your skull in both his massive hands and fucks down into your throat, your hair his reins. There’s a visible urge to let his head fall back and cum, but he fights it, locking with your stare behind his mask. Water spills over your cheeks again, your eyes rolling as you fight your own urge to pass out. It is almost impossible to breathe with his thick dick constricting your airway, stretching your jaw, making you drool.

“Such a good little squealer… Almost made me cum.” His voice is uneven, now, his thrusting erratic. “This is all you’re good for, isn’t it? And you’re barely good for this.” He slaps you. “Stay awake, cunt.”

Gurgling against his erection, you nod to the best of your ability. Your compliance has you wanting to throw up, too, but there has been too much to fight--knowing it is almost over, you want him to hurry so you can leave and forget him forever. After a lot of therapy, probably.

“Fuck… fuck--”

Kylo’s hips pitch, and he groans, pulling out of your mouth and jerking his cock as it twitches in front of your face, holding your head still. A gasp, a groan, and he climaxes, jets of hot cum splashing your eyes and lips, mixing with spit and tears and dirt. Sighing, he squeezes the last drops of his release from his dick, wiping them on your face and shoving you back into the dirt. 

You hit the ground and shatter, the pent-up fear and adrenaline pouring out in broken, weeping breaths. Part of you wants to cover your face with your hands, but the other part is too disgusted to touch any reminder of his presence.

“Clean it up,” comes Kylo’s voice.

It is an echo in the chamber of your bawling. You can do nothing but wheeze, ache, and cry. There is nothing left in you to do an ounce more.

But Kylo is unsatisfied with this. “Clean it up.” His foot collides with your stomach on the final word, and you screech, crying harder.

You fold into a ball, trying to block him from your private break-down. The crying is uncontrollable, at this point, all you can do is ride the waves of anguish. Then you hear Kylo snarl.

Pain explodes in your skull when he stomps on it, jamming his heel into your temple, and he kicks you again, knocking the air from your lungs. “Clean it up, you filthy bitch.” 

Coughing, you try to nod, acknowledging his order, shivering while you pull yourself up from the floor. Every part of you aches, resonating with pain and the tremors of torment. Glancing at yourself, you are covered in blood, dirt, spit, vomit, and semen. You can’t bring yourself to view the chat screen. What have they been saying this entire time? You suppose it doesn’t matter. 

Swallowing what scraps are left of your pride, you wipe the caked semen off of your face, gathering it in dirty clumps and dragging them onto your tongue. The taste is acrid, bitter and salty and dry and sticky--and you heave trying to finish the first glob. Closing your lids, you persist, steeling your stomach as you clean your face of every last viscous drop of his semen. As you finish, you open your eyes, blurred tears clear, and see the chat. 

blueeyeswhited: holy fucking shit

mg3453: that was fucking incredible

laetus_lacrimosa: i knew she could take a big cock

gawinulim11490: what a fucking whore. she fucking loved it.

xwaifusayorix: like every other female, lol

laetus_lacrimosa: look at her cunt, it’s so fat and wet

blueeyeswhited: what kind of feminist loves being raped? lmao

gawinulim11490: she does. she’s a fucking joke. i told you that she’s not a real feminist. she’s a boring, joyless, leftist cuntbag.

mg3453: goddamn lol. are you sure you’re not an incel?

gawinulim11490: fuck off.

Their words don’t bite, as they did at first. You’re too fucking tired to care. Glancing over, you see that Kylo has already tucked himself away, and is making his way to the terminal. This had to have been the last part. Surely his plan is to sign off and let you go. Surely… 

kyloren: Bidding opens at 5.86 btc. You have 30 seconds.

Adrenaline again. “No.” You try to scramble toward him. “No, no!”

blueeyeswhited: cut her fingers off. 5.86 btc

kyloren: You’ll need more than that.

xwaifusayorix: 7.86 to cut off her toes

laetus_lacrimosa: 9.44 to cut her guts out

xwaifusayorix: oh fuck lol

You slump onto the ground. They’re not going to stop until you’re dead. Heart skipping out of your ribs, you claw to Kylo’s feet, curling your arms around them, scratching the leather like a hopeless cat.

“Kylo, please… please, don’t…”

kyloren: Going once.

“Please, Kylo, sir, please, please, please…”

kyloren: Going twice.

“Kylo… sir, don’t do this…”

gawinulim11490: 15.73 to cut the dumb bitch’s head off. spare the world of another fat leftist idiot.

Breath freezes in your lungs. No one else in the chat says a word.

kyloren: Going once.

kyloren: Twice.

He pauses, you think, for a second longer. You don’t dare speak.

kyloren: 11.79 to watch. Starting now.

The chat switches, and the only one who joins is the person who bid.

You hug Kylo’s legs, trying to hold him, pleading and pleading for him to release you. It is mostly gibberish, nonsense strung together with despair. God, you didn’t want this, you realize now, if you were let go you’d be better, you’d do better, you’d do whatever you needed so that you were never hated this badly again. On some end, you must deserve it, if someone is willing to pay money over and over to see you brought to this.

Beyond your sorrow, you feel Kylo moving, dragging you across the ground while he moves in front of the camera. Without a word, he gnarls his fingers in your hair, wrenching you to your knees, twisting your body so you kneel facing the camera. You are sniveling, and just as silent as him.

It’s not that you think, perhaps, you deserve to die. It’s that you realize that it is inevitable. It is, you hope, the same revelation that hits a cancer patient after a grim diagnosis, or the one that blinks into the mind of a driver during a head-on collision. The same revelation that perhaps only half of the population is lucky enough to have, before they collapse or bleed or pass in their sleep. And here you are, having it now--you are about to die at the hands of this monster. At least you’ll finally be free.

Kylo stands behind you, and you hear a hiss and metal squeak. To your left, a heavy thump. Fingers still tangled in your hair, he snaps your head up, and you see his face again. For a moment, you can’t understand why he’s done this--but you realize the camera must only see you.

His eyes are voids. Yet he looks just as pretty as you remember. You should’ve known that no one this attractive had good intentions for you.

Then the blade of his knife slices into your neck, and you sob--but the blood is hot, spurting in a river, and you feel his fingers tighten in your scalp, and then another tear in your flesh, and you choke on your blood, coughing and sputtering and twitching in pain, and everything is fuzzy, and numb, you can’t feel your fingers, or your body, or even feel your breath, and soon you know you aren’t breathing youaren’t seeingand everythingis blankandemptyandblack.

blueeyeswhited: oh fuck that’s a lot of blood

laetus_lacrimosa: not exactly a clean cut job

mg3453: look how upset she was lmao

gawinulim11490: she deserves it.

gawinulim11490 has logged off.

mg3453: shit. good show anyway.

xwaifusayorix: i still think that guy was an incel

laetus_lacrimosa: incels don’t have cash like that, idiot

xwaifusayorix: true.

xwaifusayorix has logged off.

laetus_lacrimosa has logged off.

blueeyeswhited has logged pff.

mg3453 has logged off.

Session has ended.

kyloren has logged off.

[pwchronicle]

New Japan Pro Wrestling “Fighting Spirit Unleashed 2019 - Night 3″ Live Show Report September 29th in Philadelphia, PA

New Japan completed their three-night tour of the Northeast at the 2300 Arena in Philadelphia. Running on their own without the assistance of a domestic promotion, tonight drew a near-capacity crowd of fans from all over. I was last at the Arena over two months ago for EVOLVE 131 (the one that aired live on the WWE Network). That was a no vacancy crowd as well, though I was close to the ring in the North section and really felt the heavy body heat. This time, I secured a Row 10 seat (though it still had good views) in the South section, where it felt considerably cooler. Granted, it’s also late September, and it was more comfortable outside today than yesterday, but I didn’t have as many people surrounding me. The referees were three from Japan (including Red Shoes in the main event) and one from the US (presumably California).

1. Rocky Romero beat Clark Connors with a cross arm breaker out of a Falcon Arrow. Right off the bat, the crowd was up for everyone, including the Young Lions of the LA Dojo. Romero is still a ball of charisma. Romero and Connors exchanged a lot of strikes and chops, with Connors delivering the heavier ones. Connors came close with a nearfall from a small package; the Young Lion nearfalls are a tried and true trope that still hooks the crowd.

2. Mikey Nicholls beat Karl Fredericks with a running Mikey Bomb. The former Nick Miller of NXT (not New GIrl), back to his TMDK moniker with a slight Mad Max aesthetic was pretty evenly matched by the recent winner of New Japan’s Young Lion Cup. Nicholls got heat from the crowd by shoving the ref. Fredericks came close to winning with a half-crab, then Nicholls locked on one of his own for the near submission. Nicholls was able to follow up with a Death Valley Driver and a sliding lariat leading into the finish.

3. Lance Archer beat Alex Coughlin with the EBD claw. During Archer’s entrance, he clocked some ringside attendants and hit Coughlin with a lariat before the bell. He’s not wasting any time. Coughlin went after Archer right at the start after recovering, but the next five minutes was pretty much all Archer. He nearly walked all four top ropes while holding onto Coughlin, only stopping his full trip to spite the crowd. Archer was tremendous here. Coughlin started to mount a comeback and successfully bodyslammed Archer after some failed attempts, but Archer hit him with a spinning splash off the middle rope, as well as the Blackout, prior to the finish.

4. Amazing Red beat Ren Narita with Code Red. Narita has begun his United States excursion, rocking the LA Dojo colors (which are still black and white). Red doesn’t seem like someone who retired, but definitely came off like a humble veteran (in that current-day Rey Mysterio mold), very well-liked by the crowd. Narita stood up to him early on, and he came close to winning with a rolling cloverleaf.

5. Los Ingobernables de Japon (Tetsuya Naito, SANADA, and Shingo Takagi) beat Juice Robinson & Roppongi 3K (SHO & YOH) when SANADA made YOH submit to Skull End. The first big dose of star power of the night, with each of these six guys getting chants before it ended with a chant for “All These Guys.” Naito still wrestled in his shirt, but whatever, tranquilo. Very fun match that had the crowd fully invested; everyone went nuts when SANADA put Robinson in the Paradise Lock. Following the end of the match, Naito and Robinson spat loogies at one another.

6. Los Ingobernables de Japon (EVIL & BUSHI) beat Kota Ibushi & TJP after EVIL hit TJP with Everything Is Evil. The G1 Climax 29 winner Ibushi was beloved, while his still-babyface partner TJP was soundly booed by everyone in the crowd. Interesting dynamic. Everyone looked good here as this continued to build towards Ibushi and EVIL going one-on-one at King of Pro Wrestling next month. This included EVIL taking Ibushi into the front row and working him over against fans’ chairs. Ibushi was taken out of the match towards the end when BUSHI sprayed mist in his face, then hit him with a tope suicida on the floor.

7. Hiroshi Tanahashi, Hirooki Goto, Tomohiro Ishii, YOSHI-HASHI, and the Rock ‘n’ Roll Express (Ricky Morton & Robert Gibson) beat Bullet Club’s Jay White, KENTA, Guerrillas of Destiny (Tama Tonga and Tanga Loa), Chase Owens, and Gedo (w/ Jado) in a 6-on-6 Elimination Match. Within New Japan, eliminations in these matches occur via pinfall, submission, or being thrown over the top rope with both feet touching the floor. I’m usually not a fan of these matches that I’ve already seen from New Japan a few times this year, but I was swayed by being in a crowd for one, especially this crowd, and seeing the star power on display, Individual entrances for everyone. After each team had a chance to run wild on the other, it settled onto Tanahashi getting worked over by the Bullet Club. The first man eliminated was Gedo when he was tossed over the top by both Morton and Gibson. These two are still game for everything. Owens got into it with Morton and attempted to hit him with a package piledriver, but Morton back body dropped Owens and hit him with a Canadian Destroyer to a standing ovation. As Morton celebrated though, Jay White came up from behind him and tossed him over the top to eliminate him. Right after this, I believe it was Owens that rolled up Gibson to eliminate him as well, so both Ricky and Robert got to leave the match together to a big ovation from the crowd. Rock ‘n’ Roll lives on. YOSHI-HASHI had a chance to shine after this. He eliminated Loa by tossing him over the top, and then he fought with Tonga afterward, leading YOSHI-HASHI to end up on the outside apron. While Tonga drew away the ref’s attention, Loa yanked YOSHI-HASHI down the floor, eliminating him. A few moments later, YOSHI-HASHI turned the tables by eliminating Tonga the same way. Down to three on each team, this led into KENTA and Ishii squaring off. They both went over the top rope wound up on the outer edge, striking each other until they both fell to the floor, eliminated simultaneously. Once they got up, they continued fighting to the back, so This Feud Must Continue. White and Goto went at it, continuing to build towards an eventual match for White’s newly won Intercontinental Title. Goto was able to toss White over the top rope to eliminate him, but then right afterward Owens (who I forgot about still being in this match) came up from behind and tossed Goto over the top to eliminate him. As Owens celebrated, Tanahashi came up from behind him. Tanahashi avoided being eliminated (holding onto the top rope and powering himself back into the ring), hit Owens with a sling blade, and pinned him the High Fly Flow to win the match. This match went a little over 20 minutes.

After this, Tanahashi teased leaving the ring, but stayed inside and invited the Rock ‘n’ Roll Express back out, wanting to play guitar with them. Tanahashi retrieved invisible guitars for Morton, Gibson, and himself, they jammed on them, played an encore demanded by the crowd, and then smashed them on the mat in unison. After Ricky and Robert left, Tanahashi thanked us all in the crowd for coming in English, then gave us all a brief lesson in the Japanese language so that he and the crowd could say his closing catchphrase together for the hard cam. Tanahashi ended the night by going around ringside to greet and take pictures with fans.

This show lasted around about two and a half hours, and with no intermission, it flew by. You could consider these three US cards B-Shows, but this one was still very fun to watch in person. Just a great time. Much like what I saw from the New York event on New Japan World, this Philadelphia crowd was hot for everything and treated pretty much all of the wrestlers like superstars. By all accounts a successful tour that I hope will lead to return trips to the Northeast. 

[parvinasseaynk72insurance-blog]

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Lexus NX Cheap Insurance

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 21: Adrift (Transcript) - 16th November 2015

tw: death, drowning, ghosts Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice! 

I have a confession to make. Keep in mind, I write about frightening things for a living. I haven’t read a horror novel yet that’s managed to freak me out, and yet, I’m deathly afraid of open water. There, I said it – I hate being on boats. I’m not even sure why, to be honest, I just… am. Perhaps it’s the idea that thousands of feet of cold darkness wait right beneath my feet. Maybe it’s the mystery of it all, of what creatures (both known and unknown) might be waiting for me, just beyond the reach of what little sunlight passes through the surface of the waves. Now, I live near the coast, and I’ve been on boats before, so my fear comes from experience, but it’s not the cold, deep darkness beneath the ship that worries me the most. No, what really makes my skin crawl is the thought that, at any moment, the ship could sink. Maybe we can blame movies like Titanic or The Poseidon Adventure for showing us how horrific a shipwreck can be, but there are far more true stories of tragedy at sea than there are fictional ones, and it’s in these real life experiences, these maritime disasters that dot the map of history like an ocean full of macabre buoys, that we come face to face with the real dangers that await us in open water. The ocean takes much from us, but in rare moments, scattered across the pages of history, we’ve heard darker stories: stories of ships that come back, of sailors returned from the dead, and of loved ones who never stop searching the land. Sometimes our greatest fears refuse to stay beneath the waves. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

Shipwrecks aren’t a modern notion – as far back as we can go, there are records of ships lost at sea. In The Odyssey by Homer, one of the oldest and most widely read stories ever told, we meet Odysseus shortly before he experiences a shipwreck at the hands of Poseidon, God of the Sea. Even further back in time, we have the Egyptian tale of the shipwrecked sailor, dating to at least the 18th century BC. The truth is, though, for as long as humans have been building sea-faring vessels and setting sail into unknown waters, there have been shipwrecks. It’s a universal motif in the literatures of the world, and that’s most likely because of the raw, basic risk that a shipwreck poses to the sailors on the ships, but it’s not just the personal risk. Shipwrecks have been a threat to culture itself for thousands of years. The loss of a sailing vessel could mean the end to an expedition to discover new territory or turn the tide of a naval battle. Imagine the result if Admiral Nelson had failed in his mission off the coast of Spain in 1805, or how differently Russia’s history might have played out had Tsar Nicholas II’s fleet actually defeated the Japanese in the Battle of Tsushima. The advancement of cultures has hinged for thousands of years, in part, on whether or not their ships could return to port safely, but in those instances where ancient cultures have faded into the background of history, it is often through their shipwrecks that we get information about who they were. Just last year, an ancient Phoenician shipwreck was discovered in the Mediterranean Sea near the island of Malta. It’s thought to be at least 2700 years old and contains some of the oldest Phoenician artefacts ever uncovered. For archaeologists and historians who study these ancient people, the shipwreck has offered new information and ideas. The ocean takes much from us, and upon occasion, it also gives back. Sometimes, though, what it gives us is something less inspiring. Sometimes, it literally gives us back our dead.

One such example comes from 1775. The legend speaks of a whaling vessel, discovered off the western coast of Greenland in October of that year. Now, this is a story with tricky provenance, so the details will vary depending on where you read about it. The ship’s name might have been the Octavius, or possibly the Gloriana, and from what I can tell, the earliest telling of this tale can be traced back to a newspaper article in 1828. The story tells of how one Captain Warren discovered the whaler drifting through a narrow passage in the ice off the coast of Greenland. After hailing the vessel and receiving no reply, their own ship was brought near, and the crew boarded the mysterious vessel. Inside, though, they discovered a horrible sight. Throughout the ship, the entire crew was frozen to death where they sat. When they explored further and found the captain’s quarters, the scene inside was even more eerie. There in the cabin were more bodies: a frozen woman, holding a dead infant in her arms; a sailor holding a tinder box, as if trying to manufacture some source of warmth; and there, at the desk, sat the ship’s captain. One account tells of how his face and eyes were covered in a green, wet mould. In one hand, the man held a fountain pen, and the ship’s log was open in front of him. Captain Warren leaned over and read the final entry, dated November 11th, 1762, 13 years prior to the ship’s discovery. “We have been enclosed in the ice 70 days”, it said. “The fire went out yesterday and our master has been trying ever since to kindle it again, but without success. His wife died this morning. There is no relief”. Captain Warren and his crew were so frightened by the encounter that they grabbed the ship’s log and retreated as fast as they could back to their own ship. The Octavius, if indeed that was the ship’s name, was never seen again.

The mid-1800s saw the rise of the steel industry in America. It was the beginning of an empire that would rule the economy for over a century, and like all empires, there were capitals: St. Louis, Baltimore, Buffalo, Philadelphia. All of these cities played host to some of the largest steel works in the country, and for those that were close to the ocean, this created the opportunity for the perfect partnership – the shipyard. Steel could be manufactured and delivered locally and then used to construct the ocean-going steamers that were the lifeblood of late-19th century life. The flood of immigration through Ellis Island, for example, wouldn’t have been possible without these steamers. My own family made that journey. One such steamer to roll out of Philadelphia in 1885 was the S. S. Valencia. She was 252ft long and weighed in at nearly 1600 tonnes. The Valencia was built before complex bulkheads and hull compartments, and she wasn’t the fastest ship on the water, but she was dependable. She spent the first decade and a half running passengers between New York City and Karakas, Venezuela. In 1897, while in the waters near Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, the Valencia was attacked by a Spanish cruiser. The next year, she was sold and moved to the west coast, where she served in the Spanish-American war as a troop ship between the US and the Philippines. After the war, the Valencia was sold to a company that used the ship to sail between California and Alaska, but in 1906, she filled in for another ship that was under repair, and her new route became San Francisco to Seattle. They gave the ship a check-up in January of that year, and everything checked out good. For a 24-year-old vessel, the Valencia was in perfect working order.

She set sail on the 20th of January 1906, leaving sunny California and heading north. The ship was crewed by nine officers, 56 crew members and played host to over 100 passengers. Somewhere near Cape Mendocino off the coast of northern California, though, the weather turned sour. Visibility dropped, and the winds kicked up. When you’re on a ship at night, even a slow one, losing the ability to see is a very bad thing. Typically, without visual navigation a captain might fall back on the celestial method, using the stars in the same way sailors did centuries ago, but even that option was off the table for Captain Oscar Johnson, and so he used the only tool he had left: dead reckoning. The name alone should hint at the efficacy of the method. Using last known navigational points as a reference, Captain Johnson essentially guessed at the Valencia’s current location. But guessing can be deadly, and so instead of pointing the ship at the Strait of Juan de Fuca, between Vancouver Island and Washington State, he unknowingly aimed it at the island itself. Blinded by the weather and faulty guesswork, the Valencia struck a reef just 50ft from the shore near Pachena Point on the south-west side of Vancouver Island. They say the sound of the metal ripping apart on the rocks sounded like the screams of dozens of people. It came without warning, and the crew did what they could to react by immediately reversing the engines, backing off the rocks. Damage control reported the hull had been torn wide open, water was pouring in at a rapid pace, and there was no hope of repairing the ship. It lacked the hull compartments that later ships would include for just such occasions, and the captain knew that all hope was lost, so he reversed the engines again and drove the ship back onto the rocks. He wasn’t trying to destroy the Valencia completely, but to ground her, hoping that would keep her from sinking as rapidly as she might at sea. That’s when all hell broke loose. Before Captain Johnson could organise an evacuation, six of the seven life boats were lowered over the side. Three of those flipped over on the way down, dumping out the people inside. Two more capsized after hitting the water, and the sixth boat simply vanished. In the end, only one boat made it safely away.

Frank Lehn was one of the few survivors of the shipwreck. He later described the scene in all its horrific detail: “Screams of women and children mingled in an awful chorus with the shrieking of the wind, the dash of rain, and the roar of the breakers. As the passengers rushed on deck they were carried away in bunches by the huge waves that seemed as high as the ship's mastheads. The ship began to break up almost at once and the women and children were lashed to the rigging above the reach of the sea. It was a pitiful sight to see frail women, wearing only night dresses, with bare feet on the freezing ratlines, trying to shield children in their arms from the icy wind and rain”. About that same time, the last life boat made it safely away under the control of the ship’s boatswain, Officer Timothy McCarthy. According to him, the last thing he saw after leaving the ship was, and I quote, “the brave faces looking at us over the broken rail of a wreck, and of the echo of a great hymn sung by the women through the fog and mist and flying spray”. The situation was desperate. Attempts were made by the ship’s remaining crew to fire a rescue line from the lyle gun into the trees at the top of the nearby cliff. If someone could simply reach the line and anchor it, the rest of the passengers would be saved. The first line they fired became tangled and snapped clean, but the second successfully reached the cliff above. A small group of men even managed to make it to shore. There were nine of them, led by a school teacher named Frank Bunker, but when they reached the top of the cliff, they discovered the path forked to the left and the right; Bunker picked the left. Had he instead turned right, the men would have come across the second lyle line within minutes and possibly saved all the remaining passengers. Instead, he led the men along a telegraph line path for over two hours before finally managing to get a message out to authorities about the accident, making a desperate plea for help - and help was sent, but even though the three separate ships that raced to the site of the wreck tried to offer assistance, the rough weather and choppy seas prevented them from getting close enough to do any good. Even still, the sight of the ships nearby gave a false sense of hope to those remaining on the wreckage, so when the few survivors onshore offered help, they declined. There were no more lifeboats, no more lifelines to throw, and no ships brave enough to get closer. The women and children stranded on the ship clung to the riggings and rails against the cold Pacific waters, but when a large wave washed the wounded ship off the rocks and into deep water, everyone was lost. All told, 137 of the 165 lives aboard the ship were lost that cold, early January morning. If that area of the coastline had yet to earn its modern nickname of “the graveyard of the Pacific”, this was the moment that cemented it.

The wreck of the Valencia was clearly the result of a series of unfortunate accidents, but officials still went looking for someone to blame. In the aftermath of the tragedy, the Canadian government took steps to ensure lifesaving measures along the coast that could help with future shipwrecks. A lighthouse was constructed near Pachena Point and a coastal trail was laid out that would eventually become known as the West Coast Trail, but the story of Valencia was far from over. Keep in mind there have been scores of shipwrecks, tragedies that span centuries, in that very same region of water, and like most areas with a concentrated number of tragic deaths, unusual activity has been reported by those who visit. Just five months after the Valencia sank, a local fisherman reported an amazing discovery. While exploring seaside caves on the south-western coast of Vancouver Island, he described how he stumbled upon one of the lifeboats within the cave. In the boat, he claimed, were eight human skeletons. The cave was said to be blocked by a large rock, and the interior was at least 200ft deep. Experts found it hard to explain how the boat could have made it from the water outside into the space within, but theories speculated that an unusually high tide could possibly have lifted the boat up and over. A search party was sent out to investigate the rumour, but it was found that the boat was unrecoverable, due to the depth of the cave and the rocks blocking the entrance. In 1910, the Seattle Times ran a story with reports of unusual sightings in the area of the wreck. According to a number of sailors, a ship resembling the Valencia had been witnessed off the coast. The mystery ship could have been any local steamer, except for one small detail: the ship was already floundering on the rocks, half submerged. Clinging to the wreckage, they say, were human figures, holding on against the wind and the waves.

Humans have had a love affair with the ocean for thousands of years. Across those dark and mysterious waters lay all manner of possibility: new lands, new riches, new cultures to meet and trade with. Setting sail has always been something akin to the start of an adventure, whether that destination was the northern passage or just up the coast, but an adventure at sea always comes with great risk; we understand this in our core. It makes us cautious, it turns our stomachs, it fills us with equal parts dread and hope, because there on the waves of the ocean, everything can go according to plan, or it can all fail tragically. Maybe this is why the ocean is so often used as a metaphor for the fleeting, temporary nature of life. Time, like waves, eventually wear us all down. Our lives can be washed away in an instant, no matter how strong or high we build them. Time takes much from us, just like the ocean. Waters off the coast of Vancouver Island are a perfect example of that cruelty and risk. They can be harsh, even brutal, toward vessels that pass through them. The cold winters and sharp rocks leave ships with little chance of survival, and with over 70 shipwrecks to date, the graveyard of the Pacific certainly lives up to its reputation. For years after the tragedy of 1906, fishermen and locals on the island told stories of a ghostly ship that patrolled the waters just off the coast. It’s said it was crewed by skeletons of the Valencia sailors who lost their lives there. It would float into view and then disappear, like a spirit, before anyone could reach it. In 1933, in the waters just north of the 27-year-old wreck of the Valencia, a shape floated out of the fog. When a local approached it, the shape became recognisable; it was a lifeboat. It looked as if it had just been launched moments before and yet there, on the side of the boat, were pale letters that spelled out a single word: Valencia.

[Closing statements]

[twentyonepilotsficlibrary]

Miscellaneous Fandoms Fic Rec Masterlist

This is something new we’re trying out. In our admin group chat we all started talking about our other fandoms/pairings we read and thought it might be fun to share some of our favorite fics. 

I know not everyone will be into this idea but i think it’s easily ignored if it’s not your cup of tea. Otherwise we hope you enjoy this mess of fics, maybe you’ll find yourself a new pairing, or maybe you’ll get inspired to write Joshler. 

we hope you enjoy! 

**this will be a long post**

Madi’s recs

Teen Wolf - Sterek (Stiles Stilinski & Derek Hale)

Cornerstone by Vendelin (6/6 | 83738 | Explicit)

Suffering from PTSD, ex-Marine Derek Hale moves back to Beacon Hills to open a bookshop and find a calmer life. That’s where he meets Stiles, completely by accident. Stiles is talkative, charming and curious. Somehow, despite the fact that he’s blind, he’s able to read Derek like no one else.

//PTSD //anxiety attacks 

No Homo by orphan_account (12/12 | 84092 | Explicit)

Stiles' sophomore year starts something like this: 3 FourLokos + 1 peer-pressuring cat - 1 best bro to end all best bros = 1 Craigslist ad headline that reads "str8 dude - m4m - strictly platonic". Derek is the fool who replies.

//internalized homophobia 

We Got Claws by Onlymystory (15/15 | 34914 | Mature)

Peter, Isaac, and Scott get de-aged. Stiles and Derek take care of them.

Harry Potter - Drarry (Harry Potter & Draco Malfoy)

Open For Repairs by FeelsForBreakfast (1/1 | 34901 | Mature)

After the war, Draco works at a tv repair shop and Harry breaks things.

feat. sad boys in jumpers and more ABBA than is probably necessary

There's a Pure-Blood Custom For That byLomonaaeren (36/36 | 105549 | Mature) 

The day that Harry stops Draco Malfoy and his son from being bothered in the middle of Diagon Alley starts a strange series of interactions between him and Malfoy. Who knew there was a pure-blood custom for every situation?

Transfigurations by Resonant (1/1 | 71284 | Explicit)

Five years after Voldemort's defeat, Harry returns to England to help re-open Hogwarts.

//major character death 

IT - Reddie (Richie Tozier & Eddie Kaspbrak)

Yours Truly by Buttercup12 (14/14 | 51414 | Mature)

Eddie Kaspbrak has it bad. He’s bullied for being a tiny, delicate, hypochondriac boy. He’s also bullied for being very, very, very gay. Long story short, his life isn’t the easiest.

However, that’s all a piece of cake when compared to his gigantic, pathetic crush on Derry High’s most popular and oh so very straight Trashmouth, Richie Tozier.

Richie has no idea he even exists.

Right?

Wrong.

ugly moon by weepies (27/27 | 79482 | Teen and Up)

Richie Tozier hasn’t spoken a word to anybody since he came to Derry in the middle of the school year. Until he talks to Eddie Kaspbrak.

//abuse mention

----------------------

Christie’s recs

Harry Potter - Drarry (Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter)

Turn by Saras_Girl (14/14 | 306,708 | Explicit)

One good turn always deserves another. Apparently.

All Our Secrets Laid Bare by firethesound (16/16 | 149,549 | Explicit)

Over the six years Draco Malfoy has been an Auror, four of his partners have turned up dead. Harry Potter is assigned as his newest partner to investigate just what is going on.

South Park - Creek (Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak)

Do Not Try This At Home by Marasa (6/? | 32,100 | Mature)

A post is made that night detailing the rules of their arrangement:

• Video must be taken of the event.

• Video must be uploaded.

• Turns will be taken; after one group uploads, the other must upload as answer to the original post. This ensures equal stunts and higher expectations with each stunt.

• Don’t half-ass it; this is a fucking competition!

//depression //anxiety //past abuse //drug use

The Roommate by DoAsYouWill (27/? | 277,882 | Mature)

Craig is off to college, where he is introduced to the weirdest person he's ever met. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, (Craig can't decide), that weirdest person is his roommate.

Just your typical cliche 'meet as roommates' story, but with a lot of nostalgic undertones.

Deadpool - Cablepool (Wade Wilson/Nathan Summers)

Incognito by CQHD (Comet_Kohoutek) (2/2 | 5,810 | Explicit)

Deadpool introduces Cable to porn.

The video, Deadpool realises belatedly, is way too quiet. There's no cheesy bass line that gets stuck in his head and makes him feel each pulse in his dick. There's just the soft rustling of clothes against skin as the man strips. It's got an aesthetic to it, but it doesn't stop Deadpool from hearing the catch in Cable's breath once the man steps out of his underwear and crawls on to the desk. 

Toaster by edy (1/1 | 3,339 | Mature)

If someone were to strap you in and measure your heart rate, it wouldn't be a surprise to anyone to find it'd be beating in time with his own heart. The notion is meant to be romantic, as is customary in romances, and you think it might be romantic if an uneven heart rate wasn't a sign of a serious health condition.

//suicidal thoughts 

----------------------

Sydney’s Recs

South Park 

Do Not Try This At Home by Marasa (6/? || 32,100 || Mature)

A post is made that night detailing the rules of their arrangement:

• Video must be taken of the event.

• Video must be uploaded.

• Turns will be taken; after one group uploads, the other must upload as answer to the original post. This ensures equal stunts and higher expectations with each stunt.

• Don’t half-ass it; this is a fucking competition!

// depression, anxiety, past abuse, drug use

A Perfect Love Like Craig and Tweek by ugandadistrict9 (1/1 || 3,783 || Teen and Up Audiences)

Tweek and Craig have been close for a few years, and everyone says that they’re dating, but Craig has neither confirmed or denied it. Tweek has developed strong feelings for Craig over the time, but is worried that Craig doesn’t feel the same way he does.

Homicidal Maniac by Maroonedpunk (3/3 || 17,654 || Teen and Up Audiences)

They called him a homicidal maniac for years.

Then came the allegations against the coffee shop.

Tweek can’t do this by himself.

// depression, anxiety, drug use, mental illness

Spirit Animals by hollycomb (1/1 || 22,191 || Not Rated)

Cartman wants to film his amateur ghost hunting show at the site of the grisly McCormick massacre. Stan hates the idea but he can’t stay away, because Kyle will be there.

✓✓ Read by Boyue (16/16 || 65,196 || Teem and Up Audiences)

WENDY Nice picture but you have the wrong number.

AKA how Stan Marsh met Kyle Broflovski through a dick pic mishap.

// depression, alcoholism, derogatory language

Detriot: Become Human (Gavid Reed/RK900)

Chrysopoeian Heart by feistymuffin (6/? || 22,826 || Explicit)

Chrysopoeia - the act of transmuting a substance into gold

Gavin doesn’t like androids… but then again, nothing’s written in stone.

// graphic depictions of violence

Still by Terminallydepraved (1/1 || 4,277 || Explicit)

Sometimes it takes someone else nearly dying to make you realize the important things.

Life sucks, but in a beautiful kind of way by ConsultingStag (5/6 || 7701 || Mature)

Gavin stares at RK900 and regrets it immediately as its gray gaze bores into him. LED spinning yellow. Dissecting what happened. Analyzing the clues in front of it. And then a perfectly fake eyebrow lifts and equally fake lips twitch into a tiny smirk and Gavin knows that he is fucked. 

----------------------

Cade’s Recs 

Its Always Sunny In Philadelphia - Macdennis (Mac/Dennis Reynolds)

a beachfront of bad blood by castielanderson (1/1 | 28,366 | Mature)

or alternatively “Dennis Tries to Kill Himself: MacDennis Remix” Originally for the 2017 MacDennis Big Bang, but alas

.

They don’t have a falling out so much as a slowly drifting apart.  Being a dad makes Dennis tired, so tired sometimes he feels like he might never have energy again, and that means that he stops checking in with Mac as often.  Eventually, they stop talking.  Mac gets a boyfriend.  Dennis stops taking his medication.

After Dennis attempts suicide, Mandy insists he return to Philadelphia with the gang, and she will follow with Brian Jr. when she can.  Faced with an unwanted recovery, a failed family, and feelings he would rather ignore, Dennis is forced to navigate uncharted waters within himself and within his relationship with Mac.

//rape/non-con //suicide attempt //self-harm //eating disorders //depression

Fullmetal Alchemist - Royed (Edward Elric/Roy Mustang)

Reverti Ad Praeteritum by Batsutousai (30/30 | 288,908 | Mature)

Unwillingly forced to serve as a human trial for a crazy alchemist experimenting with time travel, Edward Elric finds himself standing across from Truth in the moment it takes his leg from him. Armed with the knowledge of what's to come and burdened with guilt for the choices he'd made as an adult, Ed sets out to fix every mistake he ever made and save every life they ever lost, no matter what it takes.

//underage //implied/referenced dubious consent //violence 

Know the Difference by ShanaStoryteller (1/1 | 9,083 | Teen)

“You’ve heard the rumors,” Mustang says, looking at Ed over the top of his latest report, “about the angels.”

Ed scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Angels don’t exist, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Of course, of course,” he murmurs, gaze sliding back down, “There have been multiple eye witness accounts, however.”

Ed slouches into the chair and doesn’t bother to keep the contempt to from his voice when he says, “Don’t depend on anything with wings to save you. Things that were made to leave always end up doing so, in the end.”

“Yes, well,” he says, “sometimes they come back.”

a terrifying clamour of trumpets by ShanaStoryteller (1/1 | 12,194 | Teen)

Edward grabs Marcoh’s arm and says, “That stone – what can it heal, exactly?”

The old man’s eyebrows rise to his forehead, and he looks like he already knows the answer when he goes, “Why do you ask, Edward?”

There's no metallic footsteps so there’s no way Al’s close enough to hear them. “I’m sick,” he admits after another moment of deliberation.

The Codeine Scene by Xyriath (31/31 | 111,257 | Explicit)

After finding himself entangled with King Bradley's gang of criminals and no way out, Roy Mustang must struggle between balancing his morals and the need to keep himself alive. He walks a thin rope, and a chance meeting of a young man, addicted to drugs and forced into prostitution, complicates matters further. By all rights, he should consider Edward to be collateral damage, an unfortunate bystander in his already difficult situation, but this is one person Roy soon finds he can't leave behind.

//rape/non-con //forced prostitution //drug addiction //mentions of suicide //mentions of depression 

Fullmetal Alchemist - Edling (Edward Elric/Ling Yao)

Nothing Gold by Rydia (ungarmax) (1/1 | 22,219 | Teen)

Ling has gained immortality. Ed has not.

//major character death

----------------------

Bard’s Recs

Bastille - Dyle (Dan Smith/Kyle Simmons)

and in the morning you'll be stranded in love (it goes around and around)by brujay (1/1 | 15,717 | Teen)

“Have you seen Groundhog Day?”

Kyle took a moment before replying. “I have… what exactly are you trying to say, here?”

Dan sighed again. “I think I’m living it.” Dan gets trapped in a time loop, and he is not having a good time.

//panic attacks

argonautica orpheus by trailsofpaper (Sanwall) (note: it is private, you can only read if you have an account but it’s too good to not share) (6/6 | 17,478 | M)

Kyle, like Jason on the Argos, sets out on a journey to retrieve something important but, more importantly, he finds love along the way. Dan, unlike Orpheus, doesn’t look back.

(Dan and Kyle are flatmates in Leeds, but when Kyle wrecks his keyboard a week before he and Dan are about to enter a competition, they need to go to London to get another keyboard. Complications and even shenanigans ensue.)

Harry Potter - Drarry (Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter)

He Who Must Not Be Normal by lettered (1/1 | 40,913 | Explicit)

Potter has fame and fortune and posh clothes and all he wants is a simple life. Draco has a flat and a cat and a steady job and all he wants is a complicated life. Which makes you think this story has something exciting like body-swapping, but it doesn’t. Instead it has Indian takeaway and a blue jumper and people wanting a whole lot of what they can’t have, discovering themselves as they discover each other.

All Life is Yours to Miss by Saras_Girl (4/4 | 114,741 | M)

Professor Malfoy's world is contained, controlled, and as solitary as he can make it, but when an act of petty revenge goes horribly awry, he and his trusty six-legged friend are thrown into Hogwarts life at the deep end and must learn to live, love and let go.

Buzzfeed Unsolved - Shyan (Shane Madej/Ryan Bergara)

i think i'm still turning out by the_tenerife_sea (1/1 | 6,325 | General)

Shane is starting to think Ryan is using him for his baby, considering how much he’s already talked her up to all of their coworkers and friends. ____

Or the one where Shane is a new parent, and Ryan is always there for him (and his daughter, of course).

[sebbystanimagines]

Prompt: Moving to a small town like Purcell, Oklahoma might have been the best thing to ever happen to you. In more than one way.   Word Count: 1880 Warnings: Facing abuse, narcissism, feeling hopeless,  A/N: 6/6. My dudes, if abuse triggers you please don’t read this.  

Bucky made an amazing chicken dish when you got to the house, luckily nothing had been damaged more than a few stray branches in your yard so you could focus on relaxing and talking with him.

“I want to explain everything, and I was hoping you’d let me finish before asking about any of it.” He could see you were nervous, so Bucky nodded and went back to cutting his chicken.

You told him about your childhood, how it had started slowly as you got older until it was a full blown nightmare in your teen years. Your dad had passed away when you were younger and the idea of cutting out your last parent was just as heartbreaking, you couldn’t do it.

Sometimes the bruises weren’t even hidden, she would just hit my face or arms and then just not talk about it when someone asked. “If I told her that she was hurting me, she would yell in my face that I was the one hurting her, that I was a terrible daughter and disrespected her all the time. I went to the school about it, I went to the police about it, I went to family services about it. But, it’s Philly and they get calls like that all the time. I lived in a nice house, I had a room of my own, a closet full of clothes and a pantry full of food. And when they would leave I would be berated for trying to put my mother in jail.”

Bucky listened intently, sucking in air when you told him about how you’d wanted to die. How just not waking up in the morning or driving yourself off a bridge would have been preferable to what you lived with.

“I put everything I could in my name, left the car where it was and took all the money out of my bank account. Then I left in the middle of the night grabbing a train and just going. I bought the house all through a realtor on the phone months ago so I knew it was ready. All I needed was to get here.”

He waited a few beats before taking your hand. “And she doesn’t know where you are?”

“As far as I know. I deleted all my social media, I left my phone and got a new one here, I changed my social security number. Unless she does some real digging I don’t think she can find me.” The thought had occurred to you, when a car drove down the road slowly at night or when someone looked at you a little bit too long in the store. “I’m not sure if she’d even come here if she did find me anyway.”

“If she does, you call me immediately and get to the station. No one there is going to let her do anything to you.” Moving to sit with you, Bucky pulled you to his chest and kissed your forehead. “You’ve got all of us now.”

The months went by, and Purcell was feeling more and more like home every day.

Bucky spent most nights with you, finally making things official between the two of you. Andrew kept giving you more and more work helping you shadow Clint and getting you ready for the show which had come and gone with great results. And, your ribs had healed fantastically.

“You feel good about it?” Sam asked while you were out to dinner with the group. “The show’s pretty awesome, I loved it.”

Steve chuckled. “Sam stayed at that job for years just to go to the show.”

“Letting loose was great though!” There were a ton of parties in the hotels you stayed at, drinking and laughing together. “And, the winners get prize money. Andrew uses his for the farm, fixing up what needs it and replacing what can’t be fixed. When he’s done, anything extra goes to everyone else in one way or another. If it’s a lot left over he splits it up, if it’s not that much he buys lunch for a few days.”

You hadn’t heard anything about that, not finding it your place to begin with, the ribbons and group picture having been enough to make you feel great.

“And you got your picture in the paper! Moving on up the equestrianism world there Y/N.”

Bucky smiled at you, the newspaper had listed you by name and you were worried that it would get back to Philadelphia, but almost a week later and nothing had happened. You started to let your guard down. “Well, it’s paying the bills that’s for sure. Speaking of which, I have to go get groceries and you two need to get to work.”

They were on night shift this week, which meant your nights were spent all alone and that gave you time to get groceries. The store was quiet as you walked in waving to the cashier and grabbing a cart. Going through the aisles you saw only a few other people, and the quiet helped you realize when something was wrong. Mirrors were situated at the end of ever aisle to make sure no one ran into each other turning out, and checking one of them you saw the one person you had hoped to never see again.

Your fight or flight reflex kicked in, turning around you walked off quickly making your way to the cashier. Nothing in your cart was cold, you’d come back for that. “Hey Jane, sorry I’m rushing tonight. How’s your sister?”

The woman chatted happily, oblivious to your discomfort, and when everything was paid for you waved your good bye and ran to the truck. But you didn’t make it there in time. “Y/N!”

Throwing the bags into the back seat you jumped in and turned over the engine. “Leave me alone!”

“Y/N, just talk to me!” Speeding out of the space you watched her get into a rental and follow you, no heavy traffic made it easier to do that. Getting to the station in record time you started for the door only to be cut off by the car. “I am your mother,” she had gone from worried and just wanting to talk, to angry that you were disobeying her. Even at 25 you were expected to be under her thumb. “You will stand here and listen to me and then you will come home with me!”

“I never had a home with you! I’m an adult, I’m not going anywhere with you and I don’t have to listen to you berate me anymore.”

Sticking up for yourself always felt like a mistake, like you were spitting in her face, and even now you wanted to apologize. “How dare you. Do you know how many people I’ve had to tell that you moved to Colorado to become a ski instructor? All because I can’t actually tell them I don’t know where my daughter is! Do you understand how embarrassing that is for me?”

“Almost as embarrassing as a grown woman screaming in a parking lot at her daughter.” Steve’s arms were crossed as he stared at your mom. “Y/N is an adult, nothing she did was illegal, and everything she did was to protect herself.”

“She doesn’t need to protect herself from me!” The sickeningly sweet fake voice was back, your skin crawled from the memories of it. “I’m her mommy, she’s always safe with me.”

The term mommy made everyone’s faces turn. Who told people their 25 year old called them that? “The x-rays tell a different story.” You watched as her face fell in shock and then grew angry.

“I’ll bet she told you that I killed her cat too, that fleabag got out and was run over by a car.”

Steve took a half step forward. “I don’t care what you have to say, I know Y/N and right now I see that she’s terrified. And that’s all that matters to me right now. So, if she wants you to go away then you’ll leave and not speak to her again. I’ll get a protection order if I have to.”

Looking towards you, you could see that your mom was going to plead with you to let her stay, but you knew that if you did that she would just rip into you later than night. “I left for a reason. I’d like you to go.”

Tears welled up in her eyes but they weren’t sad, she was livid. “You’ll regret this.”

“I know, but it’s not going to change my mind.” She got in the car and drove off, Steve watching for the brake lights to completely fade before turning to you. “I just need to get inside.”

“You’re alright Y/N, we’ve got you.”

A squad car drove up and before you knew it Bucky and Sam were at your side too. “What happened.”

“Her mom showed up. She’s gone for now.”

Bucky held you close, letting you latch onto his shirt to ground you. “Come on, we’ll get you something to drink.” Leading her inside Sam said he would get some water and you were taken to a small room. The couch wasn’t comfortable but you could barely feel it anyhow. “What happened?”

“I was at the store, I s-saw her and I just came here.”

“The woman almost ran her over Buck,” Steve sat in a chair across the room. “I saw Y/N pull in and went to go meet her and saw what happened.”

You weren’t sure what was next, did you file the report? Did you get a protection order? What were you supposed to do? “Are you hurt?”

His blue eyes were wide and you realized for the first time in years what genuine love felt like. “No, just scared.”

The water was cool on your lips and it helped bring your heart back down to a steady pace. “We can do this however you want, but I don’t think you should stay at your house alone right now.”

Steve and Sam had slowly become your friends, they cared for you and wouldn’t let you get hurt. “I can call Nat and Wanda, see if they’ll let me crash on their couch.”

You were more than welcome to stay with the girls and Bucky moved you towards the squad car when you went to leave. “We’ll drive you. Leave you truck here you can get it tomorrow.”

The entire way there Bucky held your hand, making sure you knew that you weren’t alone in this and that he was going to be by your side through all of it. He even picked you up the next morning on his way home from work and carried you into his house so you could keep sleeping.

Waking up caged in his arms, you realized just how much love and affection you’d been deprived of and when the emotion overcame you Bucky reflexively tightened his arms and pulled you closer, still asleep the entire time.

You’d been right, Philadelphia had never been the place for you.

You were home now.

And you were to the point of jumping right into this with Bucky with no reservations. Well, almost none.

[walkerismychoice]

Body Language (Damien X MC)

Book: Perfect Match

Rating: PG-13 and a small bit of NSFW mentioned that you will miss if you blink

Note: This is the continuation of my canon-ish fic following Damien and MC's relationship development, taking liberties where I can without changing what happens in the actual book. Much of the quoted dialogue comes directly from the actual chapter but there is original dialogue and character/s as well.

Tag List: @simplyaiden-blog, @kamybelen-blog, @butindeed, @lizeboredom,

Word Count: 2498

Master List Damien X MC Series - Find other fics in the series here

Two weeks had passed since Steve disappeared and Nadia was still a wreck. She seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown, spending all her time and energy trying to put the pieces together to figure out what happened. Kai was growing more concerned about her every day. Luckily Damien had come through and was finding some leads. The more information Kai learned, the more things didn’t add up. Steve’s social media accounts were wiped clean; his work had never heard of him. Damien promised to keep working on the case to see what else he could find.

In the meantime, Kai felt guilty that things were going well with Hayden. Nadia was still falling apart, but she couldn’t let that be a reason to put her relationship on hold. Hayden took Kai to the opera and the date was amazing, it really was. Hayden got box seats for them and even showed his rebellious side, sneaking Kai backstage after the show. So why did Kai still feel like something was missing?

Hayden made a comment about feeling sometimes like he was outside of himself, just going through the motions. Kai joked about it, asking Hayden if he was an alien or something, but the truth was, she actually did kind of feel like she was going through the motions with Hayden. When he was going down on her, making her come backstage at the opera house, she should have been in the moment with Hayden. Instead, she was imagining it was Damien. She couldn’t get him out of her head and she had to do something about it.  Exactly what, she wasn’t sure, but she had to start pushing Damien to see if there could be something real between them. She felt bad stringing Hayden along, but he really was a great guy. Maybe once she had an answer either way on the Damien situation, she could make a clear decision about her future with Hayden.

Kai mulled over all of this on the ride to Philadelphia. Damien was cryptic about why they were going, but it had something to do with Steve. Kai wanted to get to the bottom of this for Nadia’s sake, but truthfully she was happy to spend whatever time she could with Damien, and standing on the street watching Damien in intense defective mode was hot. She thought there was no time like the present to start testing the waters with him.

“Damien, it’s cute to see you in full detective mode. All intense and mysterious with your clues and sneaking and–”

Before Kai could finish Damien cut her off. “Get Back!” He held out an arm and pressed Kai against the wall, his chest to her back. He whispered in her ear, his voice quiet but commanding. “Keep quiet and watch.” Probably only seconds passed but it was enough time for inappropriate thoughts to float through Kai’s mind. She knew she should be focusing on whatever they were there to see, but all she could think about was the length of his firm body pressed to hers and his warm lips grazing her ear sending shivers down her spine as he gave directives. Damien then lifted his arm and pointed across the street “There.” Kai looked and couldn’t believe what she saw. It was Steve but he looked nothing like he did just a few weeks ago; now with green hair, piercings, and a leather jacket. What happened to the straight-laced looking Steve that Nadia knew?

 =====

Damien was glad his leads paid off and they had found Steve, but nothing made sense. He changed his looks and truly seemed to not know who they were when he cornered them. Damien would have thought he Steve had an identical twin if the scar from the car accident hadn’t given him away.  All of this added to the fact that Cecile from Eros was in the background of the picture of Steve with his dad in high school pointed to something suspicious. Poor Nadia was devastated all over again because she now had more questions than answers. At least she had taken Damien’s suggestion to take the self-defense class with Kai. Getting some of that aggression out had to help.

Speaking of Kai, Damien was starting to get some more mixed signals from her. She seemed to be going strong with Hayden, but there were little things that he would normally interpret as flirting going on between Kai and himself. He didn’t even have a chance to process or respond when Kai called him cute when they were in Philadelphia looking for Steve. And her telling him he was the Watson to her Sherlock and gushing about how good he was at his job after interrogating Steve. Her nudging him back playfully when he nudged her with his elbow. Like Kai said, he was good at reading body language and analyzing demeanor, but he was second guessing himself with her because he was so scared to get it wrong.

The confusion with Kai coupled with the mystery surrounding Steve led Damien to do something he never thought he would do in a million years. He decided to try and get matched up through Eros. He told himself it was mostly so he could get a look at Eros from the inside, but if Kai was going to be with Hayden, he hoped maybe he could find someone too. He didn’t want to die alone if Kai would never love him back the way he loved her.  Unfortunately he was rejected by Eros. Maybe they were onto him because he asked too many questions, or they figured out what he did for a living, but maybe he just wasn’t good enough, and the thought of this really had him down.  He did have some investigative findings to share with Kai, so he called her up and asked her to meet him in front of Eros.  

Kai met Damien just as he walked outside. He explained what he found: cameras all over the place, security patrolling every floor, key cards for all employees, and a loading dock out back. It was more locked down than a government research facility. Kai did agree that this was strange, but she seemed more interested in Damien’s motives for taking the Eros quiz.

“The Perfect Match Quiz? Why?”

Damien grabbed the back of his neck and groaned. “I don’t know. Curiosity maybe?”

“And?” Kai pressed.

Ugh, he had to say it out loud. “They said, and I quote…I’m ‘ineligible for a perfect match.’

"Damien…They’re idiots, I think you’re great”

“Oh, I know.” As soon as he said it, he felt like an asshole. Kai was being sincere; maybe even insinuating Damien was great in a more than just friends way. He couldn’t just accept the compliment and have a moment with her. He had to deflect with sarcasm to avoid real feelings like he always did.

“Wow, never again am I playing the compassionate human card with you.” Kai had a smile on her face, but there was a hint of disappointment there. “I just don’t understand why they would reject you?”

“Heh, who knows? It seems my skeptical reputation precedes me. I guess I didn’t make the exclusive cut.” Damien laughed and tried to play it off like he wasn’t bothered but he wasn’t sure Kai was buying it. “I’m fine Kai…Yeah, let’s not waste time talking about this. Anyway, I’m about to head to a nearby pub for a drink. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”

“Don’t tell me…Archer and Hopps? Nadia says that’s where you go for some serious brooding time.”

“Dammit Nadia…” Shit, he didn’t mean to say that loud. “No, I mean yeah. But only come if you want to.

"Do you want me to?” Kai asked expectantly.

“I wouldn’t say yes if it was anyone else, but…Yes, I’d like that. Shall we?” And he truly meant it. There was no one else Damien would rather be with at that moment.

======

Kai looked around at the decor in Archer and Hopps. She didn’t know why she had pictured some dive bar, but this place was actually nice. The bartender Flynn clearly knew Damien well. If he came here to brood, maybe Flynn would be the one person Damien actually opened up to. Kai wondered if she could get anything out of him.

“So…any deep dark secrets about Damien you’re willing to share Flynn?” Kai saw a look of panic cross Damien’s face as his eyes went wide. Flynn had to know things about Kai. What else would Damien be so afraid of?

“Nope, Bartenders code of conduct. Though you’d be more than welcome to pry…if you can beat Damien at the Nazario chug.”

“Why? Why would you bring up the Nazario chug?” Kai sensed Damien was starting to regret brining her here. Flynn brought out a deck of and poured two Dark and Stormys. Basically, the game was just truth or dare with a deck of cards, which meant Damien was bound to have to share some secrets and Kai was all for it. “I’d suggest not playing a game named after me. But seeing you do a few dares would make me feel better.”

Kai was up first and drew a red card which meant truth. Damien went straight for a big one. “How are things going with Hayden?”

Kai had not had enough alcohol yet to answer this truthfully. What was she supposed to say? ‘He’s great but I’d dump him in an instant if you told me you wanted to be with me?’ And she didn’t want to say things were going well and discourage Damien, so she decided to dodge the question and drink.  “Not your business, cheers!”

“Scared you’re going to hurt my feelings?”

“Didn’t think you had any.”

Damien laughed as Kai took her 5 sips per the number on the card. “You won’t Kai, I’ll sort out my love life eventually. On my own terms. My own pace.”

Kai didn’t know what to make of Damien’s reaction. He was the one who brought up his feelings being affected by Kai and Hayden but then he played it off like he didn’t care. What did ‘I’ll sort out my love life eventually’ even mean? Was it possible it really did have something to do with her and he would get around to dealing with it when he was ready? At this rate, Kai and Damien would be dead before Damien got up the courage to say anything.

Damien drew a three of cluns, so Kai came up with an idea to embarrass him by making him yell a list of compliments about her to the whole bar, including how hot she was. If Damien wasn’t going to say what he really felt, she would make him do it, even if it was just for show.

Much to Kai’s surprise, Damien chugged his drink and hopped up on the bar, asking for the whole room’s attention. This is not what she expected from the Damien she knew. “I’d like to take a moment to celebrate my friend who’s here with me tonight. Kai is the most brilliant, funny, and not to mention hottest person in this room. So cheers to Kai, whom I adore very much.” Damien jumped down from the bar with a grin. “Happy?” Kai really was happy. She made Damien smile, but it was also good to hear him say those nice things about her, even if it was forced. He said he adored her, and it felt genuine.

The game went on for a while with Kai and Damien downing nearly three quarters of a bottle of Bacardi between them. Flynn came over to check in and shuffled the deck with a mischievous look on his face. He handed the deck to Damien who drew a queen of hearts. Damien glared at Flynn who had obviously set him up.

“It’s a special draw.” Flynn explained. “Can’t be skipped. And the question must revolve around one’s love life.”

Kai though carefully. She wanted so bad to ask about Damien how he really felt about her, but she still wasn’t feeling brave enough. She asked about his last serious relationship instead.

“Don’t think anyone’s asked me that before...” Damien laughed nervously, averting his eyes and twirling his drink. “She was my partner when I worked at NYPD. Fierce, incredibly smart. Difficult…some would say. We worked together at Interpol overseas, and it was good…for a while. Then our case went south. I was shipped back home, and she had a choice. Me or the job. I…I really though she’s choose me for a second.” Damien moved on to joking about Eros, saying he was glad he got rejected up front rather than facing heartbreak or divorce later, but Kai could tell he was hurting.

“Eros has got stats and science, but they don’t know you, Damien.” Kai reached for Damien’s hand “You’re a good guy…and an even better friend. You’ll find the right person.”

“Thanks, Kai. Means a lot.” Damien gazed into Kai’s eyes briefly but then abruptly stood up. “It’s getting late. But I’m…glad you came with me.”

The look in Damien’s eyes told Kai more than his words had all evening, and for a moment she found the courage to say what was on her mind.  “Me too. But wait, before we go, I need to ask you something. I need to know before things get more serious with Hayden; do you still have feelings for me?”

Damien was taken aback and fumbled for words. “I…uh…why…” Before he could come up with a coherent response, a woman walked into the bar and his attention was focused on her. She walked right up to the two of them. She appeared a bit rough around the edges but she was pretty and about the same age as Damien, maybe a couple years older.

“Hey Damien! How have you been? I was hoping you would call me again after the other night. We had a lot of fun together.” Did this woman have no tact?

The woman was facing Damien and away from Kai. Kai mouthed to Damien. ‘Is that her?’

Damien nodded almost imperceptibly. “Kai this is Amber. Amber this is my best friend Kai.”

Amber turned to face Kai and looked her up and down. “Oh, so this is Kai.”

How did Amber know who she was? Did Damien talk about Kai with everyone except Kai herself? Whatever moment she and Damien were having was now over, and she didn’t feel like playing nice with Amber. “Damien, I’m going to catch a cab home. “

“Wait just a second. I’ll walk out with you.” Damien grabbed his coat.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. Stay and hang out with your friend. I’ll talk to you soon.” Damien opened his mouth to object but Kai turned and walked out the door, and he didn’t follow.