#objectively the correct & only response to that

[max1461]

I don't have much to say to this as a whole because I don't feel that it directly contradicts my argument, but I have a bunch of random nitpicks and comments.

I don't think anyone is actually learning anything in the above exchange.

I agree.

These days, we might say, "That doesn't sound like it's going to survive the replication crisis," if centrist

This centrist would be correct—not for instrumentalist political reasons, as you suggest, but for underlying epistemic reasons (something far more important and timeless than petty Current Year political disputes).

a right-winger might dismiss almost the entire field of anthropology since 1970 based on new studies of historical migration patterns and then start challenging Mr. A on his other beliefs.

Only right-wingers know about the Caucasus-Lower Volga Cline... Only right-wingers know about Mal'ta boy...

No, the actually truth is that most right-wingers know jack shit about ancient population movements (just like most leftists, just like most people); a tiny group of online rightists keep up with archeogenetics so that they can be racist better, but with the overall left-wing bent of academia I'd wager the absolute number of left-wingers who know as much about the subject is higher.

Anyway, the ancient DNA revolution doesn't invalidate all of anthropology since the 70s, that's completely ridiculous.

A normie might just blow it off and then not comply, or might say, "Keep your hands off my wife." (Possibly followed with, "Can't you see you're making her uncomfortable?")

Outside the context of an intellectual debate of some kind, this would be objectively the most reasonable response. This is all that is necessary. No evopsych required.

Someone with less tact and/or less personal experience might answer, "Haven't you heard of paternal uncertainty, dumbass?" (i.e. "It's normal and healthy for a male to have relationship jealousy.")

This person would actually be invoking a lot of unstated and easily-contestable philosophical assertions (normal=desirable, normal=healthy=desirable, etc.) in addition to the unnecessary invocation of evopsych. It's the single least-sensible response in your list!

Personally, I don't think you can really learn human nature from the contemporary social sciences without discernment and going through the effort to check studies manually

I agree.

(although psychology should be OK in the field of mental illness,

This is one of the most methodologically shaky parts of psychology!

and economics is good until you hit the limits of its underlying basis).

My friend who is a mechanism design PhD would I think have a field day with the claim that econ is good for learning human nature; he reads my blog so I'll see what he has to say.

Anyhow, having described the discursive front above, we can then think about how to shift it.

I would say that the way to alter the composition is to bring forth the better arguments (and better evidence) so that they are ready to hand, and cultivate improved social skills.

There is no reason to alter it. The normie already has a reasonable response, if he doesn't want to engage in polyamory or whatever. Just do that!

The contemporary right-wing position (depending on which part of the right we're talking about) is that essentially everything is subject to evolutionary dynamics. As I told Nick Land (not that it moved him very much), I think this undervalues the role of choice, and also undervalues the effects of friction across time and space.

I assume you're talking about some extremely online subset of the right. This certainly isn't the explicit position of the mainstream right (searching around, it seems less than half of US Republicans believe in evolution at all, although all the numbers I can find are a few years old). It doesn't seem like the implicit position, either, from anything I've observed. Far from it, the right has taken a major conspiracist turn, by which the view that everything in politics is caused intentionally by some conscious actor has grown extremely common. I would make almost the polar opposite diagnosis of the right.

In terms of how I would use evolutionary psychology, I might bring up the Gombe Chimpanzee War as evidence that organized war for territory is not unique to humans, and therefore likely not a product of contemporary ideology or social relations (at least, not entirely).

(On the other hand, the idea of "alpha wolves" is now said to have been based solely on the observation of wolves in captivity, and apparently isn't a good fit for wild wolves.)

This all seems perfectly fine and reasonable to me, but is fairly divorced from evopsych as a field or any of its issues.

Well, I think that's part of the appeal—believing unflattering stories about the world makes you feel privy to the Dark Truth that everything else is Too Afraid To Admit, while also giving you plenty of material to tar your opponents with, etc. etc. But really it's uniquely shameful for the rationalists, because evopsych is at the intersection of like three axes of epistemic shaky-ground.

[baltharino]

Batman Returns (1992) Dir. Tim Burton

[optimisticgardenhologram]

So...while looking at Near's shopping list I'm wondering, is this rate of consumerism normal for Near? Or was he going extra hard in toy and hobby purchases to deal with the stress of the Kira case?

Do we think Near has a shopping addiction, or...?

[nostalgebraist]

Unsurprisingly, I have also done stuff like this. (Asking LLMs to read and review my fiction, I mean.)

In my most recent and elaborate attempts, I've framed the task as "liveblogging" rather than reading and digesting a whole book at once. I split the book into short batches of chapters and send the batches one by one to the LLM within the same context window, and ask it to make notes/comments/"liveblog entries" after reading each batch. And if we're nearing the end of its context window, I'll ask it to produce a longer notes-to-self document including anything worth capturing from the batches so far that it didn't include in earlier notes, then start a fresh context window and give it all of its earlier notes but not any of the text of earlier chapters, and proceed from there with additional batches of chapter text.

This is the same idea I described in this post (before I had tried it), in the parenthetical beginning with "A fairly obvious [?] idea [...]".

Compared to just putting in a whole book at once, this does make the LLMs noticeably better at following long and complex stories. In this setup I am often pleasantly surprised by the various nuances and connections they're able to pick up on, whereas if I give them either of my last two novels all at once (or in a few large, roughly context-window-sized chunks), they get hopelessly lost – often making very basic comprehension errors like "conflating two different characters," "losing track of the order in which events were narrated," "treating something as unknown because it was initially presented like a mystery, even though it got resolved later in the provided text," etc.

But it still feels like there's something basic that's missing.

I don't know quite what to call it... it's something like "the ability to notice things that 'don't fit', and to react with an appropriate level of surprise and investigative thinking."

This is not quite the same as "picking up on subtleties that some readers wouldn't notice," because they are often quite good at that – as long as they are the kind of subtleties that appear in books all the time, and which perceptive readers point out all the time. Relatedly, they are capable of producing intelligent-sounding and appropriate commentary on themes and writing quality and stuff like that, but only if that commentary... "fits into a familiar stylistic shape," I guess?

Like, given my prompts and my current setup, they can always produce things that sound in the abstract like "the kind of thing that a 'smart and perceptive reviewer' would write." And when the text/topic is conveniently shaped so that "generically smart-and-perceptive-sounding commentary" has a good chance of being correct, then they will often be correct in practice. But if a particular insight requires "reading against the grain" somehow, or "waking up" and realizing something bizarre is happening and saying "wait, wait, what the fuck??" in response, the LLMs will miss that insight every time.

From a human point of view, it feels like they're "not fully awake" in some sense. Or maybe "crashed," in Almost Nowhere's terminology. Like they're doing this often-virtuosic performance, but doing it from "muscle memory" in a rote and unreflective way. Unable to break out of a familiar and comfortable pattern once they've fallen into it, even when it's contextually appropriate to do so.

----

The reaction you report to TNC's ending feels like another instance of this familiar trait.

I'm not saying "they shouldn't have liked the ending, that's objectively a mistake" – but rather that this particular way of diverging from human reader reactions feels familiar to me. If they're already producing smart-perceptive-reviewer-babble that's broadly very positive, then a "sudden swerve" like "...but even though the first 80% was great it took a nosedive at the end" is just not the kind of option that's available to them in the moment.

It's quite possible that the underlying model still (internally) "notices" some of the things that human readers find odd or different or frustrating about the ending. And presumably it also "knows" in some sense that "it's great up until the ending" is actually not that uncommon as a reader response to fiction. So I don't totally know what the underlying causes are, here. In this case, the glaze/sycophancy thing probably plays a role; there's also the fact that saying "it was great except for this one part which sucked" requires making additional choices (which part sucked, and why?) and could end up looking very wrong/strange if done badly, whereas "I loved it!" is at least a safely mediocre take as long as there isn't anything about the text that obviously "requires" objecting-to (like a beyond-the-pale ideological stance or something).

----

Here's another example. My novel The Apocalypse of Herschel Schoen does something unusual with the story's position in time. At first it looks like the story is set sometime in the 20th century, probably the 1950s or 60s, but as you continue reading you keep running into these odd details that don't fit that period but do fit some other part of the 20th or 21st century.

There are a ton of these "anachronisms," and they're not very hard to pick up on (if you're a human). Most people who've commented on the book have mentioned this aspect, and as for the ones who didn't, I imagine they noticed it but just didn't feel like mentioning it.

However, although this time period thing is obvious in a certain sense, it has some properties that (I suspect) stack the deck against LLMs "noticing" it in practice. For one thing, it's very uncommon for stories to play with time in this exact way, so you can't get there just by "saying the sort of stuff that smart perceptive readers often say" – you need to actually notice specific things that are true about this particular book even though virtually every other book doesn't have them. Also, this aspect is never explicitly brought up by the text at any point, so you really do have to notice it all by yourself. (It's very noticeable! But if you somehow fail to notice it, the book will not pick up the slack for you.)

Anyway – as you no doubt expect give the above – when I have LLMs read TAoHS, they make plenty of perceptive comments about other aspects of the book, but they never notice and comment on the "anachronisms"!

This is a glaring point of divergence from human reader responses, which almost always mention them.

Sometimes, the LLM will silently pass over the topic of the time period. Other times, it may even praise the consistency of the temporal setting (which in fact is inconsistent on purpose), as in this unfortunate compliment from OpenAI's o3 (spoiler-ish stuff glossed in brackets by me):

Minor note: I appreciate how the book grounds its 1960s setting through specific details - [three specific elements consistent w/ a 60s setting] all feel period-appropriate while serving the larger themes about [accurate brief account of some larger themes].

The best I've seen any LLM do on this front was Claude Opus 4 praising "good worldbuilding about this alternate 1960s" in one liveblog entry, although it didn't elaborate on this, or mention it later as a notably distinctive quality of the book (which, again, is a thing that most human reviewers do).

Thoughts on Chilli, Northen Caves, and When I Win? Personally they're probably my favorite things on the whole list, but I feel like they never got as big a reception as a bunch of the other stuff. :(

The Northern Caves: I really really loved the first 80% of so of this. I grew up with forums and their particulars, the ways in which you'd come to know the personalities, and how the superfans would get into these long, drawn out debates that were steeped in the prior histories of conversations. There's something really magical about how TNC does this, and the "found media" elements work really well. It reminded me of the better parts of House of Leaves, I guess, and was also just hugely nostalgic (since I was in high school during the Forum Years). The philosophical stuff was also great, and the series they were reading felt rich, and nost is a great writer with wonderful prose. And then I just did not enjoy the ending at all. I think that in spite of that, I recommend it highly, and think it's one of the things on the webfic bingo card that's most worth reading.

Chili and the Chocolate Factory: I adored this one from start to finish, and also Dahl was one of the authors whose works I was steeped in growing up and also at the time it was coming out I was rereading a lot of Dahl's books with my son and also there are a few references to me and my discord server within the work. So I'm biased heavily in favor of this one, but I also also think that it's got this crazy energy to it, an insane density of ideas and weird things, and a wonderful sense of humor. Remy would probably hate to hear me say this, but I think he's one of the best writers I know. It's really really rare for me to read something and have so many individual pieces of it stick with me. I do wish that it were easier to get people on board with, because I have no clue how to pitch it to prospective readers.

When I Win: A few things here: I am just not a Pokemon guy. Red and Blue came out in 1998, when I was 12 years old, and everyone at my school was obsessed with it, and I just did not get into it, and had to suffer through a lot of Pokemon conversations I wasn't interested in. It's like the opposite of FOMO, then you wish that everyone would shut up about this thing you're "missing out" on. So whenever I read Pokemon fic, it's an uphill battle to care about the core thing, and I have enough Pokemon knowledge to get by, but sometimes it'll end up feeling like homework if I have to look up references or jokes or just understand things. Another thing is, I think Bavitz and I have very different tastes in character dialogue. I noticed this with Cockatiel x Chameleon too, and I suspect that when I get around to Bavitz's other stuff I'll see it there too. The differences in speech seem really exaggerated to me, blown out of proportion, idiolects heightened, and I think I've gotten in disagreements with people over whether this is actually true or not, but it's definitely how it feels to me. I found Cely in particular to be fairly grating whenever she spoke. This is a personal preference thing, and I don't know how much it generalizes to other people; I'm not sure that I've seen anyone else mention it, but I also haven't read a bunch of reviews.

So with that said, Bavitz is a skilled author who goes into a story with Something to Say, who milks the premise and theme for what it's worth, and brings a literary sense to his works. The fight scenes are really well done, even for someone like me who is not a Pokemon guy. There's a lot that I found interesting about competition and stagnation, the capture of competitive drive. Bavitz likes to think about the end of history a lot, and it shows here. It's thankfully a concept that I find interesting. I enjoyed the core relationship of Cely and Toril, it's a good, interesting dynamic. Without spoiling it, the ending worked well for me. Well worth reading.

[roykiller07]

realized i might actually wanna drive eventually and i might be letting go of my fundamental principle-based refusal to ever drive. now i am terrified of driving bc i actually considered what it would feel like

[princessclefairyberry]

Oh good yet another reason to unfollow and block half of this godforsaken website.

I swear to fuck the only people on this site are:

• Self-important assholes who think they deserve to tell other people how to spend their pitiful amount of leisure time and money

• Hyper-dedicated fandom, aesthetic, or art blogs who post about absolutely nothing else (this is a compliment)

• Whiny pissbabies who think they are owed other people’s hard work (mostly art) for free

• Blogs specialized in one particular political issue (half are safe to follow, the other half will reveal themselves to be violent bigots as soon as they say anything about a topic other than their usual focus; good luck figuring out which it will be ahead of time!)

• Violent bigots who are aware and open about their bigotry

• Violent bigots who have chugged the koolaid so hard that they think they are morally pure in their bigotry

• Literal teenagers who are so afraid of being shunned that they scream incessantly about what good antis they are, despite not being old enough to remember that the term originated as an insult against people being violent to folks who shipped Reylo. Proship was just Reylo antiship was just anti Reylo it’s all just the fucking Star Wars sequels please get a grip I’m fucikign loisng it over here

• Multi-topic personal blogs that aren’t meant to be curated for other people so good luck (valid, me too)

[nightingale-prompts]

Overworked- DCxDP prompt

The knight led the group of selected heroes into the throne room. Sitting before a crowd of his people was none other than the ghost king.

"Do not test His Majesty, his mood his well this day. Say only what is necessary." The knight warned before stepping aside.

The kind wasn't what Constantine had mentioned. He was young and rather small for the throne he now sits on. The green flaming crown was unmistakable though.

The young man glared at them with intense animosity, his upper lip curled as he held back a reflexive snarl. Sharp canines peeked out just for a moment as he schooled his expression.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" The kind said drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair. His black claws each clicking aginst the cold metal.

The group had been briefed on the situation by Constantine after they were summoning to this realm.

The short and sweet was that they were being mandated to appear before the king of the infinite realms for a long list of violations against the order of the universe. The current group contains Bruce, Clark, Wally, Kon, Jason, Hal, Barry, and Damian. Constantine himself will also be there but he already knows that this tribunal will have multiple groups.

The group reamined mostly silent.

"Where you not read your list of crimes?" The boy asked this time.

An attendant scurried through the crowd with a large scroll in hand before the king immediately waved him off tp return to his post.

"No, lets skip the reading. It would take cycles to get through the charges. Let me be brief. You have all been found guilty of charges of resurrection, time traveling, timeline manipulation, Planetary rearranging courtesy of Mr.Kent here, Interdimensional universe travel, and UNIVERSE MELDING! THE LIST GOES ON!" The king became more irate with every charge. "Tell me why I shouldn't banish you to an empty dimension right this instance."

Constantine knew this was all politics at the end of the day. This whole thing could be smoothed over with the right words by the right person.

"We are human." Bruce said firmly before anyone could stop him. Jason held back a groan of agitation.

"...So you are. What does that have to do with anything?" He boy asked.

"Isn't it natural for us to want to live and do whatever we can to keep living?" Bruce responded

Murmurs erupted amongst the crowd of onlookers.

"So what? Do you think you are the exception then? Look around heroes. This room is full of ghosts who would also have done to keep living. My people couldn't avoid death but they accepted it. What can I say to them if I let you go while they paid their price? How fair would that be?" The king condemned.

The murmurs turned into cheers for their king's words. It was unfair. Why do they get to do what they want without repercussions when they died without even getting the option to live?

"If it counts for anything many of us died to protect as many people as possible," Hal said.

"Well, good for you. How much was that sacrifice worth in the face of your resurrection? That probably doesn't feel cheap at all." The king said sarcastically. "I suppose that goes for most of you."

"I have an objection. Resurrection is not a choice if someone chooses to bring us back we don't get a say. By default we shouldn't be charged for it." Jason argued.

The king paused and raised a hand silencing the crowd.

"Hmmm, I suppose you are correct. Fine, I will strike it from the record." The kind relented.

The heroes had finally found an in. If they could argue their charges down they could leave.

"None of use have willingly time traveled. Hell i hated it. Being lost in time was not a chose we made." Wally said as Barry nodded along.

The king bit the inside of his cheek as he pondered the response.

"I suppose I can overlook it."

"Let me just say that any melding of the universe happened as a consequence of our battle with Darkside." Clark said getting rid of their their biggest charge.

"Darkside?" The king narrowed his eyes.

A courtier stepped forward and leaned down to whisper into the boy king's ear.

"I see. He will be added to the ledger for his crimes. His trial will not be as forgiving as yours. You will not be seeing him again." The boy silently signaled to the knight who bowed and exited with a group of others.

The boy sighed and stood up.

"Follow me."

The group was led down a long corridor to an office with stacks of paperwork from floor to ceiling lining the walls.

"Welcome to my personal hell." The king announced.

Constantine whistled at the sheer number of documents scattered across the room.

"Sorry about the whole court thing. I don't really want to do it but I kind of have to. The Observers demand some kind of punishment for violations. Also, you need to understand that your actions are kept track of and you can't escape it. When you break the rule I have to do the paperwork. AND I HATE PAPERWORK. So here is the deal. You guys bring me the people that have done worse than you on this list and I'll call it square. And if you don't I take everyone's souls." The King handed the scroll to Bruce. "I want the Al Ghul clan first."

"Wait but my-" Damian spoke out but was cut off by the King's raised hand to silance him.

"It is irrelevant to me what your personal issues are. Every violator will be judged for their crimes. If they can give me a good plea then they can return. Consider yourself lucky that you're too young for a full sentencing. As for the rest just do what I say and make up for your crimes. This is a mercy so don't complain."

It was clear that the moody young king wasn't going to argue. It was best to keep quiet and before they knew it the group was sent back to earth.

"You have no idea how lucky we got," Constantine said lighting up a cigarette and leaving to get a drink.

[phossiii]

｡𖦹°‧⭑ monsters: chapter one

synopsis: you are introduced as the arkham imported member of the creature commandos. and a certain irradiated skeleton can't seem to catch a hint.

cw: reader is a monster, mature themes, profanity, innuendos, phosphorus is phosphorus, tame chapter

"And I have this question, for all the woke feminists out there..." the man-child on the screen emphasized, turning toward the camera. "Why do only girls get such cool waterfalls?"

Flag cringed, brow raising with disappointment at the infantile argument.

The hell was the world coming to?

"All over the world, our rights as men are being denigrated—"

Having heard enough, Waller cut the feed, eyes slyly gliding over to the general for his response.

"What a bunch of clowns," Flag scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Dangerous clowns," Waller corrected, standing up from her office chair and moving toward the door. "Pokolistan is a friend of the U.S."

"Countries don't have friends."

"After your decades in the military, General Flag, I think you'd understand that true friendship is built on petroleum deposits. Especially un-mined ones in a backward-ass country that's never take advantage of its natural resources."

Leading him out the room, Waller started down the hall, exiting the corporate section of Belle Reve and entering an elevator that lead to the lower levels.

"Princess Ilana Rostovic, the heir apparent to Pokolistan, is already negotiating with the U.S for that oil," she continued, the digital screen showing that they had descended well past the basement. "And if she's overthrown by some nut-job in a witch's hat, all bets are off... We need to help Rostovic."

With a soft, digital ding, the elevator doors opened, revealing a heavily bolted and locked door with the words NON-HUMAN INTERNMENT DIVISION written in bold right above it.

Flag's brow nearly shot through the roof.

"I thought Congress put a stop to all Task Force X facilities since your daughter outed you?" he asked, suspicious.

"Technically, Congress said A.R.G.U.S can't use incarcerated human beings as mission operatives any longer," Waller corrected, typing in the password on the keypad before leaning in for the retina scan. "But what about beings that aren't human?"

"Huh?"

Entering the control room, the general was met by a multitude of screens and officers, along with a five-foot thick, Plexiglas window peering into the common area.

Warily, he approached it, and what he saw on the other side forced his eyes wide.

"What in the holy hell?"

Beyond the bolts, locks, and iron walls sat five different... creatures, each one more odd-looking than the last.

"This is Bell Reve Non-Human Internment Division," Waller introduced in a monotone. "For over fifty years, only those at the uppermost levels of security clearance are aware of its existence. By using these prisoners, I think we can arguably circumvent our new restrictions."

"Arguably?" Flag scoffed. "How?"

"Congress said we can't use human prisoners. These assholes aren't human."

"She's not a human?" he asked, nodding to the large, stitched up woman leaning against the wall.

"Is a corpse human?"

"Who is she?"

"We don't know," Waller shrugged. "We call her The Bride."

Nodding, the general turned his attention to the skeleton playing Jenga.

"Who's Jason and the Argonauts?"

"A sociopath who calls himself Dr. Phosphorus," she confirmed. "He has irradiated skin he can use to burn through people and objects."

"Well, how does that radiation affect the people around him?" Flag asked, concerned.

"If you don't sleep in the same room with him, the effects should be minimal."

"Minimal?"

"Consider it a free vasectomy."

Just then, the mutant-dog-thing sitting at the center of the room began to cough, violently, hacking up what looked to be leftovers of the day's lunch before licking it right back up.

"What is that thing?" Flag asked, disgusted.

"The Weasel," Waller answered. "It's one of the few soldiers still alive from Project Starfish in Corto Maltese. So we know it has what it takes to survive."

At the comment, he hushed up, looking off to the side with guilt.

"Sorry... I didn't mean to intimate about your son, Flag. When he died in Corto Maltese, he died a hero."

"That one looks like a discontinued dishwasher," he quickly changed the subject, pointing to the metal man sitting across from Dr. Phosphorus.

"That dishwasher killed over three-hundred Nazis in World War II. I would've dismantled it, but I thought it might come in use some day," Waller nodded. "It's known as G.I Robot."

Turning her head, her eyes trained on the meek girl sitting in the corner, who looked like both a woman and a fish.

"Next one is Nina Mazursky."

"What use is she walking around in a fishbowl?"

"Get her in water it's a different story," she answered. "She's the smartest and most reasonable of the bunch. She might be able to help you keep the rest of them in line."

Wearily, she let out a sigh, turning to one of the officers and sharing a knowing nod.

"Especially with the last one."

Raising a brow, Flag glanced back through the glass, confirming that he had been briefed on all the prisoners.

All the ones present, at least...

"There's more?" he asked.

"Imported fresh from Arkham Asylum," Waller nodded, typing in another passcode on the control panel in front of her before the door let out a resounding, harsh blare. "She passed the psych eval, though Batman was vehemently against her release."

Flag watched carefully as the doors slowly opened, two officers emerging from the shadows and revealing you, bound and gagged by a straight-jacket and bite restraint muzzle.

Instantly, his eyes shot wide, and he took an instinctual step back, disbelieving of the sight before him.

"Is that a...?  She's a living, breathing—"

"Demon, for all intents an purposes," Waller finished, unbothered. "The product of a satanic sacrifice gone wrong. (y/n) (l/n) was born with the devil get-up, and an affinity for fire magic."

Below, sat you with long, (h/c) hair, bright red skin, equally bright horns, a pointed tail, and sharp, slitted, yellow eyes. 

"I figured since we're up against a witch, why not fight sorcery with sorcery."

They forced you to sit on a dolly, feet chained to its surface, clasped so tight that it rendered you unable to move or struggle.

As if there wasn't a grenade in your brain-stem preventing you from going anywhere.

'Bastards...'

Lifting your head, you surveyed the area, taking note of each face within the freak show.

A Frankenstein rip-off...

A walking beam of cancer...

A man-dog...

A scrap heap...

And the Introvert from the Black Lagoon...

'Woulda done numbers in solitary.'

As Amanda Waller and General Rick Flag surfaced from behind you, Frankenstein, Cancer, and Man-Dog of the Ghoul Gang charged forward, launching an attack.

An attack... that was quickly thwarted with a good shock to the brain.

With loud shouts of pain, all of them, including you, stopped dead in your tracks, dropping to the ground in an instant.

Though, just as quick as it came, it left, by an act of somewhat mercy from your warden.

"This is your new task force, Flag," Waller stated, tossing him the detonation switch. "Let's call it... Task Force M. M for Monster."

"You bitch..." you growled, weakly lifting your head. "I wanna talk to the Bat... This was not part of the agreement..."

"I'm afraid Batman had no say in the matter," she stated, still completely unbothered. "You want back into your padded cell? You get this job done."

Sharply, she lifted your chin, your fiery eyes meeting hers, cold and unfeeling.

"Do I make myself clear?"

"So... you're really a—"

"Yes."

"Does that mean there's a—"

"Yes."

"Does that mean you've seen—"

"No."

"Did your mother... y'know... with a—"

"Are you fucking stupid?"

You turned to him sharply, brows furrowed and eyes blazing with annoyance and fury.

He had been at this since the goddamn helicopter took off...

"Whoa, there, doll face," Phosphorus raised his hands in defense. "Don't shoot the messenger. I'm just sayin' what we're all thinking."

Though, that was only half of it.

In actuality, Phosphorus hadn't been able to rid his thoughts of you since the COs rolled you into the facility.

He had never seen anyone like you before—devil-like, dripping in both beauty and danger—never felt so entranced, intrigued, or turned on, either.

Emphasis on the turn-on part.

Your battle-wear was a zip-up, black leather jumpsuit with the pant legs torn off, paired with finger-less gloves and thigh-high, multiple buckle boots.

The zipper perfectly exposed your cleavage, making your chest look large and perky while the shorts put your legs on delectable display, outlining the very grab-able flesh of your thighs.

That, along with your black aviators and the cigarette hanging out the corner of your mouth, made you something out of his best worst nightmare.

And someone he wanted to get to know significantly better.

"Keep it to yourself," you spat, sizing him up. "I'd rather listen to a stuck goat."

"'Cause of sacrifices or...?"

"Say one more word, cancer stick, I swear to God—"

"Can you even really do that? Y'know, 'cause of the whole demon thing..."

"Fucking moron!" you growled, igniting your fist with fire before sending a punch straight for his face.

"Hey! Knock it off!" Flag barked, forcing you to stop mid-way, the whole squad turning to him with slight surprise. "I know you all aren't exactly enthusiastic about this mission. But—"

With a roll of her eyes, Bride let out a groan, already checking herself out of the conversation.

"General, I believe you've read us wrong," Phosphorus corrected, acting as if your flaming hand wasn't inches away from his face. "We're delighted to be here, and delighted to serve our country."

"Okay... uh, great."

As the irradiated skeleton faced forward, you dropped your fist, sharing a confused look with the Bride.

"Are you smiling?" you asked him, raising a brow.

"Yes."

"Sarcastically?" she added.

"Mmm-hmm."

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning back in your seat, allowing your eyes to drift over to the man-dog.

He was harshly gnawing at his restraints, letting out whimpering noises of fear

"G.I Robot is detecting unease. Could he be, G.I Robot asks, in fear of being discovered as Nazi scum?" the scrap heap stated, retracting his hand and replacing it with a gun.

"No," Flag assured, pushing away the weapon. "Put your arm... Put your gun down. He's not a Nazi."

"Child killer, though," Phosphorus shook his head. "Not a great look."

"Supposedly, he had a bad experience the last trip he took on this Osprey, that's all."

Glancing out the window, the Bride's eyes widened slightly, before she turned to the general.

"Are we in goddamn Pokolistan?" her brows furrowed, arms crossed over her chest.

"You've been here before?" Nina asked with a smile.

Bride rolled her eyes with a sigh, leaning back in her seat, "Fucking hell..."

"So..." Phosphorus started up again as he turned to you, thankful his skeleton-ness hid his shit-eating grin. "Is everything red... or just what I'm looking at right now?"

SMACK!

"Ow!" he played off, his grin growing even wider as he rubbed his cheek.

Adorably, you turned away, flipping him off as your one leg crossed over the other.

Now he was really intrigued (and turned on).

You were feisty.

He liked that.

He liked that a lot.

[luffington]

hello!! 🩷 may i request a doflamingo and corazon x fem!reader (nsfw)? these brothers are very much different from one another so i feel like corazon would always scold doffy for being mean to y/n lol. but somehow corazon himself also has a nasty streak in him when he's fucking her and doffy knows it

✧.* art credit!

➤ pairing: donquixote doflamingo x afab!reader x donquixote rosinante (corazon)

➤ word count: 1.7k

➤ warnings: threesome, oral (m receiving), choking, bondage, degradation, creampie, corazon is mute, she/her for reader

nothing physical happens between doffy and cora but doffy is still a freak so read at your own risk!

ugHHHH the concept ever!!!! i think about this so much more than i should.... there's no way cora's a 100% pure virtuous angel boy he's gotta have some very repressed darkness in him

i briefly threw this in but i LOVE the idea of doffy being weirdly possessive of the name rosinante and who gets to call him that. their dynamic is sooooo interesting but we'll never see more of it thanks oda >:(

NSFW under the break! minors dni thank uuu

The Donquixote brothers didn’t want to look like each other. But stripped bare and shadowed in dim bedroom light, the similarities were uncanny.

Soft blonde hair ruffled by your fingers and slicked back from sweat. Long and lanky limbs, big hands that felt calloused when they ran across your naked skin. Perfectly sculpted bodies littered with decades worth of scars. You had only seen the older brother without sunglasses one time, and their strikingly beautiful eyes side by side made your breath catch in your throat. 

This bizarre situation began many months ago, not long after you joined the Donquixote Family. At first, you could easily figure out which brother was touching you – the soft kisses of a gentle giant or the fangs of a hungry beast. Doflamingo had actually blindfolded you once for that exact purpose with the promise of rewarding you if you got every answer correct. And you did. But you hated not being able to see Corazon, and hated how much Doflamingo enjoyed taking away his brother’s only form of communication.

Now, it was harder to tell them apart.

Strings wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your tits. Kept your hands tightly bound behind your back. Doflamingo had you speared on his cock and bounced you up and down with marionette motions like an actual puppet. His massive length stretched your insides delightfully and kissed the tip of your cervix with every thrust. He intentionally positioned your back to his chest so you could look at his brother, sitting cross-legged in front of you near the edge of the bed. Corazon’s gaze lingered on your debauched expression and the way your soft flesh bulged around Doflamingo’s too-tight strings. Jaw hanging slack as he stroked off his own dick, long and veiny and already beginning to leak precum. 

The younger’s face paint was almost completely smeared off – streaks of maroon coated your mouth like badly applied lipstick and littered your inner thighs. Practically indistinguishable from the red lines inflicted by Doflamingo’s strings. 

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” Doflamingo purred. His brother nodded immediately as if in a trance. “What a pretty little toy.”

Corazon didn’t like that term. He would never treat you like an object the way his brother did – he cherished you as he believed any partner should be. But he couldn’t deny how the thought of using you for his own pleasure made his cock twitch, especially since you enjoyed it. You were so pliant and willing for him, for both of them. 

Satisfied by the younger’s response, Doflamingo wrapped a large hand around your throat, his long fingers digging into the delicate skin. You coughed and sputtered as your airway was slowly cut off. Corazon immediately stopped jerking off to grab the pen and notepad next to him, quickly scribbling ‘Too rough!!!’ in his messy handwriting and angrily holding it in front of his brother. 

The older man chuckled, but released your neck and stroked over his fingerprint marks in mock kindness. 

You leaned forward to kiss Corazon, who clumsily knocked his nose against yours in his haste to reciprocate. It was truly baffling how one brother could make your heart melt with fondness while the other rearranged your guts. Corazon kissed you languidly, content to take his time and savor the feeling of your tongues swirling together.

“You taste like cigarettes,” you giggled. He always did, but the taste was especially fresh and potent, making your head spin pleasantly. 

Corazon frowned and signed ‘I’m sorry’. 

“Don’t apologize, I like it. It tastes like you.” He grinned in response. Corazon was actually just beginning to learn sign language, since he hadn’t needed it before his current mission, and you took the time to learn to communicate with him. It made his heart swell with love.

Doflamingo frowned at the tender moment and abruptly pushed your head into his brother’s lap. “Well, don’t just fucking stare at him. Be a good slut and suck Rosi off.”

Rosinante. What a beautiful name. You wished you were always allowed to use it, not just when you were alone with him. Doflamingo would break your legs if he heard you utter the sacred name which only true Donquixotes were permitted to say.

Corazon gave his brother another dirty glare, but covered his mouth and fought to hold back a moan when you kitten-licked the base of his cock, suckling on his balls delicately. He wished his soundproofing abilities came with a control panel – it was nearly impossible for him to stay silent with your perfect mouth on him, but he needed to hear your sweet moans as you lapped at his dick. 

Your head jerked back suddenly in time with a twitch of Doflamingo’s fingers. “Pathetic whore can’t follow directions? I said suck.” He forced your head down again without giving you time to open your mouth. Your string-controlled movements made you awkwardly rub your cheek against the head of Corazon’s cock, smearing precum on your skin. 

The younger immediately started scribbling another angry note. But then you ran your tongue along the part of his length you could reach and he dropped his notepad, too consumed by pleasure to finish his thought. 

You finally wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, causing Corazon to let out a shaky sigh. “Better, right?” Doflamingo smiled sadistically, pushing your head further down his brother’s dick. The older blonde fucked you deep and slow, making you feel every vein and ridge of his cock as you rose just to harshly slam you down to the base. 

One of Corazon’s hands rested on the back of your head as you bobbed up and down. He watched with hooded eyes as you slurped along his cock, little bits of drool running past your lips and dripping down to his balls. You were so close to fitting his entire length in your throat – a truly impressive feat – and you pushed yourself a bit farther than you could handle. When your throat constricted in protest, Corazon couldn’t help but hold you down and throw his head back with parted lips. Your gag reflex immediately kicked in and you choked around his cock, lungs desperately seeking air but his hand stayed locked in place. You looked up at him pleadingly and found a sense of twisted wonder in his eyes. His lips quirked into a fascinated smile as he wiped away a drop of moisture spilling from your eye. 

When your moans became louder and more insistent, Corazon let you go. You pulled off of his dick, sputtering and gasping for air, chin coated in your own saliva. It took him a moment to snap back to reality and realize that the wetness he felt was a teardrop. 

‘Are you okay?’ He signed in a panic, followed by frantic gestures of, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry–’

“Don’t worry. I’m okay.” You reassured him with a smile as he apologetically wiped away any remaining traces of tears. “You liked it, right? Making me gag?”

Corazon looked away, feeling incredibly guilty and irredeemably dirty.

Doflamingo cackled, stilling his movements with his cock buried deep inside you. “Did you just apologize for getting good head? Oh, poor little Rosi.”

The younger flipped to a blank page and wrote ‘Choking isn’t good’. Almost as a reminder to himself.

“It is under the right circumstances,” his brother replied coolly.

You rolled your eyes – their extremely different concepts of morality sometimes gave you a headache. Turning back to glare at the older blonde, you retorted, “You’re talking about consent. Consensual choking is fine.” 

“Oh, right. Forgot the word.” Doflamingo teased. His puppet strings pulled you upright, away from Corazon’s pretty pink dick which was clearly close to cumming. He would never turn his precious little brother into a plaything with his abilities – he wasn’t a complete degenerate. So Doflamingo kindly opted to grab a handful of Corazon’s hair and yank his head against your chest. “Play with her tits. You can fuck her when I’m done.”

Your breasts bounced as Doflamingo sped up his movements, squished together and emphasized by the nearly invisible strings wrapped around them. Corazon licked his lips hungrily before wrapping them around a nipple and loudly sucking. You whined as his tongue swirled around the bud, rolling your other nipple gently between his fingers. Doflamingo wrapped his hand around your neck again, but this time, he didn’t apply any pressure. He left it there as a constant presence – a reminder for you and an example for his brother.

“So fucking close,” he grunted, bouncing you faster and harder. “Gonna cum inside. Rosi, you okay with sloppy seconds?” Corazon knew it was a rhetorical question, but he would never tear himself away from your breasts to answer, anyways. The older shoved his hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit until both of you reached your peak, crying out in utter bliss. 

Doflamingo held you flush against his hips as he came, hot sticky spurts of semen flooding your insides as he whispered his fucked up version of sweet nothings in your ear – “such a perfect dirty whore, taking every drop of my cum like the cocksleeve you are”. Corazon eagerly watched your face contort with pleasure as he continued to suckle on your nipple. His own cock ached, but he didn’t risk touching it. Cumming inside you, seeing you make that blissful expression for him, outweighed his urgent desire. 

Your body automatically lifted off of Doflamingo’s cock, globs of cum dripping out of your cunt and onto the bedsheets below. You had barely settled on the bed when he withdrew his strings, leaving you to practically collapse with sore limbs and no support. Doflamingo shifted towards the headboard and stole a cigarette from his brother’s pack. He lit the end, inhaled deeply, and got comfortable to watch the show. 

Corazon pressed his lips against yours gently, slowly guiding you to lie flat on your back. He made a thumbs up and raised his eyebrows in question. “Yes, I’m ready,” you smiled at your sweet boy. 

His cock entered you slowly, tenderly, accompanied by the lewd shlick of the cum already inside you. Neither of you dared to acknowledge whose cum it was. When you looked up, you saw feathery blonde bangs, fading face paint, soft and loving eyes, and a perfect replica of Doflamingo’s smile.

[justblades]

⋆｡˚ ♰・priest! sunday x afab! reader

┈─ ・(ex)plicit, mdni. contains 2.2 spoilers, blasphemous themes, impregnation, clit stimulation, oral sex, controlling sunday, not proofread.

Even a mere mortal can sense the regret lingering in the atmosphere of the vicinity, a small space dedicated for confessions and atonement of sins committed by those who believe in the Harmony. Numerous pews stand in rows before a single one, each being occupied by two people at best, to which you draw closer to the confession box— one more person to go and it is time to purify your tainted soul.

It was just muffled murmurs of two people from the latter reverberating inside the hall's six walls, along with the sound of the ceiling fans whirring. Your mind starts to drift onto something else: although you have no idea what others hold with regards to their sins, you still could not help but think that yours is shameful.

You can see the person beside you exit the birch box with teary eyes and stuffed nose as she holds a handkerchief to her face. "Next please." a resolute voice echoes, signalling for you to step forward into the confessional. With a wobbly stature, you stand up and tread forward, proceeding to close the oak door behind you.

The golden lights from the hall seep through the confession booth's partition, gleaming upon your stature - creating a silhouette as to where only the advocate from the other side can peer through the woodworks. You attempt to clear your voice before speaking, a dry throat halting the words you intend to verbalize within.

"I humbly ask for your blessings and the forgiveness of Xipe . . ." You mutter as your eyes dart to nothing that catches your interest except for the parquetry etched on the wooden floorboards. Your head held down low, staring at its intricate designing.

"Please feel free to proceed. I have sought their presence within us." The priest answers. "I have committed a grave sin of succumbing to passing emotions. Primarily, I struggled with regulating the purity of one's mind and it was late that I realized I indulged in an extreme activity to quench the thirst for sexual pleasure." 

A reassuring hum resounds. "As a devout follower of the Harmony, I believe my actions do not align with the path I stride. Therefore, I ask for forgiveness and assistance on how I will repent for the sins I have committed." After forming the confession where in sentences you never thought have ever been uttered, it feels as though a heavy weight was lifted off your chest and the shackles on your feet disintegrated.

Glancing at the frosted, colored glass window in front of you, you noticed how the warm yellow lights in the background flicker repetitively in an instant, as well as the birch surroundings creaking. "By committing a grave sin, you've engaged in an activity with a partner you are not married with." The priest reiterates as if the faulty lights are a common occurrence.

You hum in response. "And by committing an even graver sin, you took part in an activity with an objective aside from procreation. Please correct me if I'm wrong."

"Yes, esteemed advocate. Everything you said was indeed correct." Your heart starts racing, "Do you promise yourself you'll turn your back on this lascivious history to start anew?" He queries.

"Yes, Mister Sunday."

"Even if you were to encounter challenges to test your faith for the Harmony?"

Hesitation ruptures through your composure. Your resolution suddenly cracks, as if it was merely a façade with a longing for forgiveness to move on.

"Be honest." Like the advocate could read your mind as of the moment, you believe in the capabilities of Harmony, so there was no use in feigning cleanliness when you know it in yourself, you still struggle. "I wish to seek assistance from those with wisdom."

You receive another firm hum in response, "Very well. Please see me in the reconciliation room a short time after." Your mind spirals into confusion and bewilderment, the emotions painting your features like you were an open book to the audience.

Trekking off the confessional booth, you did not dare to spare a glance back at the priest and only made your way to the distinct, separate room - the reconciliation. It was small, enclosed, and only an oak table, two pairs of engraved chairs, a single ligneous partition and a kneeler reside within the space. Your vision anchors to the sculpted wooden cross sign hung on the beige walls, illuminated by a faint golden lamp on the table.

Patiently awaiting the presence of the priest, you stood still with a heavy heart, seeming like the relief you felt previously was only a glimpse of what you could've been if you didn't commit such grave sin. If only.

The door swings open, followed by the entrance of the figure you were anticipating. Faded sky blue hues of hair tumble upon the male's shoulders, along with the golden earrings he was donning. Feathered ears diluting into white ripple from his footsteps, and his distinct, golden halo stays afloat behind his head.

Being vis-à-vis with the highly esteemed figure of the Penacony like this tugs your heartstrings in unease. It felt bizarre, as you could recall from others' experiences that when you encounter priests or advocates of the Harmony, your heart rests. As for Sunday, it was the polar opposite. Chills run kilometers up and down your spine, your throat starts to become dry.

You trail your vision downwards, setting your sight upon his graceful features. His eyes were a radiant yellow tinged with an ocean blue, framed by his particularly long lower lashes. He purses his lips tightly, curving upwards, flashing a small smile. "Please take a seat." He motions for the chair in front of your figures, your eyes noticing the cross cut out gloves he's wearing.

Sitting down with guard held up high, Sunday follows suit as he opens the drawer from the oak table, retrieving something of a color white and frilly in texture, as you make of what you could from your peripheral vision. "This will certainly be of help to put your faith to test. If you would kindly turn around."

Your hands rest on your lap and as you hear the last phrase that came out of his mouth, you subconsciously gripped a handful of the fabric you're wearing in alertness. Not until your vision was impaired as Sunday blindfolds you with the latter material, it was soft and delicate to the touch - you could not see anything but faint shadows against the lighting. Everything was ivory white in stark contrast, and you could barely peer through the lace folds to see the priest.

"I will now be tuning your mind with the Harmony to which you will face repercussions if statements untrue to yourself are said." He pauses. Unsure where this will lead to, you had no choice but to nod in continuation. "Under the light of the Harmony, all wickedness is revealed. I implore them to shed their light."

What used to be a blurry white in your vision now fringes into colored edges, the prominent colors being purple, white, red, orange, and yellow.

"This will serve as a gentle reminder that I am assisting you to a path where grave sins  are not succumbed to, and only ▅▅▅ exists alongside philosophy to instill moral duties to a functioning member of a society."

His words cut through the thick atmosphere, thawing the glacial tension growing with each passing second.

He lowers his stature to face you, gloved fingers trailing from the hem of the laced blindfold down to your cheeks, cupping your face lightly with a careful grip. "Does this send a shiver down to your spine?" Sunday inquires and you shake your head in disagreement. It seems like he has a whole plan on how this will play out, and you were merely a pawn in his chessboard to see what you would react under these circumstances he will put you in.

The touch ghosts a caress on your lower parts, specifically, the frame of your chest. His thumb twirls on the middle part with an unraveled goal of making your buds perk up underneath the confinements of your clothing - making you grit your teeth as a poor attempt to stifle the sound threatening to escape.

A question arises amidst the confusing situation, a question that will surely be received in a poor taste as it will question his authority and legitimacy. You wanted to ask, is this really necessary?

However, the aura he exudes now was far different from what he displays when he's in front of the audience of the masses. He seems more strict now, judging from the tone lacing his voice from his query earlier. "Does this feel good?" He proceeds to unbutton your top, letting the fabric come undone and fall down to your lap. A singular  gloved hand of his snakes its way to your back, and with a single fidget, your bra was unclasped.

The priest takes his precious time in all these. He carefully observes the clothing that you wear, as he had come to adore the fact that you were wearing pearly white brassiere, one that was similar to the blindfold's texture and design, it was frilly in the edges and soft to the touch.

A light chuckle slips out, "Well? What's your answer?" Desire and temptation brews within your stomach, even spiking higher as he caresses your mounds with both of his hands. His touches feel light and blissful at the same time, like your body was basking in the warmth and enjoyment the priest had to offer. You struggle to keep your body still, knees trembling even though you were only sitting.

"N-No, Mr. Sunday."

A sharp throbbing ache courses through your head, granting him a wince of both surprise and pain. "It appears that you haven't put your mind and whole heart to this yet." He says as he walks away from your stature, leaving you dumbfounded. As silence encompasses the vicinity, you hear the male seat himself on the chair across from you. "Come to me." He simply orders.

"Just take steps forward and trust me."

With blind faith, you solemnly obey - approaching his figure with an extremely bleary vision. As your feet meet with an obstacle, seemingly the chair's legs, you stop in your tracks. "Now straddle my lap." Following suit, you feel a bulging sensation under your remaining clothing. Your breath becomes even more jagged than before, especially now that your clothed folds come in contact with his throbbing dick. It was clear cut enough that it was his erection continuously growing.

A brief moment passes and Sunday continues to envelop your hard buds within his lips, teeth grinding on your nipples in an attempt to inflict pain and pleasure all at the same time. "M— Mr. Sunday . . !" You yelp but he does not halt. He proceeds to twirl his warm, slick tongue all over your glazed areolas, your boob dancing in rhythm with his mouth in somewhat harmonic tunes played by your stifled mewls.

His other free hand pulls you tighter to his chest as he adjusts his position, bucking his hips upwards to create some sort of friction. The tip of his covered cock brushes against your already wet slit, granting him another lewd sound - this time, a soft moan. "I— I— I can't—" your hands clutch on the man's broad shoulders, feeling his long, muted blue and white locks tangle along your fingers. "You can. Yes you can. Only a little bit more you would be rewarded by proving your loyalty to the ▅▅▅."

Your sense of hearing downgrades as your mind drifts into pure bliss, lower limbs becoming numb as more pleasure courses through your veins. As if it's still not enough, Sunday simply lowers your remaining clothes to your feet, revealing your folds sopping wet with arousal already.

With haste and care in Sunday's every movement, he lays your back on the table in between the chairs, forcibly revealing everything down there to him — for him to revel in. The gelid wind traces shivers upon your sweat dewed skin, especially your folds now glimmering with muddy white liquids.

He raises your legs and stands up, resting your lower limbs upon his shoulders. The position is embarrassing enough as it is, but having the priest tower over you is another experience that feels even more intense than what unfolded previously. Not to mention that the throbbing pang in your head brought by your dishonesty upon the Harmony worsens minute by minute.

The male buries his face in your inner thighs first, flicking his tongue over your soft skin while his eyes are darted on your face, in high alert to which action of his you will react the most to. "Need I remind you to be honest this time around? Or is the headache that you're feeling not sufficient for you to stay true to your words?" He asks with a demanding tone, the margins of his lips drawing closer and closer to your slit.

"I have learned my lesson, Mr. Sunda—"

Gloved fingers begin to stimulate your clit, moving in motions you cannot fathom with your current state - your lower body jerking up in response to the stimulation. A sly smile creeps up on Sunday's face, his navy blue pupils fixating on each of your actions and expressions.

All you could think of was the fact that he didn't even let you finish, he went straight to pleasure you more, the sensation becoming more overwhelming as he starts to glide the tip of his tongue on your folds. "Do you feel good?" Although his voice was muffled from the proximity from his face and your pussy, you could comprehend and immediately answer, "Yes! I-I feel good . . !"

You rack your head back once Sunday buries his face further into your inner thighs, wallowing himself in your slit as he sucked on your sweet spot, sticking his tongue into your velvet walls while still toying with your clitoris. You bite back your moans, you cannot afford to lose the remaining dignity you had in you left - if there was any.

"Don't do that."

His voice sounds stern as ever, you were left with no choice yet again but to let mewls and moans come undone at this point in time. You were noisy, along with the sucking sounds accompanied by your hums of pleasure, continually bouncing off of the reconciliation room's four walls. "Very good. As for the last part, you must continue to be truthful, to stand by the ▅▅▅, and to ▅▅▅ to what I ought to be ▅▅▅ for you. Do you understand?"

Much to your relief, your vision was once again back to normal as he unties the lacey blindfold on your eyes. This time, you could see Sunday's disheveled hair, as well as the golden earrings dangling at every movement he makes. He swiftly unzips his slacks, therefore revealing his cock he had been concealing for so long before. It stands in its full glory, hues of purple and indigo veins threatening to pop - it was evident he's at his limit.

"Use your mouth. Make me feel good." He commands and peers at you with a somber expression. You muster enough strength on your body to stand up and kneel in front of him, positioning your head in a perfect angle to receive him. Slowly parting your lips open, he shoves his dick inside you, granting you a hoarse moan of satisfaction slipping past his lips.

You bob your head up and down and as if it felt natural to wrap your digits around the remaining length of his cock, you pump him in accordance to your pace, taking him inside with no hesitation, with only one goal in mind: to make him feel good. You could feel the crown of his dick kiss your throat every time you go deeper, making your eyes water as you try to keep yourself from gagging for the priest's satisfaction.

"That's enough, stand up." Your momentum was cut off as he hooks his arms on yours, making you stand from your previously kneeling position. It seems he has indulged enough in your submission and now it is time for him to try something new, something far more amusing in his perspective.

With both of your statures still standing up, he flips you around, making your back face him. He can examine every nook and cranny of your body in this way, and with a hum of approval, he bends you over slightly, wrapping his arms around your waist and reach for your tits. Your breath deepens, more beads of sweat proceed to trickle down your naked body. "M-Mr. Sunday, are we really going to do it?" you ask as he wraps his hand around himself, brushing his tip on your entrance.

He stops in his movements. "Do you have a problem with that?" A domineering tone laces that sole sentence, one that a person cannot delve deeper furthermore.

With one more stroke, he finally pushes himself inside your velvet walls, molding themselves around the shape of Sunday's dick - wallowing in the pleasure and warmth he emanates inside you. "So . . . warm . . ." He whispers, his breath ghosting a caress on the shell of your ear.

Sunday builds up his pace from a painfully slow one to picking it up, thrusting into you with additional force, pistoning your pussy as he's balls deep. Sounds of skin slapping add onto the lewd tune you two have been playing for the past hour, a whole sixty minutes of pleasure pooling your stomach and arousals seeping out of your holes.

Your legs start to quiver once more, exhaustion gnawing at your bones. But amidst this, Sunday kept you still with his force, hitting your sweet spots with the tip of his cock. If you could beg for mercy as of the moment, you certainly would take the chance. But to who, exactly? To whoever aeon is witnessing this lascivious act unfold in front of them, committed in such a religious place?

Or perhaps to Sunday, who you've knelt to before, received him inside your body in more ways than one. Perhaps. Perhaps it is he who shall show you mercy in the heat of the moment.

"M-Mr. Sunday, please forgive me!"

Interest sparks inside his mind, revelling in the way of being viewed as someone highly, someone sought out, someone in a legitimate authority. "You shall be forgiven." He states as he bites down on the blade of your shoulder, teeth leaving a bite mark and an aching sensation alongside it. You could do nothing but wince in pain, but waves of pleasure start to crush upon your conscious self.

Surely this is too much pleasure to handle for someone asking for forgiveness as they committed a grave sin for partaking in debauchery . . . but to be done this way by a priest is a little too exhilarating.

He picks up the pace, earning himself more moans of pleasure escape your lips, "I'll ▅▅▅ ▅▅▅ inside you." Sunday says as a fair warning, but a sentence you could only form at the present time was a lighthearted "Do as you please, Mr. Sunday."

With one single thrust, strings of satisfaction sprawl inside your womb. It feels warm yet again, but now, comforting in stark contrast to the nervousness welling up in your heart earlier.

"Well done. As you've shown resolution that you're on a path to atone for the sins you've committed in the past, you shall be forgiven."

[callmemonster68]

breaking the boy | p.js - park jisung

Jisung, often teased by his friends for being the only virgin in the group, gets an unexpected idea from Haechan to help him out.

paring: virgin!jisung x fem!reader 18+ | masterlist

wc: 1,666

warnings: nsfw, unprotected sex, strangers hooking up, penetration, explicit language, losing virginity

Reposting my first story / no correction

Jisung was different from his friends. While everyone else had already ventured into intimate experiences, he was still a virgin. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, but his shyness kept him from even starting a conversation with girls. His friends constantly teased him, saying he wouldn’t be considered an adult until he "took care of it."

One day, during a casual chat, Haechan, his boldest friend, suggested something daring. "Why don’t you lose your virginity with Y/N? She’s confident, amazing, and, well, she owes me a favor. I think she’d go for it." Haechan and Y/N were childhood friends, always sharing everything with each other. They often made risky bets, and in one of their last wagers, Y/N had lost and owed him a favor.

Jisung was stunned but, after much insistence, reluctantly agreed. Haechan set everything up: a casual meetup for Jisung and Y/N to get to know each other. They decided to watch her volleyball practice along with the group of friends.

At the gym, Jisung was captivated watching her play. Y/N was a force of nature. Her confidence and determination were magnetic, and he felt something he’d never experienced before. Not to mention her body—she was unlike any girl he had ever seen, with curves that could only be described as obscene. When Haechan finally introduced them, Jisung could barely speak, but Y/N seemed amused by his shy demeanor.

After practice, they had all planned to hang out at Haechan’s house. While the guys played video games on the floor, Y/N and Jisung sat on opposite ends of the couch. Y/N pulled Haechan aside and gave her answer. "I’m in," she said with a confident, mysterious smile. Shortly after, she went upstairs to the guest room and asked Haechan to send Jisung up.

Jisung entered the room, his heart racing. Y/N stood near the window, wearing shorts and a light top that revealed her skin under the soft glow of the light. She turned to face him with a smile that mixed patience with a hint of provocation.

POV ON

“You look nervous,” I said, crossing my arms with a warm yet teasing tone. “Relax, Jisung. For now, let’s just talk.”

He sat on the edge of the bed while I remained standing. I approached him slowly. He didn’t seem to know where to place his hands.

“Tell me,” I began, leaning slightly forward, my voice low and inviting, “how far have you gone with a girl before?”

Jisung’s responses were short and hesitant, but I enjoyed every word.

“I’ve kissed a girl twice before. Just a few kisses and…” (he started to speak but couldn’t finish out of embarrassment).

“Let me be more direct—where did she touch you?” I asked calmly, glancing away to focus on random objects in the room.

His eyes widened slightly, and he cleared his throat before responding.

“Well, she touched my… you know, my dick . But just once, and over my underwear,” he answered quietly.

“That’s less than I expected, but don’t worry—I’ll be good to you,” I said with a mischievous smile.

He was gorgeous. Unlike the guys I usually hooked up with, he wasn’t my type—innocent and inexperienced. But that was exactly what was driving me crazy, making me wonder what it would be like to corrupt him. My eyes occasionally drifted to his hands—large, with long, delicate fingers. My imagination ran wild.

“Have you ever thought about what you’d like me to do to you, Jisung?” I asked, my voice steady but unhurried. He blushed deeply, averting his gaze.

I smiled—a soft, sweet sound—and moved closer, gently taking one of his hands in mine.

“You have beautiful hands, you know? I bet they’d look amazing…” (I paused, leaving the sentence hanging before continuing playfully) “…Anyway, I guess we’ll find out together.”

But his curiosity was already piqued, his anxiety consuming him.

“Please, finish. I… I want to hear it,” he said, looking down.

“Alright, I think we’ve learned something about your preferences. You seem to like dirty talk,” I teased with a satisfied laugh. “I think your hands would look amazing around my neck, choking me while I ride you.”

I looked into his eyes, searching for a reaction, and there it was—his legs pressed together tightly as his face turned crimson. I continued.

“I imagine they’d look even better wet with my release,” I said as I straddled his lap, “or even better in your mouth, with you licking them like your life depended on it.”

Now sitting on his lap, I could feel his hardness. I held his chin, making him look into my eyes.

What followed was intense but unhurried. I guided him into a kiss that started slow, gradually building in passion, ensuring Jisung felt comfortable while exploring his curiosity in a natural, engaging way. There were touches, glances, and sensations exchanged that Jisung would never forget.

As our kiss deepened, I pulled his shirt off, taking a moment to catch our breath before removing it completely. I paused the kiss to trail my lips down his neck, eliciting soft vocal reactions from him. Standing from his lap, I began to unbutton his pants. He was shy but didn’t try to stop me. His body language revealed a mix of confidence and anticipation.

When his length was finally free, I salivated. It was beautiful—not very thick but long, with prominent veins and a perfect soft pink tip. I knelt between his legs, taking him in my hand. He tensed. I kissed the tip before licking along the shaft, then took him fully into my mouth, sucking slowly and torturously. He gasped and moaned softly, clutching the sheets.

A few more movements, and he came with a long, breathy moan. Still holding his release in my mouth, I stood and leaned in to kiss him—a messy, heated kiss that shared his release with him.

“You taste amazing, don’t you think?” I asked, locking eyes with him and smiling.

He was so dazed from the intensity of his first orgasm that he couldn’t even think of a response. I straightened up and began undressing, moving with the same calm and confidence I had shown all night.

It was adorable how he watched my every move, as if he thought it was wrong to look but couldn’t bring himself to miss a single second.

Now completely naked, I instructed him to sit in the middle of the bed with his back against the headboard. Once he was in position, I climbed onto the bed and straddled him. His breathing was heavy, clearly revealing his urgency. I positioned his length at my entrance and sat down without warning.

By reflex, he gripped my waist tightly—hard enough that I was sure I’d have marks the next day. Once I adjusted to his size, I began to move slowly. His eyes closed in pleasure, his cheeks flushed, and his lips red from biting them in a failed attempt to stifle his earlier moans. He was divine, like a fallen angel. The thought crossed my mind that continuing this wouldn’t be such a bad idea—meeting him casually to teach him new things, hooking up in random places, and then having him return to sit with his friends, talking about the new car Renjun had bought last week, as if just moments ago, he hadn’t been on his knees in a dirty diner bathroom, his mouth drenched while he devoured me with his tongue.

Back to the present moment, with the rhythm now quickened, his fingers dug into my skin. He opened his eyes as if begging for mercy, his lips parting slowly.

“Please, I can’t take it anymore. I’m close,” he murmured, his eyes glistening with pleasure.

“Come for me, pretty boy,” I said, holding his face gently. “Let me see your divine expression as you release. I don’t want to miss a thing.”

That was all he needed to let go. With just a few more movements, I felt his release fill me. His expression was otherworldly—it should have been illegal, a sin. How could a face so pure and delicate hold such obscene expressions? With a few more thrusts, I reached my own climax, and he whimpered softly as I tightened around him.

We stayed in the same position for a while, catching our breath and taking in each other’s presence. He seemed lost in the afterglow, questioning whether it had all been real or just a dream. Once I had fully regained my breath, I climbed off him, cleaned myself up, and dressed with the same calmness and confidence I had maintained throughout the night.

I had almost forgotten, amidst everything, that this was just a favor for Haechan—a repayment for a silly bet. He wasn’t here for me. If it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been someone else. That made things easier—no need for a conversation or post-care. It was just a simple goodbye.

While he still sat there, motionless, I looked into his eyes and smiled serenely.

“You’re an adult now, Jisung. It was my pleasure. See you around,” I said with a smile.

He looked at me with a pleading expression, as if he wanted to ask me to stay or suggest we see each other again, but I didn’t give him the chance. I grabbed my things and left, waving goodbye as I closed the door behind me.

POV OFF 

And with that, he remained sitting on the bed, caught between exhaustion and a whirlwind of emotions. For the first time, he felt more than just curious. He was utterly captivated—almost enchanted—by the woman who had made his first experience unforgettable.

When he went downstairs, only his friends were still there. Y/N had already left, but he wasn’t going to let it end like that. Now that he’d had his first time, he was eager to learn more—and to return the favor for everything she had made him feel.

✿If you don’t reblog and comment, you can be sure I’ll be showing up in your dreams tonight… and I won’t be as sweet as in the story✿

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Zach Goldberg

If Israel’s war in Gaza qualifies as genocide, it would constitute a striking historical outlier: perhaps the first such case of genocide triggered by a mass terrorist attack involving the slaughter of civilians and the taking of hostages; the first in which the genocider permitted food, fuel, and humanitarian aid to flow into the territory of its purported victims; and potentially the only instance in which the perpetrators lacked any prior plan or ideological commitment to extermination. It may also be unique in that the targeted group’s combatants have deliberately embedded themselves in civilian infrastructure and sought to increase civilian casualties for strategic and propaganda purposes. And it could be the only genocide that might plausibly be halted on the spot—not by the genocider, but by the group claiming victimhood. Specifically, were Hamas to release the hostages and lay down its arms, Israel’s military campaign—having achieved its core objectives—would likely cease.

Yet doing so would mean relinquishing a central propaganda asset: the ability to frame Israel’s actions as a genocidal assault on a defenseless population, a framing that is in turn made possible only by concept creep. Hamas’ casualty figures suggest that far more than half of the dead in Gaza are either Hamas fighters or young men of military age. A ratio of combatants to civilians anywhere close to 1:1 is unrivaled in the history of urban warfare. Does this mean that all past instances of urban warfare—such as U.S. operations in Iraq’s Mosul and Fallujah, let alone Allied bombing attacks on German cities or the Battle of Manila against the Japanese—must retroactively be treated as genocides? Surely, the dropping of atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki must be considered a genocide, even though historians commonly estimate that the subsequent Imperial Japanese Armed Forces surrender saved at least 2 million lives.

The answers are highly troubling either way. If the new math of genocide is correct, then we have a press teaching a large public that warfare of any kind is always a hideous crime, even when waged in response to murderous attacks by genocidal maniacs and Nazis on defenseless civilians. No means there is to be one rule for Jews and a different rule for everyone else.

[moniquill]

Thread ported from Facebook, via

PK: Ive been thinking about this comment a lot today …. Kind of all over the place with it. (And this is just me thinking and rambling. Everyone is allowed to fee how they feel and I’m not saying I’m totally right…. Perhaps I’m way off in some ways but, these are just my thoughts as of right now……)

1. I was thinking of how some people think we shouldn’t wear sealskin. I’d always thought it was such an a-hole-ey opinion but, once someone I know and respect asked why I thought it was ok to ware fur and I said well for one thing when you kill an animal to eat it, it seems like it would be wasteful to throw away the skin when you have a use for it. I think a lot of people must believe that most animals are being killed for only one part of them. (Although I/we don’t always use the skin)

2. Once I saw a picture of people with a dead giraffe that they killed and my instant thought was something like “eeee they killed a giraffe”. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was so quick to be judgey but I was. However I was quick to correct myself and tell myself that probably/hopefully they now have 3 years worth of giraffe burgers in the freezer. (Maybe they were unethical tho…. I don’t know… I don’t know anything about giraffe hunting but, I shouldn’t have been so quick to turn up my nose at something I know nothing about.

3. Once my uncle tagged me in a picture where his daughter just got a nanuk and someone from the city told me that polar bear should only be hunted in the old traditional way with darts/unak….. and I was thinking after “man, imagine he’d witness that scene with darts and dogs vs with a rifle … what way would he call more “humane?” (Not that traditional hunting is not humane because people do their very best to make it quick for more than one reason but, with the evolution of ways of hunting and modern ways people are often able to be more safe and more efficient. And hopefully not wasteful tho.)…..: speaking of “safe” and “traditional ways”….. yes we want to preserve practices and knowledge but, Geeze I’m not gonna take my kids in boat without a life jacket now-a-days. And I’ll take running water over buckets. I’m just saying that we don’t have to reject everything modern or not invented by Inuit in order to embrace our culture.

4. I feel like harvesting an animal from nature is far less cruel than raising a pig in a cage knee deep it its own poop. (See I’m being judgy again cause I don’t know how pigs are raised ….. “slaughter house” seems to be pretty descriptive tho.). I’ll look it up after this post to educate myself better. And I realize there is many different paths to fattening up a pig.

….. I dunno I’m just rambling. When I told my husband what I posted in response to that persons comment he said there was a time when he would have voted to attack the person but he said why don’t you educate her.

Well….. laugh first , educate second I guess. Haha

And really this is just my thoughts. I’m certainly not perfect and I live a very modern life in Ontario …. me and my family do our best to keep my children familiar with our home and have them visit often and stay long but, as my dad says “our culture has to be practiced to be strong”…. It makes me sad to be contributing to weakening the youths connection to land based lifestyle but, we all do our best in any way we can….

If you are feeling some kind of guilt like that, I think we need to tell ourselves that we are doing our best …. Not use it as an excuse but, use it so that we don’t feel shame.

Ok. I need to stop going on and on and on. lol.

Reply by Gokomis' Creations: Colonizations main objective is to assimilate everything Indigenous. By telling us that our traditional ways of harvesting, living and healing are wrong is just another form of assimilation. Just another form of assimilation to make us feel shame and drop our beautiful and incredible culture. But we need to remind these colonizers that leave these awful comments, “Indigenous people have been living sustainably and living in harmony with all of the creators gifts since wayyyyy before colonization. I’m pretty sure it’s not us that is causing all of this damage. It is colonization. It is colonial ways that are making these impacts. It is colonization that caused the over fishing and over harvesting in general. Not us indigenous people. We have been living sustainably and in harmony with Mother Earth for centuries even millennials before colonization.

[dindjarindiaries]

Eyes Off

character: Hunter (The Bad Batch)

prompts: “Are you jealous?” “No, I’m not!” “Oh, you really are jealous! Wait, why would you be jealous?” / “Look at me.” / A kiss of jealousy

main masterlist • hunter masterlist

"Of course that's what you're wearing."

Crosshair's unimpressed drawl drew your attention from where you were fastening and concealing your weapons. Considering everyone else had already changed into their civvies, it had to be Hunter that Crosshair was addressing, and one look at the sergeant proved why.

Whereas the rest of the team opted to keep themselves covered in a way that wasn't too unlike their Republic-issued blacks, Hunter didn't shy away from letting his skin breathe. His hands and arms were wrapped up to his elbows, but there was a sizable stretch of skin and muscle leading up to the light-colored sleeveless tunic he wore.

Tech had always ensured that the temperature of the Marauder's interior was regulated, but something had to have been off, because you could've sworn it had just gotten at least ten times hotter.

You were still staring, and Force willing not ogling, as Hunter raised his hands defensively at Crosshair. "What?"

Crosshair scoffed as he shouldered on his pack. He lifted a single eyebrow and flicked his toothpick at his brother. It bounced unceremoniously off one of Hunter's tensed biceps.

The sergeant just smirked in response and shrugged. "I earned 'em." His tone was playful as he lifted his own pack and secured it over his shoulders. "I think I'm entitled to showing 'em off for once."

And thank the Force you did, you would have said if you didn't already have a durasteel lock on your own jaw.

"Ha-ha, yeah!" Wrecker clapped his brother on the shoulder. Hunter rolled it back in response, but nevertheless widened his sly smile as he looked up at Wrecker. "I think ya' look great, Sarge." Wrecker then turned his attention on you, giving your shoulder a nudge with his own. "Right, Sunny?"

You narrowed your eyes at him, but only for a quick moment. Subtlety had never been Wrecker's specialty, and you should have remembered that when you had stayed at 79's until last call with him and spilled out all your secrets. That's what you got for indulging in truth serum for once.

You schooled your expression into nonchalance the best you could and nodded. "Yeah." You lifted your blaster and gave it one last unnecessary check. "It definitely suits you."

Hunter huffed. "I don't even want to know what you mean by that." You snorted in amusement before Hunter refocused and addressed the gathered squad. "We shouldn't be here long, especially since we're dividing and conquering. Tech, Wrecker, you're clear on your objective?"

Tech looked up from his datapad and nodded as he adjusted his goggles. "That is correct."

Wrecker gestured over to Tech with his thumb. "What he said."

Hunter nodded at them both. "Great." He turned to his youngest brother. "Crosshair?"

Crosshair's brow rose once again. "Do you really have to ask?"

Hunter participated in their typical impromptu staring contest for a few heartbeats before he let out a sigh. "I'm taking that as a yes." His attention then shifted to you, and you fought a hard-won battle to not take a visible breath as his dark eyes found yours. "Sunny, you're with me." Hunter motioned for the squad to follow as he stepped towards the open hatch. "Let's move out."

You kept your attention on the way ahead as the squad walked out of the hangar together and through the throngs of sentients that crowded the planet's streets. Eventually, as you and Hunter got closer to your own destination, Tech, Wrecker, and Crosshair peeled off to attend to their own objectives. You tried not to tense as you kept yourself close to Hunter's side.

"Hmm." Hunter's hum got your attention, and you looked over to see his brow creased the way it often did when he was reaching out with his senses. "It's gonna be crowded in there." He gave you a glance and nodded. "Stay close. We might have to push our way through."

You nodded and obeyed, getting close enough for one of his arms to brush against yours. It was hard to focus with the warmth of his skin meeting yours in endless succession, but you threw your mindset into the mission as the two of you stepped inside the cantina.

As soon as you crossed the threshold, you could feel the eyes on you—only they weren't on you specifically. They were on him.

You could have accredited the lingering stares to the fact that Hunter presented much more like a regular clone than the others, and he may have been getting some undue attention for that, but you could identify the kind of looks he was getting all too well. Gazes flickered up and down, heads did double takes, and some people even giggled with their peers.

You should have found it amusing. The others certainly would have if they were there. Instead, it filled you with a pool of a sickly feeling almost like dread, coiling in your stomach and twisting into an uncomfortable knot.

It was an unmistakable wave of intense jealousy, and you weren't strong enough to fight it.

You were drawing yourself even closer to Hunter's side before you could stop it, your eyes cautiously scanning your surroundings as you did so. Another strong flare of jealousy's angry green haze saw you taking his arm and wrapping your hands around it, securing you to his side as you smiled in satisfaction at the way many of the hungry scares awkwardly flickered away from the two of you.

But your actions didn't go unnoticed by him. Hunter stopped pushing through the crowd long enough to turn his head and look at you with his full attention. "You okay?"

You looked up at him with innocent eyes, and his gaze gestured to the grasp you still had on his arm. You offered him a quick nod. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just..." You glanced around the room again. "A little overwhelmed."

Hunter's warm eyes studied yours as he softened. "I get it. We won't be here long, though, like I said before." He nodded towards the bar. "C'mon. We're almost there."

You went forward with him, selfishly indulging in the feeling of his warmth—and the arm you still had a tight grasp on. You were pleased to note it was just as strong and solid as it had looked.

Once Hunter had successfully maneuvered your way to the bar and had made enough room for the two of you there, you reluctantly let go of his arm and simply stood at his side. Your arms were still brushing at the close proximity, your focus was still going to any wandering eyes that caught sight of him.

You should have been focused on the objective and helping Hunter get information out of the bartender, but you had other priorities. Like Hunter had insinuated before, he had worn what he was wearing for a reason. Did that mean he wanted one of these people to approach him?

The thought alone made you sick. It shouldn't have, because you weren't his and he wasn't yours, but that didn't matter.

"You sure you're okay?"

Hunter's low voice of concern brought your attention back to him. You glanced over to see him furrowing his brow at you.

"You seem on edge."

You shrugged and looked past the sergeant, seeing someone just behind him staring holes through his back. You fought back a growl and forced yourself to answer normally. "I'm just seeing a lot of eyes on you." You blinked and quickly rushed to correct yourself. "Us."

But the damage had already been done. One of Hunter's eyebrows shot up in suspicion as he continued to look at you. "That's nothing new, especially not for me."

You circled your jaw. "Yeah, but..." Your gaze flickered over him before you could stop it. "It's different this time."

Hunter looked ahead, his expression taut as he pondered something, and then you saw his dark eyes light up with realization. You winced quietly before he even had the chance to speak.

"Wait." He looked over at you again, the small pieces of hair that escaped his bandana bouncing on his forehead as the corners of his lips rose in a small smile. "Are you jealous?"

You forced out a scoff and began to flounder. "No, I’m not!" You looked down, your gaze searching. "I-I'm just..."

It was too late. You were too flustered to think of a viable excuse, and your ears and face were burning so hot that you were half-convinced Hunter's senses had already picked up on the temperature change.

"Oh, you really are jealous." Hunter said the words with a chuckle, and his bare shoulder playfully nudged yours.

You fought off the sudden waves of embarrassment valiantly and looked anywhere but at him. He was clearly still joking, and you were stuck between playing it off again or at least wanting him to put the pieces together. This one-sided thing you had going on was getting too exhausting.

That made his next words even less of a surprise than they probably should have been. "Wait... why would you be jealous?"

Your gaze flickered over to meet Hunter's, but you looked away from him just as quickly. Your stare focused on your fingers as they picked at the skin around your nails. This was not a conversation you wanted to have here, especially not when he was looking like that.

"Hey." Hunter's voice was achingly soft now as he set a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Look at me."

You relented, your guilty gaze finding his—which was full of comfort and, surprisingly, understanding. Your brow knit together, though the knot in your stomach began to loosen when Hunter's hand suddenly moved from your shoulder to the one you had closest to him on the bar. His stare lowered and watched as his wrapped hand wove his fingers through yours and gave your own hand a soft squeeze.

Hunter looked at you again, and he gave you a reassuring nod. "You have nothing to worry about."

All you could do was blink at him, any words you could have possibly wanted to say dying on your tongue. You were trying to read him and make sure you weren't misinterpreting the signals he was sending you. Was he saying that because he had requited feelings, or just to assure you that he wasn't looking for anything from anyone?

Hunter huffed and gave his head a fond shake. "You've been noticing the eyes on me, and I..." He paused, his jaw tightened as he narrowed his eyes at something behind you. "Have been tracking the eyes on you."

Your eyes widened in surprise. You must have been so wrapped up in your jealousy towards Hunter that you failed to notice how people had been looking at you, too. Your civvies did hug your body in a way your typical tactical gear didn't...

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" You had no choice but to ask. You couldn't live with the anticipation anymore.

Hunter nodded and looked at your entwined hands again. He gave yours another squeeze. "The feeling's mutual."

You couldn't keep the smile from growing on your lips. Honestly, you should have known better, but reason and feelings never paired well together, anyway. All you could do was let out a soft laugh as you also looked down at your hands.

"What do you think?"

When Hunter spoke again, you looked up, suddenly realizing how much closer the two of you had gotten. Hunter clocked the minimized distance, too, his warm gaze flickering to your lips before he went on.

"Should we give them something else to stare at?"

You hummed, pretending to have to consider the offer even as your traitorous body already started to lean closer. "I think that's a good plan, Sarge."

Hunter chuckled, though the warmth that sound brought you was nothing compared to the feeling of his lips on yours.

You inhaled one another like it was your first full breath of oxygen, with Hunter's free hand catching the side of your face and jaw to keep you locked in place. Meanwhile, your free hand rose to his bicep, anchoring yourself to him as each breath passed between you and each tease of his tongue threatened to make your knees buckle underneath you. It was utterly dizzying, and it made you completely forget about everything and everyone else around you, for better or for worse.

When you parted, Hunter was quick to clock the sight of your hand on his arm. His lips gave way to a sly smile, and your brow shot up as you mused upon his words from earlier.

"This is what you wanted all along, isn't it?" You shook your head at him in fondness. "I was the person you were 'showing 'em off' for."

Hunter shrugged, playing innocent for now. "Maybe, maybe not."

You scoffed. "Do we even have a real objective here?"

"Well, we did." He gave your hand another squeeze. "But we just completed it."

You gave your eyes a roll. "Force, Hunter..."

"The others' objectives are real, though."

You couldn't help laughing at that. Leave it to the sergeant of the Bad Batch to use an actual mission as a way to somehow get you both to finally break the ice. "And the bartender?" You nodded towards the nearest one. "You just made that up?"

"Not really." Hunter's smirk remained as he caught the bartender's eye. "I do need to talk to them... to get us some drinks."

You blinked at him before you laughed even harder. You shifted your hand onto the arm closest to you and rested your head against his bare shoulder the best you could manage, relishing in the wave of content that rolled over you.

It was an unconventional way for your mutual feelings to surface, but that was just who Hunter was, and you couldn't hide the way you loved it.

[tacobacoyeet]

operation: just kiss already | jake peralta x reader

a/n: thank you for the request @glennussy! did you know that not only are you responsible for my first suits fic, you're also resposible for my first brooklyn nine-nine fic? how cool is that?! here's a short, silly little thing.

warnings: nothing really, but i tried to capture the cadence of an episode of brooklyn nine-nine with this, so it's not my usual writing style.

The bullpen was quiet.

Suspiciously quiet.

Which should’ve tipped you off, but you were too busy arguing with Jake over the objectively superior Die Hard sequel. (It was the third one. Obviously.)

“No way,” Jake was saying, leaning so far back in his chair that it teetered on two legs. “Die Hard 2 has snow. Explosions. A villain who looks like the guy who sells hot tubs at the mall. It’s festive and explosive.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s derivative and soulless. John McClane deserves better. Die Hard with a Vengeance has buddy cop magic. It has riddles. It has Samuel L. Jackson.”

Jake gasped. “You only like that one because of the riddles.”

“Correct. And also because it’s better in every possible way.”

He grinned at you, all teeth and ridiculous enthusiasm. “You’re so wrong, and it’s adorable.”

Unbeknownst to either of you, Rosa had entered the bullpen mid-debate. She stood frozen for a second, eyes narrowed as she watched Jake scoot his chair closer to yours under the guise of making a point. You were both laughing now—loudly, obnoxiously, obliviously.

She turned on her heel, marched into the briefing room, and slammed the door open. Amy looked up from her planner.

“They’re flirting again,” Rosa said. “Loudly. About Die Hard.”

Amy let out a strangled noise and flung her highlighter across the room. “That’s the third time this week!”

“I can’t take it anymore,” Boyle said, his voice cracking with emotion. “It’s like watching two golden retrievers discover love but never actually go for the tennis ball.”

Terry looked up from his yogurt. “They need a push.”

“No,” Holt said firmly from the doorway. “What they need is therapy. But I’ll settle for a strategic intervention.”

Rosa raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”

He sighed. “Mandatory team-building. Effective immediately.”

Amy clapped her hands. “I’ll make the schedule.”

“Operation: Just Kiss Already is a go,” Terry muttered.

Boyle was already crying.

-----

The next morning, you walked into the precinct, coffee in hand and zero suspicion in your heart. Jake appeared beside you like a particularly handsome ghost.

"Morning, partner," he said, stealing a sip of your drink without asking. You let him, as always.

“Morning, parasite.”

“Aw. You say the sweetest things.”

You were halfway through bickering over who would win in a fight between Bruce Willis and a sentient vending machine when Amy called out: “Everyone to the briefing room!”

Jake perked up. “Ooh, emergency? Murder? Vending machine uprising?”

“Worse,” Rosa muttered, brushing past. “Icebreakers.”

You shot Jake a look. “Should we run?”

“Too late.”

Inside the briefing room, Holt stood with a large poster behind him that read: TEAM-BUILDING WEEK: PRECINCT UNITY AND COHESION.

Boyle had decorated it with glitter pens.

Jake leaned toward you and whispered, “That poster feels like a trap.”

“You feel like a trap,” you muttered back.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Welcome,” Holt said, deadpan. “This week will consist of a series of exercises meant to bolster teamwork and deepen interpersonal bonds. Participation is mandatory. Complaining is futile.”

Terry stepped forward, clapping once. “We’re starting with a classic: Trust Falls.”

Jake groaned audibly. “Oh no. No, no, no. I have very little trust and a lot of fall-related trauma.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Amy chirped, already pairing everyone up. “You’re with Y/N.”

Jake turned to you, giving a mock-solemn nod. “If I die, avenge me.”

“Noted.”

You stood behind him, arms out. He looked over his shoulder suspiciously.

“You’re not gonna let me hit the ground just to prove a point, right?”

“Depends. Do you admit Die Hard 3 is superior?”

He gasped. “You would let me die.”

But he let himself fall anyway—and you caught him.

Jake blinked up at you from your arms. “Huh. I didn’t die. That’s kind of romantic.”

You laughed. “Don’t push it, Peralta.”

Across the room, Amy wrote something down in her binder and underlined it three times.

Boyle wiped away a tear. “They’re so beautiful.”

-----

The next activity was announced during lunch.

“Desert Island Scenarios,” Terry declared, holding up a laminated packet. “Each pair will be given a list of items and a survival scenario. Work together to decide what to keep, what to ditch, and how you’d make it off the island. It’s about problem-solving and cooperation.”

Jake immediately raised his hand. “Are we allowed to weaponize coconuts?”

“No,” Amy said flatly.

“Fine. Then I call dibs on building our shelter.” He nudged you. “You good with palm fronds?”

You smirked. “As long as I’m not the one weaving them.”

The two of you were given a scenario card that read: Shipwrecked on an uninhabited island. No rescue expected for two weeks.

Jake read aloud: “You may choose only five of the following ten items: a hatchet, a tarp, a fishing net, waterproof matches, a flare gun, a pot, a deck of cards, duct tape, a mirror, or a radio with no batteries.”

You both immediately said, “Matches.”

Jake beamed. “We’re so in sync.”

You rolled your eyes. “Calm down, coconut buddy.”

By the end of the exercise, you had drawn a map of your imaginary island, built a fantasy hut, and decided you’d survive by fishing, drinking boiled rainwater, and arguing over who got the hammock.

Jake looked disturbingly pleased with himself.

“Honestly?” he said, stretching his arms over his head. “I think we’d make a pretty great apocalypse duo.”

You didn’t say anything.

But you didn’t look away either.

Across the room, Rosa whispered, “They’re doomed.”

Boyle sobbed quietly into his lunch.

-----

“Next up,” Amy announced the following day, with barely restrained glee, “is the Compliment Gauntlet!”

Jake looked alarmed. “That sounds suspiciously emotional.”

“That’s because it is,” Amy said. “Each person will be tethered wrist-to-wrist to a partner while offering increasingly specific compliments. The rope only comes off when both people have given a compliment that makes the other physically blush.”

You stared at her. “What kind of twisted Hallmark-bootcamp is this?”

“Justice,” Rosa muttered. “Sweet, calculated justice.”

Jake grinned. “Well, looks like we’re stuck with each other. Again.”

“I’m starting to think that’s intentional.”

“You think?” he said, already extending his wrist toward you. “I’m shocked, truly.”

The rope was tied. Amy set a timer. “Begin.”

Jake smirked. “You have the best taste in snacks and the most expressive eye rolls I’ve ever seen.”

You blinked. “You remembered my snack order?”

“Down to the exact number of gummy bears.”

Your cheeks warmed. Damn it.

“Your hair looks really good today,” you said quickly, deflecting.

He tilted his head. “That’s cute, but not enough. We both know it.”

You exhaled. “You’re the most annoyingly observant, big-hearted disaster of a detective I’ve ever met, and it drives me insane in a way that’s... weirdly endearing.”

Jake blinked.

The tips of his ears turned red.

The rope fell to the ground with a dramatic snap.

Boyle audibly gasped.

Amy fist-pumped. “YES!"

Rosa nodded, satisfied. “Finally.”

Jake looked down at the rope, then at you. “So… we blushed.”

You stared back. “We did.”

His grin grew slow and dumb. “That means we’re... great at this.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yet here you are.”

-----

The final activity arrived with all the subtlety of a bombshell.

“Tonight’s exercise,” Amy announced, trying not to visibly vibrate with excitement, “is called ‘The Trust Maze.’”

Jake squinted. “Is this about corn mazes? Because I got lost in one as a kid and accidentally joined another family.”

“No,” Amy said. “This is a communication challenge. One person wears a blindfold. The other gives verbal directions to guide them through an obstacle course set up in the evidence room. Minimal lighting. Maximum confusion. The only way out is teamwork.”

Jake turned to you, grinning. “So basically, I stumble around in the dark while you yell at me?”

“Pretty much,” you replied. “Sounds like a Tuesday.”

Boyle handed Jake a blindfold. “Godspeed, buddy.”

Moments later, Jake was standing at the starting line of a makeshift maze made of overturned chairs, file boxes, and caution tape, blindfold secured. The lights were dimmed.

“You ready, Y/N?” Terry called from the corner, stopwatch in hand.

“As I’ll ever be,” you muttered, stepping beside the tape.

“Go!”

“Okay,” you called. “Take two steps forward. No—your other forward. Right.”

Jake flailed and corrected himself. “You need to define directions better!”

“Maybe if you didn’t walk like a baby deer on ice!”

Laughter echoed from the bullpen.

“Turn left! Now duck—DUCK!”

Jake dropped to a crouch as a mop handle swung above his head.

“Holy crap,” he breathed. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

“Only if you keep making Die Hard 2 references.”

He stumbled forward again, miraculously avoiding a stack of boxes. “You know, this would be a lot more romantic if I weren’t sweating profusely and fearing death.”

You hesitated for half a second, voice quieter now. “Romantic?”

Jake stopped. “Wait, did I say that out loud?”

You didn’t answer. He tugged the blindfold up just enough to peek at you.

The room fell quiet.

“I mean,” he started, his voice suddenly more genuine than it had been all week, “this whole thing’s kind of ridiculous, right? Everyone trying to make us figure out what we apparently can’t?”

You looked at him, soft and stunned. “You think we’re that oblivious?”

Jake smiled sheepishly. “I don’t know. Maybe. But I also know I like arguing with you. I like drinking your coffee. I like... the way you always catch me.”

Your heart was hammering.

“I like you,” he said. “A lot.”

You took a slow step forward until you were right in front of him. “Then maybe,” you murmured, reaching up to pull the blindfold fully off, “you should stop letting everyone else tell you when to do something about it.”

Jake’s breath hitched.

And then you kissed him.

The entire bullpen erupted.

“FINALLY!” Boyle screamed.

Amy high-fived Rosa. Holt closed his office door with a muttered, “About time.”

Terry just grinned and marked something off on a clipboard.

Jake pulled back slightly, dazed. “So... uh... do we win team-building week?”

You grinned. “We just might’ve broken the scoreboard.”

[utilitycaster]

@disastergenius re your tags about how additionally, Keyleth is permitted (somewhat misdirected) anger against the Raven Queen for 30 years for something that was ultimately far more complex/Vax's choice, but Orym isn't permitted, to be perfectly frank, 3-4 months of anger given that he didn't find out it was specifically the Vanguard who attacked until after Campaign 3 had begun - yeah! The difference is incredibly stark and it becomes obvious the issue is entirely "well I think that killing Orym's family was a justified action on the way to the Noble Pursuit of Killing the Gods, so he should obviously get over his inconvenient feeling, whereas Keyleth's feelings are debatably compatible, so I'll let that slide."

The argument for Ludinus is often that he just wants to be understood and I think it comes from a place of really worryingly failing to understand that if you kill someone's husband they won't listen, because those people are like "but my Noble Pursuit?" and can't or won't comprehend that many people (I'd even say most) might write you off entirely on the basis of your actions alone, and will not care about your thought process. I also think that Orym represents a population and a question that Bells Hells do not adequately engage with/explore throughout the narrative - it's not just that he brings up the possibility that the overall process of killing the gods could lead to immense harm to the population of Exandria and that he doesn't want to pursue something without knowing, he did lose people as collateral to this goal and doesn't want that visited upon others. And he mostly gets ignored for his attempt to think beyond himself.

The thing is, I think it is true that Ludinus wants to be understood - you could even, if you wanted to really get into the sympathetic interpretation, argue this is a function of how in the immediate aftermath of his loss there probably wasn't anyone to sit with him and help him process or even specifically grieve alongside him. But a consistency in his characterization is how throughout his entire life, he constantly pushed people away and isolated himself and thought himself better, and it's only now, when he knows his time is almost up, that he bothers to say "man I wish the people I looked down on and treated as expendable tools understood me." like idk you could have tried this 500 years earlier and maybe Molaesmyr would still stand. It's a classic villain trope, and a good one - they try to get some kind of connection with the heroes because they have no one else left to connect with - but it's a classic villain trope in that it underlines how empty this person has made their own life.

And what's interesting to me is that it's also very valid (I'd even say objectively correct) interpretation to argue Ludinus's family was also innocent collateral in the service of a goal much larger than them. I don't dispute the idea that Ludinus and Orym are parallels - in fact I think it's incredibly true! And that's the issue: Orym's response within a mere few months of knowledge and less than a decade of mourning is infinitely more mature, wise, and kinder than Ludinus's millennium-long murder tantrum, and what's more, Ludinus created him. Ludinus not only visited his exact pain on someone else (for reasons, I might add, that veer into "this was unnecessarily murderous and cruel" re the anti-resurrection poison, which literally is one of the Great Dropped Threads/Plot Holes of C3 but that's another post) but the person he harmed responded with a grace Ludinus never once possessed, and nothing stings more to a self-pitying egotist than looking into a mirror and seeing someone do better in every possible way.