#society of camera operators

[robinsonranch]

The onetime SOC president collaborated with cinematographer William Fraker on 17 films, including ‘Tombstone,’ ‘Honeymoon in Vegas’ and ‘Town & Country.’

BY MIKE BARNES

David E. Diano, a veteran camera operator with credits including Tombstone, The Fast and the Furious, Wedding Crashers and Spider-Man 3, has died. He was 71.

Diano died Jan. 22 at Huntington Hospital in Pasadena of coronary issues after a battle with prostate cancer, his wife, still photographer Gemma LaMana, told The Hollywood Reporter.

Diano served as president of the Society of Camera Operators from 2003-04 before deciding not to run for a second term.

“To write that David was a one-of-a-kind friend to those of us who worked with him would be an understatement,” SOC historical chair Michael Frediani said in a statement. “His kindness, artistry and boyish smile endeared him to countess friends and fellow industry colleagues — and that is what set him apart from many,”

Diano shot 17 movies for cinematographer William Fraker, a six-time Oscar nominee, from 1983-2002. Those films included War Games (1983), Murphy’s Romance (1985), Baby Boom (1987), Memoirs of an Invisible Man (1992), Honeymoon in Vegas (1992), Tombstone (1993), Father of the Bride Part II (1995), Town & Country (2001) and Waking Up in Reno (2002).

A native of Los Angeles, David Edward Diano graduated from Eagle Rock High School and UCLA before working as a camera operator on the 1980 releases How to Beat the High Cost of Living and The Formula.

He went on to work on such other features as Night Shift (1982), Leap of Faith (1992), Angels in the Outfield (1994), 2 Days in the Valley (1996), The Fast and the Furious (2001), Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle (2003), National Treasure (2004), Wedding Crashers (2005), Spider-Man 3 (2007), You Don’t Mess With the Zohan (2008) and Little Fockers (2010).

Diano also manned a camera on the TV series Bones in 2013-15 and Bosch in 2015.

In addition to his wife — they were married in 1991, and she received a lifetime achievement honor from the SOC in 2001 — survivors include his sons, David and Sean.

[saveugoodmadam]

when there's an honest to goodness NOBEL PRIZE WINNER at the matinee you go to and nerdy awkward teenage you is the one Matthew stops and talks to 😆

(for context I took the third picture off my phone and the first two are from the Southwark Playhouse Instagram)

[delphi-shield]

instant connection .ᐟ.ᐟ

di!leon x reader - long-distance relationship - part 1

next part

leon's a liar.

he doesn't mean to be. he tells you he works in security because it's easier than explaining the shitshow that is the DSO. you'll ghost him in a few messages anyway - and if you don't, he'll do the honors.

leon. 6'0''. works in security at no. undecided on kids. doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, long-term relationship, open to short. his first picture is of him throwing a peace sign to the camera, hair immaculate. (he'd had to crop out the hideous monster, a writhing mass of flesh and teeth, and now bullets. leon had realized very quickly that most of his selfies were ones he sent to hunnigan and ranged from drowned cat couture, 'forgot my umbrella today' to 'i'll help you train if you want to be a field agent, you're missing out', encouragement in the same frame as his latest monstrosity.)

the only thing completely true on his profile is his name and his status as a non-smoker and newly minted teetotaler. (according to his sobriety chip, he hasn't touched a drink in eight months. he keeps it in the same pocket he used to stash his flask in.) he's probably six foot in his shoes, he figures. that's only a half lie. 'undecided' should be 'unlikely', but that hadn't been an option in the drop down menu. his therapist says he needs to keep himself open to happiness, not to hold his dreams under water and drown them the moment he dares to have hope. it sounds kind of like bullshit, but undecided is the closest he's letting himself get to optimism for the time being. it's the same deal with long-term, open to short - blind optimism undercut by what he knows life has in store for him.

companionship isn't in the cards for him, not in any meaningful way, and that's fine. you get used to it after a while. it dulls out, gets hazy, only really creeps in on lazy weekends when he leaves the window cracked, swept in on sweet-smelling spring breezes.

it's one of those days when he opens his dating app to review his scant few likes. he clears the cobwebs from his profile only often enough to keep it active (there's that hope again). activity was few and far between, usually saved up to have claire or hunnigan go through his options and point out red flags that he would gladly sail right past - but that day, a cavern had opened in his chest. he only knew how to fill it with validation.

you were half-way across the goddamn country. you'd probably liked him weeks ago when you were passing through. seemed like a safe enough bet. more than likely, you'd never respond. even if you did, this would never work out. the distance was crazy.

so of course he messages you.

all right, what's wrong with you?

kind of a weird thing to say to a stranger, but you take it in stride and turn the question back on him when you respond an hour and a half later, the notification so surprising to him that he has to reel back through your profile to see what he's actually dealing with.

the distance makes it safe. there's a buffer between you. unspoken, mutual understanding that this is impractical and a waste of time.

the messages get more frequent. the stilted conversation melted to daily updates, and he'd exchanged phone numbers with you out of convenience. the app was a pain in the ass. he didn't want to get guff for being on a dating app during work hours, but texts were easily hand-waved. daily pictures escalated to weekly calls, which mutated into scheduled movie nights. there were a host of classics he needed to show you. his contribution to society was making one more person culturally conscious of leon s. kennedy's greatest hits.

leon remembers exactly where he was when you'd sleepily confessed that you weren't talking to anyone else. posted up in a hotel in belgium, getting ready for his operation. it was the middle of the night for you. the day loomed ahead of him, loaded with hostility and viscera. you were half asleep. he could have told you anything and you would have hummed and forgot it, nestled into your pillow. he tells you the truth instead, that he'd deleted the app you'd met on, that you're the only one he's talking to as well. it's the closest to commitment he can do and you take that promise to your dreams.

since then, he warns you when he'll be away for a 'business conference', unlikely to respond.

(conference sucked, he messages you from his hospital bed. he's fresh off assignment chest wrapped tight in bandages. he'll be out in a few hours. nothing serious. part of him aches to reassure you about something you didn't even know you had to worry about. execs tried to eat me alive out there.)

leon realizes he's fucked when he pays more attention to you, pinned to the top right corner of his laptop, than the cheesy horror-comedy you'd picked out for movie night. one hand itches for the bottle and the other itches for you, imagining what it would feel like with your weight dipping the mattress next to him, how his hand might fit against the arc of your hip - the movie on the big screen, not his laptop, still ignored in favor of watching you.

"are you even paying attention?" your voice crackles over the speaker, competing with the honking of a clown nose. he's lost the plot of the movie, doesn't quite understand where all the clowns came from (outer space, he thinks, but that would be ridiculous). he's too busy replaying your voice in his head, imagining it slower, sleepier, pressed into his shoulder.

"yeah, of course."

"uh-huh," you hum doubtfully.

you encourage him to pay attention to the next scene, pointing as if that will do anything when there's so many miles between you. something about the practical effects. he tries, honest to god, but his eyes keep drifting up to you.

he's not a monster. he waits til the movie is over to spring his stupid idea on you. leon respects the sanctity of film, the intimacy of showing your favorites with another person and the anxious hope that they'll understand the piece of you you're trying to share with them.

but he can't get the idea out of his head, and he'll make it up to you with a thorough analysis of the movie next time you have a movie date because if he doesn't say this now he's going to pussy out.

"listen, i was thinking," he ruminates, taking his time to chew his words. plenty of time to back out. leon's grown good at identifying what sort of anxiety is brewing in his gut - perks of the job - and he knows he'll kick himself if he back out now.

"that's rare."

"hilarious. i'm serious, i've been thinking. i've got some time off built up. if i don't use it by the end of the year, they don't pay it out. company's a bunch of cheap asses."

he's talking in circles and you've already reached the ending. he leans a little closer to the screen, hopes the look in your eye is glee and not fear.

"so..." leon trails off. plenty of room to back out. if you don't grasp this he'll just ask for travel tips and lick his wounds somewhere warm and tropical.

but you don't offer that. you sit up a little straighter. he swears that's a smile that you're fighting to keep down. "so...how soon are you thinking?"

casual. nice.

"as soon as possible." less casual. shit. "i was thinking a week. is that--?"

"that's great. can you let me know the dates?"

"yeah. yeah, of course."

this is going too well. too smoothly.

leon takes a breath, combs his fingers through his hair.

"we are talking about me coming to visit, right?"

you laugh at him. he's never been so happy to be laughed at.

"yeah, leon. you're coming to visit."

"just making sure."

it's impractical. it's unlikely. his therapist is going to have a field day next session. he still hasn't figured out what to do when you find out that 'security' had been a very misleading description of his work, or when you figure out that he's only 5'10'' on a good day. none of it is fair to you, he realizes, but booking his flight is his first step in trying to do right by you.

"i'll pick you up from the airport," you insist.

"i want a sign with my name on it."

"i'll put 'kennedy' on it and wear a suit and sunglasses so people think you're a big deal."

"i kind of am a big deal."

you roll your eyes. "oh, my mistake."

if only you knew that was the truth.

dividers from @/adornedwithlight

[tjjamess]

To YOU he’s just a 192 year old dead revolutionary medical student who represented the logic of the revolution who lived much more normal than his counterpart, who was more human than man, the homo to vir, who liked the word citizen but preferred the word man and would gladly say hombre, who read everything, did theatres, followed lectures, explained the functions of artery’s, followed science, deciphered hieroglyphics, broke stones to look inside them, drew silk moths from memory, corrected the dictionary, both asserted and denied nothing, daydreamed, who was involved in issues of education, wanted society to raise intellectual and moral standards, believed that the narrowness of teachings and the scholastic prejudice would turn collages into artificial oyster farms, who was well-read, a purist, precise, polytechnical, hardworking, imaginative, who dreamed of trains and better surgical operations and fixing cameras and electric telegraphs and steering hot air balloons, who was the guide to the leader, who was not incapable of fighting but would rather be gentle, who wanted neither halt nor haste, who would rather let progress take its course rather than worship and incite revolutionary adventures, coolheaded but pure, methodical but irreproachable, phlegmatic but imperturbable, and who believed ‘good must be innocent’

To ME he’s everything

[satzumosupremacy]

Elite Bodyguard Series: Pt.1

Leader’s First Dibs

Male reader x Jihyo 2.5k Words

Tags: Small intro to series, Smut

Intro: Being an elite bodyguard can be tiring; you’re always looking for threats. You started from the bottom as a security guard, worked your way up the military ranks, somehow ended up in the Navy SEAL, and then a part-time job as a bodyguard for celebrities in the Korean industry. Your portfolio was undoubtedly captivating to many people, but they often ask you why you became a bodyguard during your time off. It’s simple—the amount of stress and workload just by working for the government to keep a country out of threats, and you’re always at risk of not coming back after an operation.

You remembered being deployed to South Korea years ago and fell in love with the nature there. During your time off, you hated staying home because there wasn’t anything to do. Until your superiors gave you an opportunity to work as a bodyguard for celebrities.

You’ve met celebrities along the way, talking and having conversations when necessary. JYP signed a contract with your agency, and you get paid higher than others with your military operations and knowledgeable background. You took JYP’s offer and became a primary bodyguard for Twice. It doesn’t stop there; you work for other companies when you have the time. Seeing how mentally stable you are is an accomplishment for many people.

As there are many units in the branches, you aren’t the youngest, oldest, tallest, strongest, or the best of the best, but you sure are one of the coldest and precise shooter during combat. Even having a name to yourself that only the SEALS knew—Brees, the nickname was given by the higher-ranking officers comparing your accuracy and aura to that of the Saints football quarterback. Although you didn’t find the nickname fond enough, it grew on you as time went on. You aren’t a sniper, but a respectable ground unit. Hell and back was where you were as you get used to society again, thanks to Twice and many others.

Working with Twice is fun; they get you to laugh. It was unprofessional of you, but no one cares. You became good friends with Jeongyeon; she always took care of you while you were doing your job. You unknowingly opened up to her—it’s something you don’t often do with a client. Jeongyeon was the primary reason why your heart soften up and blended in with society again. Tzuyu is the quietest in your eyes, but she’s very beautiful—enough to make you fall in love with her. You keep your career as professional as it can be, sadly. Wealth generates to you after all those years; you don’t spend much but only on necessary needs, owning a big house with three cars—a minimalistic lifestyle. 

———

You have to be with Jihyo today; she’s very mature by your standards. You get to her place freely; you’ve been trusted enough to be free around celebrities by yourself. You knock on the door, and she welcomes you to come in. "What’s the agenda for today, Jihyo?"

"Nothing; I just want you to keep me company." 

"You’ve got to be joking. I’ll get suspended since this isn’t my job to accompany you inside your own house, ma’am." 

"Don’t call me ma’am. We know each other very well already. Plus, the company is okay with this." 

“Jihyo, what am I supposed to be doing exactly?” You laughed.

"You’ve been working very hard; I want you to relax today." She gets on top of you while you sit on her couch. 

“Ji-”

“You deserve us.”

“What do you mean by us?”

"All nine of us, whenever we want you. Stop being so professional around us sometimes. It’s okay to enjoy some time with us. Come on, I want you today." 

You gulped, staring at each other. "I never imagined this from you, Jihyo." 

"Oppa, It’s different when there are no cameras around." She guides you closer by your chin and gives you a passionate kiss. You hug her, feeling her bra strap and gorgeous body. "That’s right, relax and fuck me." 

You glue your lips to hers; it’s soft as she moans quietly and arches closer to you. "If a word gets out, I won’t be able to work for you girls anymore." 

"You’re so wrong. If they do, I’m terminating my contract." She whispered in your ear. Your cock gets hard underneath your pants. She takes your shirt off violently; her desires surprise you, and you take her top off afterwards, seeing her big, tasteful tits with nipple covers interrupting a sight to see. You take her covers off gently and throw them to the side. Jihyo grabs your nape, pushing you towards her and give her tits a taste. "Big, aren’t they?" 

“They are.”

“You want to see me fully naked?”

“I do, Jihyo.”

She stands up, stripping seductively as you stare at her gorgeous body. Adrenaline rushes throughout your body; it seems like a dream to see a client go to this extent. Jihyo sits on top of you again, grabbing your hands to caress her tits. She looks at you, smiling and having a good time in her home. "May I take off your pants?"

“You may, Jihyo.”

She takes off your pants and your boxers. Jihyo gives your hard cock a kiss. "Looks amazing; may I have a taste, sir?" 

“Why are you calling me sir?” You chuckled.

“You called me ma’am. What do you expect.”

"I’ll take that back." You gently put your hand on her cheeks and your thumb right on her lips. She sucks on your thumb, using her tongue as she stares right at you. "Fuck, you’re so hot." 

She releases from your thumb, kissing the tip of your cock all the way down to the base. You keep looking at her, amazed by what the leader of Twice is doing to you. Jihyo wraps her mouth around your cock, slowly bobbing and using her tongue. She caresses your chest and holds on. You grab her hands off and hold onto her hands; you feel how soft her hands are. 

Jihyo doesn’t stop sucking you off; it’s slow, but you feel every nerve and pleasure she’s giving you—just what she wanted. You let her hands go and play with her hair. Jihyo smiles with the corner of her mouth and gives you a quick chuckle. She sucks you off deeper, hearing how wet she got your cock to be with her own saliva. You grunt quietly, tilting your head back into the headrest of her couch. You glide your hand from her hair to her cheeks; it’s softer than you thought, and everything about her body is amazing. 

“Jihyo, I want it inside you.”

She doesn’t respond, only getting up from her knees and getting on top of you again to insert your cock slowly. You both exchange groans while looking at each other. She covers her mouth, but you remove it in a matter of seconds. You love her voice and want to hear how her moans can sound even better. You nod at her slowly, and she chuckles at your desire to hear her moans. 

The sex is more natural with you both knowing each other enough to be naked. Jihyo glues her lips to yours and kisses each other, passionately fighting for dominance. It gets more messy as it turns into a tongue fight as both of your mouths coat each other with saliva. She searches for your hands and grabs them, pinning you down without any movement. She breaks the kiss, giggling along and staring at each other. 

“So aggressive, Jihyo.”

“You feel so good inside me.”

“I love how tight you are.”

“I bet you want to see how tight the rest of us are.”

“It does get me wondering.”

“Focus on me, you’re fucking me right now.”

You break out of her pinning you with ease. She gets surprised when she sees how easily you can break out. You grab her nape quickly, kissing her aggressively and passionately as she groans in pleasure. She grinds on you faster and holds onto your shoulders. Her breaths become heavy, and her moans become subtly louder. You grab her ass, caressing them with little gentle slaps. You hold on to her hips after; it gets more passionate as it goes on. The house becomes filled with her wet pussy grinding on your cock. You grunt harder, closing your eyes, until she puts her hands to the side of your face for another round of kisses. 

You couldn’t stop staring at her with those lustful eyes she’s showing you. She doesn’t stop grinding, riding you slowly—almost giving you a dance performance naked. Her tight pussy gets you overwhelmed; she’s moaning harder, and you both exchange silent breaths. Jihyo’s body tenses up momentarily from the feel of her thighs. You pull her closer to you, kissing her neck as her head leans on the headrest on the couch. "Cum for me, Jihyo." 

She grinds faster, moaning and squealing louder as she gets to her limit. A pause—body tenses up quickly with her body squirming hesitantly—that's pinning your thighs in. You hold her by the nape with your other hand on her back. You hug her in as she starts to cum, and Jihyo’s moaning right by your ear. You firmly grip her ass, spanking her gently as she rides out her orgasm. You kiss her shoulders until she catches her heavy breath.

“Cum inside me, I want it so bad.” She said while catching her breaths.

"I’m going to lay you on the couch." You grab onto her body with ease, tossing her to lie on the couch and take the lead. Her nape is on the armrest; she’s staring at the ceiling while you slowly thrust inside her. You give Jihyo's neck a kiss as she hugs you tight. Her moans turn into erotic groans, and her voice is so beautiful that it turns you on even more. "Such a beautiful voice, Jihyo." 

She couldn’t say anything, only groaning as you keep thrusting. You get to your limit, grunting and breathing harder. "I’m going to cum." 

“In..side.”

You erupt in her, as deep as you can penetrate, with her body squirming with your thrust. She starts squealing from feeling your warm cum deep inside her. You make out with her neck, breathing hard as you finish. In a quiet living room with only heavy breaths being heard, you pull out with cum oozing out quickly onto her couch. She scoops some of the cum and gives you a taste. 

“You taste good.”

“Can I have you again sometime?” You asked Jihyo.

“Of course. Just call me whenever. You want some ramen?”

“How can you ask me for ramen so casually after we fucked.” You burst into laughter.

“Oppa, I should treat you since you came over.”

“If you don’t mind making it.” You put on your clothes with Jihyo and she goes to the kitchen.

“You know who you should fuck next?”

“Tzuyu?” You confidently said daringly.

"Hmmm, I don’t know about her; she plays hard. I never said any names; do you like Tzuyu or what?" 

“Honestly, she’s interesting, I would date her if I have the chance.”

“Beautiful isn’t she?” Jihyo added.

“Very.”

“I even took a shower with her. Aren’t you jealous?” She teased you.

“No, I want to know her more.”

“Well, you’ve got a lot to make up. She will open up to you if she’s interested enough. By opening up, I meant letting you know her, not her legs.”

“I’m not that dumb, Jihyo. Wait, you’re on a pill right?”

“Don’t worry, we all are.”

“If I do this with idols, do you think Tzuyu will care?”

“As long as you show her love, I’m sure she won’t care. You should get Momo naked next.”

“She does have an amazing body.”

“I bet she will drain you constantly. You’ve seen her dance.”

“So, do I ask her or you will ask her?”

“Don’t worry, she will give you a call.”

Jihyo brings the bowls of ramen, "let’s eat. Another round of sex after?" 

“Settle down, Jihyo.” You laughed and eat the ramen.

After finishing the ramen with Jihyo, she washes the dishes right after. You relax on her couch while watching TV and on your phone. Jihyo comes back to sit next to you, caressing your thighs as she comes closer. Jihyo doesn’t say anything; she only wants to have you inside her again. Her lips glue to yours, passionately kissing loudly while you start to caress her body. Her lips are tasteful—hints of ramen broth as you keep kissing her. You grab her nape, gluing her lips right on yours as she fights for dominance. She holds onto the side of your face, kissing you more while she groans quietly. 

Jihyo breaks the kiss, catching her breath as she looks at you. “Can we have a quickie instead? Cum in my mouth.”

“I will, Jihyo. Get on your knees.”

She gets down, pulling off your pants and boxers, sucking you off quickly right away. You play with her hair, feeling her jawline and her cheeks as she keeps bobbing her head. You both look at each other lustfully. You love her eyes—dilated pupils from being turned on as she sucks you off. You love how mature she is by pleasing both of you and not taking the moments in a more amateur way. You start to breathe harder, loving the way she sucks you off so passionately. She squeezes your cock, jerking you off slowly, sucking and licking your tip consecutively. 

“Fuck, Ji-”

"Mm-hmm." She gave you a reply, you couldn’t tell what she was saying. Jihyo keeps her pace as she plays with her tits, showing you a view that you couldn’t look away from. Jihyo removes her hand, sucking you off deeper as she gags quickly, releasing from your cock to cough. Jihyo stares at you while she jerks you off—her eyes become red, and a small amount of saliva drips off her chin. You wipe her chin off, and she goes back to sucking you off. 

"You’re going to make me cum, Jihyo; keep going." You gather her hair into a ponytail, and she sucks you off quickly. Jihyo makes slight gags and chokes as she tries to make you cum inside her mouth. "Just like that, don’t stop. I’m going to cum." You grunt harder; you grip her hair, overwhelmed by her sucking you off. You erupt inside her mouth, Jihyo pauses and looks at you with gratitude. You hear her swallowing all your cum as she uses her tongue on your sensitive tip. 

Jihyo kisses your tip, and you lift her head up with your hand on her chin. Your thumb wipes off the cum on her lips, and Jihyo sucks on your thumb slowly. She gives you a seductive smile while you catch your breath.

“You loved it didn’t you?” Jihyo said.

“I did.”

“You taste so good, glad I was the first to get it.”

“I want to taste you, Jihyo.”

She nods, “you can next time. It’s only so I can get more of you.”

“That’s very sly of you, Jihyo.”

[thedansemacabres]

Introduction To Supporting Sustainable Agriculture For Witches and Pagans

[ID: An image of yellow grain stocks, soon to be harvested. The several stocks reach towards a blurred open sky, focusing the camera on he grains themselves. The leaves of the grains are green and the cereals are exposed].

PAGANISM AND WITCHCRAFT ARE MOVEMENTS WITHIN A SELF-DESTRUCTIVE CAPITALIST SOCIETY. As the world becomes more aware of the importance of sustainability, so does the duty of humanity to uphold the idea of the steward, stemming from various indigenous worldviews, in the modern era. I make this small introduction as a viticulturist working towards organic and environmentally friendly grape production. I also do work on a food farm, as a second job—a regenerative farm, so I suppose that is my qualifications. Sustainable—or rather regenerative agriculture—grows in recognition. And as paganism and witchcraft continue to blossom, learning and supporting sustainability is naturally a path for us to take. I will say that this is influenced by I living in the USA, however, there are thousands of groups across the world for sustainable agriculture, of which tend to be easy to research.

So let us unite in caring for the world together, and here is an introduction to supporting sustainable/regenerative agriculture. 

A QUICK BRIEF ON SUSTAINABLE AGRICULTURE 

Sustainable agriculture, in truth, is a movement to practise agriculture as it has been done for thousands of years—this time, with more innovation from science and microbiology especially. The legal definition in the USA of sustainable agriculture is: 

The term ”sustainable agriculture” (U.S. Code Title 7, Section 3103) means an integrated system of plant and animal production practices having a site-specific application that will over the long-term:

A more common man’s definition would be farming in a way that provides society’s food and textile needs without overuse of natural resources, artificial supplements and pest controls, without compromising the future generation’s needs and ability to produce resources. The agriculture industry has one of the largest and most detrimental impacts on the environment, and sustainable agriculture is the alternative movement to it. 

Sustainable agriculture also has the perk of being physically better for you—the nutrient quality of crops in the USA has dropped by 47%, and the majority of our food goes to waste. Imagine if it was composted and reused? Or even better—we buy only what we need. We as pagans and witches can help change this. 

BUYING ORGANIC (IT REALLY WORKS)

The first step is buying organic. While cliche, it does work: organic operations have certain rules to abide by, which excludes environmentally dangerous chemicals—many of which, such as DDT, which causes ecological genocide and death to people. Organic operations have to use natural ways of fertilising, such as compost, which to many of us—such as myself—revere the cycle of life, rot, and death. Organic standards do vary depending on the country, but the key idea is farming without artificial fertilisers, using organic seeds, supplementing with animal manure, fertility managed through management practices, etc. 

However, organic does have its flaws. Certified organic costs many, of which many small farmers cannot afford. The nutrient quality of organic food, while tending to be better, is still poor compared to regeneratively grown crops. Furthermore, the process to become certified organic is often gruelling—you can practise completely organically, but if you are not certified, it is not organic. Which, while a quality control insurance, is both a bonus and a hurdle. 

JOINING A CSA

Moving from organic is joining a CSA (“Community supported agriculture”). The USDA defines far better than I could: 

Community Supported Agriculture (CSA), one type of direct marketing, consists of a community of individuals who pledge support to a farm operation so that the farmland becomes, either legally or spiritually, the community’s farm, with the growers and consumers providing mutual support and sharing the risks and benefits of food production.

By purchasing a farm share, you receive food from the farm for the agreed upon production year. I personally enjoy CSAs for the relational aspect—choosing a CSA is about having a relationship, not only with the farmer(s), but also the land you receive food from. I volunteer for my CSA and sometimes I get extra cash from it—partaking in the act of caring for the land. Joining a CSA also means taking your precious capital away from the larger food industry and directly supporting growers—and CSAs typically practise sustainable and/or regenerative agriculture. 

CSAs are also found all over the world and many can deliver their products to food deserts and other areas with limited agricultural access. I volunteer from time to time for a food bank that does exactly that with the produce I helped grow on the vegetable farm I work for. 

FARM MARKETS AND STALLS 

Another way of personally connecting to sustainable agriculture is entering the realm of the farm stall. The farmer’s market is one of my personal favourite experiences—people buzzing about searching for ingredients, smiles as farmers sell crops and products such as honey or baked goods, etc. The personal connection stretches into the earth, and into the past it buries—as I purchase my apples from the stall, I cannot help but see a thousand lives unfold. People have been doing this for thousands of years and here I stand, doing it all over again. 

Advertisement

Farmers’ markets are dependent on your local area, yet in most you can still develop personal community connections. Paganism often stresses community as an ideal and a state of life. And witchcraft often stresses a connection to the soil. What better place, then, is purchasing the products from the locals who commune with the land? 

VOLUNTEERING 

If you are able to, I absolutely recommend volunteering. I have worked with aquaponic systems, food banks, farms, cider-making companies, soil conservation groups, etc. There is so much opportunity—and perhaps employment—in these fields. The knowledge I have gained has been wonderful. As one example, I learned that fertilisers reduce carbon sequestration as plants absorb carbon to help with nutrient intake. If they have all their nutrients ready, they do not need to work to obtain carbon to help absorb it. This does not even get into the symbiotic relationship fungi have with roots, or the world of hyphae. Volunteering provides community and connection. Actions and words change the world, and the world grows ever better with help—including how much or how little you may provide. It also makes a wonderful devotional activity. 

RESOURCING FOOD AND COOKING 

Buying from farmers is not always easy, however. Produce often has to be processed, requiring labour and work with some crops such as carrots. Other times, it is a hard effort to cook and many of us—such as myself—often have very limited energy. There are solutions to this, thankfully:

Many farmers can and will process foods. Some even do canning, which can be good to stock up on food and lessen the energy inputs. 

Value-added products: farms also try to avoid waste, and these products often become dried snacks if fruit, frozen, etc. 

Asking farmers if they would be open to accommodating this. Chances are, they would! The farmer I purchase my CSA share from certainly does. 

Going to farmers markets instead of buying a CSA, aligning with your energy levels. 

And if any of your purchased goods are going unused, you can always freeze them. 

DEMETER, CERES, VEIA, ETC: THE FORGOTTEN AGRICULTURE GODS

Agricultural gods are often neglected. Even gods presiding over agriculture often do not have those aspects venerated—Dionysos is a god of viticulture and Apollon a god of cattle. While I myself love Dionysos as a party and wine god, the core of him remains firmly in the vineyards and fields, branching into the expanses of the wild. I find him far more in the curling vines as I prune them than in the simple delights of the wine I ferment. Even more obscure gods, such as Veia, the Etruscan goddess of agriculture, are seldom known.

Persephone receives the worst of this: I enjoy her too as a dread queen, and people do acknowledge her as Kore, but she is far more popular as the queen of the underworld instead of the dear daughter of Demeter. I do understand this, though—I did not feel the might of Demeter and Persephone until I began to move soil with my own hands. A complete difference to the ancient world, where the Eleusinian mysteries appealed to thousands. Times change, and while some things should be left to the past, our link to these gods have been severed. After all, how many of us reading know where our food comes from? I did not until I began to purchase from the land I grew to know personally. The grocery store has become a land of tearing us from the land, instead of the food hub it should be.

Yet, while paganism forgets agriculture gods, they have not forgotten us. The new world of farming is more conductive and welcoming than ever. I find that while older, bigoted people exist, the majority of new farmers tend to be LGBT+. My own boss is trans and aro, and I myself am transgender and gay. The other young farmers I know are some flavour of LGBT+, or mixed/poc. There’s a growing movement for Black farmers, elaborated in a lovely text called We Are Each Other’s Harvest. 

Indigenous farming is also growing and I absolutely recommend buying from indigenous farmers. At this point, I consider Demeter to be a patron of LGBT+ people in this regard—she gives an escape to farmers such as myself. Bigotry is far from my mind under her tender care, as divine Helios shines above and Okeanos’ daughters bring fresh water to the crops. Paganism is also more commonly accepted—I find that farmers find out that I am pagan and tell me to do rituals for their crops instead of reacting poorly. Or they’re pagan themselves; a farmer I know turned out to be Wiccan and uses the wheel of the year to keep track of production. 

Incorporating these divinities—or concepts surrounding them—into our crafts and altars is the spiritual step towards better agriculture. Holy Demeter continues to guide me, even before I knew it. 

WANT CHANGE? DO IT YOURSELF! 

If you want change in the world, you have to act. And if you wish for better agriculture, there is always the chance to do it yourself. Sustainable agriculture is often far more accessible than people think: like witchcraft and divination, it is a practice. Homesteading is often appealing to many of us, including myself, and there are plenty of resources to begin. There are even grants to help one improve their home to be more sustainable, i.e. solar panels. Gardening is another, smaller option. Many of us find that plants we grow and nourish are far more potentant in craft, and more receptive to magical workings. 

Caring for plants is fundamental to our natures and there are a thousand ways to delve into it. I personally have joined conservation groups, my local soil conservation group, work with the NRCs in the USA, and more. The path to fully reconnecting to nature and agriculture is personal—united in a common cause to fight for this beautiful world. To immerse yourself in sustainable agriculture, I honestly recommend researching and finding your own path. Mine lies in soil and rot, grapevines and fruit trees. Others do vegetables and cereal grains, or perhaps join unions and legislators. Everyone has a share in the beauty of life, our lives stemming from the land’s gentle sprouts. 

Questions and or help may be given through my ask box on tumblr—if there is a way I can help, let me know. My knowledge is invaluable I believe, as I continue to learn and grow in the grey-clothed arms of Demeter, Dionysos, and Kore. 

FURTHER READING:

Baszile, N. (2021). We are each other’s harvest. HarperCollins.

Hatley, J. (2016). Robin Wall Kimmerer. Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous wisdom, scientific knowledge and the teachings of plants. Environmental Philosophy, 13(1), 143–145. https://doi.org/10.5840/envirophil201613137

Regenerative Agriculture 101. (2021, November 29). https://www.nrdc.org/stories/regenerative-agriculture-101#what-is

And in truth, far more than I could count. 

References

Community Supported Agriculture | National Agricultural Library. (n.d.). https://www.nal.usda.gov/farms-and-agricultural-production-systems/community-supported-agriculture

Navazio, J. (2012). The Organic seed Grower: A Farmer’s Guide to Vegetable Seed Production. Chelsea Green Publishing.

Plaster, E. (2008). Soil Science and Management. Cengage Learning.

Sheaffer, C. C., & Moncada, K. M. (2012). Introduction to agronomy: food, crops, and environment. Cengage Learning.

Sheldrake, M. (2020). Entangled life: How Fungi Make Our Worlds, Change Our Minds & Shape Our Futures. Random House.

Sustainable Agriculture | National Agricultural Library. (n.d.). https://www.nal.usda.gov/farms-and-agricultural-production-systems/sustainable-agriculture

[bakugoushotwife]

kinktober day twenty-six: bondage kink

>>> yeah i got filthy with this one tbh and i've never written for daddy aizawa before! i hope we enjoy this natstiness.

>>> starring: shouta aizawa x curvy!f!reader >>> cw: kinda darkish, yandere-ish like behavior from aizawa, bondage with the scarf, choking, degradation, slight angst, mc hurt and recovery, slight breeding/baby-trapping, edging, orgasm ruining, one daddy lol >>> wc: 3.2k >>> event masterlist:

this is exactly why he kept working as an underground hero. maybe if you would have listened to him and followed his lead, then he might not regret his own choice. you were popular. way more popular than you should be for the eighth ranked pro-hero, but shouta knew why. you’re the country’s sweetheart, gorgeous and funny–perfect with the press and paparazzi, so sweet to fans but oh so brutal to villains. you were the commission’s people’s princess, and he couldn’t stand it. 

shouta isn’t a jealous type. he didn’t yearn to be in your shoes, after all you were constantly complaining to him about all the photoshoots and pressers and all the key-to-the-city ceremonies you had to attend. it seems like less and less of your schedule was actual hero work and the rest of it was reserved for the flashier side of the business. he didn’t wish to trade places at all. because he stayed underground—people only knew him as eraserhead, nothing about his private life—including his long-term relationship with everyone’s favorite number eight pro. he just got to go about his business, taking down his assignments without any showmanship required. he just got to keep his head down and eliminate bad guys, all before coming home to you at night. 

and sure, you were ogled. talk show hosts, interviewers, your own fanbase, and even other heroes had their fair share of tries at you, but aizawa never feared. you always gave them the same apologetic grin, informing them that you weren’t single and never would be again. of course, people pry about your love life. you never betrayed shouta’s wish for privacy, always swearing that your beau was none of their concern—your hero work should speak for itself. shouta was always proud of you and the way you handled things. you were just and fair, a strong hero with good morals and you were simply unafraid of speaking your mind. if not for the…sigh, corrupt, hero society that we were currently operating under, things would be perfect. 

but this was not a perfect world, and he knew that all too well. he’s watched you and other colleagues take on mismatched quirks or scenarios without enough information. it’s a tale as old as time. they make a martyr out of a low-ranking hero just to remind the rest of society how bad villains really were, like they weren’t the biggest villains out there. as badly as aizawa hated your publicity and stardom, he had hoped that it would keep you safe. you garnered so much attention and popularity for the heroes. there was no way they would put you at risk. 

so the day the word reached his base, he thought he was having a nightmare. it was only when he turned on the news that his worst fears were confirmed. the camera had the perfect shot of you laying in the rubble, face scraped and bloody—unmoving. the banner below the frame read, “breaking: number eight hero taken down in shinjuku city! villain slaughtered by the brave hero; backup on the way!” 

taken down? what exactly does that mean? were you dead? did they actually take you from him—all without anyone knowing how much you mean to him, how much he loves you? his face falls, and he realizes that staying underground may have been the wrong move. would they have killed him instead? would he have been there with you then, to at least keep you safe? his head is full of questions that he can’t find answers to by standing in the middle of his hq. no one understands why eraserhead looks so pale as he navigates to the tokyo hospital, though a few have sneaking suspicions as they watch your body loaded into an ambulance. 

he’s there before you are, waiting to hear any news in the lobby alongside your sidekicks and work study students. he recognized a few of them as students of his own, and it made him sick all over again. why did he allow this? why didn’t he make you take underground work? why couldn’t he follow you if nothing else, becoming a part-time hero while you took on villains way out of your league. if you had someone like him with you, you wouldn’t have ever gotten hurt. 

he can’t forgive himself as he looks at you hooked up to machines reading off just how close you were to death. it took you days to wake up, weeks to get out of the hospital on your own accord. shouta was there every step of the way, taking it on himself to ensure you made a full recovery. not because he would willingly let you back into this fucked set up, but because he needed you to be okay. he would never be able to forgive himself if you suffered permanent damages from this fight. 

luckily, or maybe unluckily so, the love of his life is a fighter. you make physical therapy a breeze, taking strides ahead of the curve and getting back to your new normal with the help of some rest and the loving care of your boyfriend. shouta seldom left your side, though he kept hinting at a change in your professional life once your progress proves that you’re ready to put the suit back on. 

“follow you underground? shouta, honey i’m the number eight. everyone’s waiting for me!” you try to reason with him. you knew it had to be hard on him to watch you at your lowest. you can’t imagine how terrified you would be if the situation was reversed, and you were the one nursing him back to health. you’d never be able to take your eyes off him again—so how can you expect him to abandon this?

“yeah i know, waiting for your return, all heroes will rally behind you and go on another villain elimination crusade.” he drawls rather annoyed. you were supposed to go back to work today–shouta’s many chides not doing the trick until he finally demanded you to stay home this morning. here you stood in your spandex suit, ready to throw your life on the line without any thought or hesitation even after you were almost killed. it makes him sick with worry. you’re brainwashed. 

you bat your eyes at him, folding your arms over your chest. he watches you with a ticked brow, lazy half-lidded eyes waiting for your response. “is that supposed to be a bad thing?”

he angrily rubs at the stubble on his cheek. “yes–what actually ever comes of this? why do so many heroes die like this every year, just like you–set up to fail? you managed to escape with your life this time. but they’ll make a cause out of you, too. i cannot allow that.” he mirrors your posture, and you narrow your eyes at him this time. 

“i killed that villain.” you huff indignantly. “and i’m fine, shouta. don’t pretend i am fragile.” you cock your head at him. he scoffs, looking down his nose at you. 

“you are. i didn’t realize it before, but you almost died due to my overconfidence in you.” he deadpans, images of you bloody and broken flashing in his mind. “i won’t make that mistake again. beat me, and you can leave.” 

it’s your turn to scoff. “excuse me? i am not fighting you, shouta—everyone gets hurt from time to time that is hardly a reason to lose faith in my abilities.” his scarf wraps around your wrist. you look at the tie and look back at him, raising and indignant brow. “really? you’re gonna play this card?” 

you activate your quirk in an effort to escape his binds, purposefully moving quickly to beat your lover’s quirk. after years of being together and learning how to fight effectively against the other, you’ve learned how to avoid it—but he stays three steps ahead. his scarf keeps you from running out of view, and your quirk is gone before you can do much else but yank against his hold on your wrist. his black hair floats and his lazy eyes turn red as you roll your own. you try to throw a punch his way, your only way to win now was to make him blink. his scarf fully unravels to take you on though, catching your other wrist and tying them together in front of you. 

“shouta.” you say sternly, heart racing as he proved you wrong. you couldn’t even beat someone you have battle experience on with a soft spot for you—there was no way you were ready for patrols with the possibility of engaging in battle again. you were hoping the call of his name would be enough to buy you some time, but based on the way his brow arches and he steps forward–you know he won’t be giving you any. 

“you lost. i could do anything with you right now.” he pushes you back toward the bed, keeping his hold on the binds taut. “and you know me. but now you’re under my control. you know you aren’t ready.” he looks down at your form sitting on the bed, unable to fight him—unable to get away. “what would happen if i was your enemy, hm? tell me, darling. you would be finished. i could have my way with you and you couldn’t do anything to stoop it.” he tugs on the fabric around your wrists. 

something about the way he says that has your bratty side kicking up like the tingling in your veins. “yeah? i’d like to see you try.” you pull back on the scarf, and he gives you a lopsided smirk. his free hand grabs your chin, lowering his face to yours. 

“you have no idea what you just asked for.” he nods, smashing his lips on yours. your eyes fall closed, and you imagine he does the same based on the energy restored in your veins. you wouldn’t dare fight him now, however. shouta was right. you had no business going back to work yet, and if he got it his way, you wouldn’t return to that line of work at all. you were too precious to him and this incident was a wake up call. you are his whole life, the one thing that gives him unending happiness even on bad days. he wants to marry you—to build a life with you, and he can’t do that if you’re convinced you actually matter to this hero society. he can’t do that if villains take you from him. so if he has to embrace his inner bad guy for your greater good, then so be it. twist his arm. 

his thin lips slot perfectly against yours, possessive and all-consuming like the heat that takes over your body from the touch. his stubbly chin collides with yours as his fingers search for your bundle through your skin-tight hero suit. it was annoyingly easy to find considering how the fabric clings to your every dip, and your head falls back as soon as he starts rubbing over it. he chuckles at how easy you are, though he knows that’s because of him. another benefit of the entire world wanting his girlfriend—they could want to their heart’s content. he got the real thing, and goddamn if you weren’t addicted to him, giving him free reign with you in moments like these. though this time it was borderline dangerous. you were letting him treat you like a villain after months of being without you as you rehabilitated. but as you kiss, he realizes he’s being too loving to teach you a lesson so serious. he pulls away, shoving you by the chin. 

“you know what villains do with hero sluts?” he asks, his gravelly voice low and almost bored sounding juxtaposed against what he was actually saying as he circles around to your back. the tone goes straight to your core, and you have to bite on your lip to keep from responding. he pops the zipper on your uniform, dragging the pathetic excuse of armor down your body. he rearranges his scarf’s hold on you to get the annoying garment off you completely. you squirm at the air on your skin and the scarf wrapping around your neck—pulling your hands back together—over your head this time. it’s tight enough that you know struggling will get you nowhere, but he’s careful. “especially the weak ones, the pretty ones?”

you shake your head as if you don’t know where he’s going with the demonstration. he shoves your legs apart, replacing his fingertips on your now bare glistening pearl. “they make them villain toys instead, and you would be the most prized one.” he grumbles at you, watching the pinch of your brow as he rubs you expertly. “they’d play with you for hours, see what all your pretty cunt handle.” he hums, sliding around the mess you’re making. once his fingers are coated in your slick, he shoves three of them inside brutally. you scream out at the burn, writhing as his bony fingers curl into your spot so crudely you were seeing colors that didn’t have names. he tugs a little at the cloth around your neck, making you gasp at the slight squeeze. it’s all such a delicious combination, and your hips are still free to grind down on his perfectly angled digits. your pretty chest heaves as your orgasm rapidly approaches. “shouta–”

“they certainly wouldn’t let you cum.” he removes his fingers from you with a nasty little squelch. you whine at the loss, struggling against your binds in an effort to pull him closer. he licks the essence of you off his fingers, humming in approval. it drives you crazy how relaxed he looks, like edging you was just his average wednesday afternoon, but perhaps that was part of your lesson. besides, the crinkle of fondness by his eyes tells you that this is only done out of your best interest. he knows you arms must be getting tired, but he couldn’t risk not running you ragged. he pushes your thighs apart again, deciding the best way to exhaust you was with his cock. he shrugs his pants down his thighs, pumping his length in preparation for you. he was well endowed—certainly enough to punish you with. you shiver at the sound of his belt clinking against the button of his pants, waiting for the feeling of his hot thick length parting your walls. he was so weighty, curved just to abuse the spots he needs to reach. he’s well trimmed and pale like the rest of his lean form, his leaking slit betraying his cool appearance. he looks up at you with disdain, clearly still annoyed that he had to tame you like this anyway. he’d much rather let you free, letting you touch and enjoy him just as he does to you, but it it seems you’re more stubborn than he thought. 

he shoves your legs up to your ears, giving you all of his length without pause or warning. “they’d never be careful” he grunts, squeezing the back of your plush thighs at the same time you vice grip his dick. his scarf tightens around your neck, finally constricting some of your air as he pulls out, sending you reeling when he plunges back into the hilt, repeating this and tightening his scarf every time. you moan out embarrassingly loud. in a way, you had already agreed to your partner’s wishes by letting him have his way with you, as he put it earlier. he knew this too of course, as he certainly couldn’t treat you any real way a villain would, and he knows you would love this far too much to consider it a lesson by any means. 

not like he’s complaining, though this is more work than he would regularly like to put in, it sure is worth it to see your tongue loll out of your mouth and eyes roll back behind those pretty lids. he finally sets a steady pace, rocking into you evenly with an extra shove at the end to kiss your cervix. the squeeze on your throat was so stimulating, giving your head just the right amount of dizziness—his cock strokes your walls in such a mouthwatering way you know you won’t even be able to warn him about your orgasm this time. he’s smart enough to know it’s coming with the way your pussy flutters around him, little whines tumbling from your lips like a promise that you’d never leave the safety of this house again. he lets you tumble off the edge this time, watching your legs jump once before removing himself from you completely, letting his scarf wrap back around him for a brief moment. you cry out at the ruined orgasm, staring at him with contempt. he smiles in amusement. 

“oh, you’re mistaken. weak little heroes like you are in no position to give such attitude.” he shakes his head in disappointment, his scarf descending again to roll you over and take your wrists behind your back. you have no choice but to bury your cheek in the bed as shouta positions your hips where he wanted them. you squeal out when he plows back in, the angling has your toes curling and mouth drooling. “at least this hero slut has good pussy.” he drawls, giving your ass a light spank. “probably the only thing that would keep you alive out there.” he groans as you clamp down on him again, making him grin. you clearly enjoy his dirty talk–evident by your slutty moans and spasming cunt. “think you should finally get to cum, little hero?” 

you nod rapidly, whimpering loud. “please daddy, wanna stay your hero whore~” you say so sweetly that even a man as detached as shouta aizawa couldn’t deny you when he’s supposed to be the bad guy. he nods, letting your arms go. 

“then do it, show me what a slut i have. maybe i’ll breed her and make her stay home.” he grunts, feeling you clench him and yell out for the last time. your vision burns white as you let yourself sink into the overwhelming ocean of pleasure that’s been denied to you for so long hitting you all at once. you sputter out whines and moans, giving his cock a pretty ring of your creamy release. his head falls back at the sight, black hair sticking to the sweat he’s worked up. he can’t hold it off any longer, pelvis still against your ass as he empties his load, balls drawing up to give you everything. you nod contently, feeling the warmth seep through your core. his scarf withdraws completely—not before pulling your hair to one side so he could see your blissed out face. 

“don’t go back to work.” he pants, feeling up the curve of your back as he softens inside you. “can’t get that close again.” he nods, finding your eyes. you sigh softly, rolling to your back as he gets something to clean you up with. 

“guess i gotta since you’re burying loads in me now.” you snicker, and he holds the towel out of reach to tease you, expression bored—though one corner of his mouth creeps up. he hopes it takes, nothing would distract you from your lack of career like a new one.

[jolenes-doppelganger]

Gentle Hands (Part Three)

Stalker Ilsa Faust x Fem! Reader

NSFW 18+- MINORS WHO INTERACT CAN AND WILL BE BLOCKED.

Summary: Fights, make-ups, another fight, a badly arranged foreplay and cameras. What does good for Ilsa really look like? And what cost does it come at?

Warnings: Allusions to a physical fight between R and Ilsa, angst, losing Mario Kart because of Toad, brief panty sniffing (Ilsa you creep), bad foreplay that results in hurt feelings (brief), consensual SMUT (oral Ilsa recieving, masturbation via partner (Ilsa touches R), sweet talking, breast fondling, Ilsa being a creep with cameras).

A/N: Took a break mid-smut sequence to complete tasks for the big green bird. He is sated (for now).

Word Count: 5.4k (Eat up gremmies)

It had been a week since Ilsa had abducted you. Ilsa, not Lisa. She insisted that you call her by her ‘correct’ name now that it was just the two of you. Ilsa was horrendously efficient at erasing your past life. She sent in your urgent notice of resignation the morning after she’d taken you into her apartment. She’d also installed brand new locks inside your home, all electronic, finger-print coded locks. They were high-tech, you couldn’t fake it with a thumb print on a piece of tape. She allowed you to move between her house and your home, mostly to move your things into her town home. You were never allowed outside without her knowledge. You also couldn’t open any windows without an alarm going off. Every single exit in the home was barred, and every single moment of your life was spent with Ilsa.

“Darling, can you make us a cup of tea?” Ilsa asked, brow furrowed as she cracked into another bank account. 

Ilsa’s new hobby was re-establishing her wire transfer network. By this point you knew she was a former intelligence operative, or more likely a seasoned criminal. She had connections and skills that didn’t make sense otherwise. Your new hobby was Mario Kart and baking. You cooked incessantly, as it was the only thing that felt ‘normal’. That and making lattes. You could really only make two for yourself in a day. Ilsa wasn’t fond of you increasing your caffeine intake more than what she deemed ‘healthy’. She was so fond of ‘healthy’ endeavours. So you worked out with her in the mornings. She was teaching you how to box. It was therapeutic, getting to take out all of your frustrations on the person who was the root of them. Mostly. Ilsa had a nasty habit of getting too into it and treating you too roughly.

“Darling?”

“Sorry, yeah. I’m on it.”

You moved into the kitchen, turning the kettle on and preparing the two mugs. Ilsa liked her coffee bland. Cream. Zero sugar. In Ilsa’s mind, sugar was the devil. Mostly because she made up for it in alcohol. With the cup of black tea with just a splash of cream, Ilsa was back at work. You left her side, hoping to skip out on the mandatory ‘morning couple time’.

‘Ah, ah. Not so fast. You come back here.” Ilsa chuckled.

You sat back down next to her.

“Why so frigid, hmm? Come, sit in my lap for a bit.” Ilsa gave a sly smirk.

You remained put, and Ilsa sighed, giving a playful pout.

“You’re no fun.”

Crossing your arms and ignoring her comments felt like second-nature at this point. You were upset with her, as was reasonably so. She’d abducted you and disconnected you from the outside world. It was infuriating, watching her snip off the connections you had to society, to your family bit by carefully timed bit. But last night was the worst. Your Mom had called. You’d tried to send her some sort of message that things weren’t fine, that you were being held against your will, but Ilsa wouldn’t have it. 

‘Are you still upset about Bella?”

At the sound of her name, the cat let out a soft ‘meh’ sound, stretching out her fur-encased arms.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Holding a knife to my cat’s throat? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Isa sighed softly, giving you a soft glance that said, ‘I know, I know’. Her eyebrow and lip were still taped up.

“I paid for it, I knew that it wasn’t fair to you, and I paid for it.”

Moreso, she’d let you hit her. You’d lost count of how many punches you’d given before she finally restrained you. There was a bruise on one of your knuckles. You didn’t feel vindicated, the contrary. Hitting her felt weak. She was stronger than you, quicker, skilled in a thousand ways that you weren’t, and she’d taken the punches until she deemed that it was enough.

“I’m angry.” you huffed. “Why couldn’t you have used a different method.”

“Like what? Holding a knife to your throat? We both know I’d never mean it. I couldn’t intentionally harm you, but if it came down to it, I’d do a lot of awful things to keep you around.”

“I thought you liked Bella!”

“I do, princess, I do. It’s just that I needed you to not raise suspicion.” Ilsa sighed.

“Yeah, not tell the fucking truth about what’s going on.” you spat back.

“I know you don’t like this life, but I have given so much to ensure it’s better than your old-”

“Better how? It was my life before! Mine! It wasn’t perfect, but at least I was working towards a better future with honest work!”

Ilsa laughed.

“Oh, and what I do isn’t honest?”

“I don’t steal.”

“No, you were stolen from. You were spending hours working one of the most difficult, draining jobs for sub-par pay and zero safety net aside from the government’s shitty one.” Ilsa scoffed. “I steal, sure. But it’s from people who steal from people like you. And I steal a small amount from a lot of wicked, evil people. And I’m using it to protect something good.”

“Exhausting, isn’t it.”

“Oh come off it.” Ilsa groaned.

“Your personal fable is maintained at the cost of morality-”

“Do you really think I have what society considers to be ‘morals’?” Ilsa cut you off.

“No.”

“Then stop wasting your time. You’re upset, you’re angry, and I’m not doing anything to make it better. You’re not getting your old life back, accept it and move on.”

Ilsa reached for her desk, grabbing a cherry vape and inhaling slowly. She pushed out a series of rings, momentarily focusing on vape tricks.

“I’m not in the mood for couple time.” 

You made it about three paces out of the office before Ilsa’s arms were around your waist and restraining you. She pulled you back into her office, attaching a handcuff from her chair to your wrist.

“This is supposed to make me hate you any less?”

“Forced proximity does wonders for the mind.” Ilsa mused, taking another hit off of her vape.

“So Stockholm syndrome?”

Ilsa chuckled, reaching over to ruffle your hair.

“The academic.”

You rolled your eyes. 

“And look where it got me? Working at a damn coffee shop.”

Ilsa hummed, amused by the interaction.

“You know what you need?”

“My freedom.” you cracked back.

“Day drinking.” Ilsa rolled her eyes. “This little mood swing would just fade away with some alcohol.”

“I’m not getting drunk so you can fuck me.”

The former agent groaned, turning off her computer. She wouldn’t deny it. She did want that, but not while you were intoxicated. She had some morals.

“I can’t work in such a hostile work environment.” 

“Wasn’t your entire thing working in hostile environments?” you smirked, poking at her ex-operative past.

“And I’d never go back.” Ilsa sighed. 

She was nice enough to unfasten your cuff, giving you free reign, or so you thought.

“No, no, no.” Ilsa chided, pulling you back into her body. “You and I are going to do something fun.”

You were out of one-liners at this point. In all honesty, it was exhausting being angry with her. That’s all you were, angry with her. She led you through the kitchen, and then she opened the door to the garden. It was a decent day, but chilly. Ilsa shoved a sweatshirt over your head, which you begrudgingly put on all the way. The fresh air felt good.

“Bella, goddammit!” Ilsa swore, the fat tuxedo evading the dirty blonde before she could catch her once more.

“Just let her outside. She deserves it as much as I do.”

Ilsa sighed, shaking her head. 

“Only because you’re upset with me.”

“Kills you, doesn’t it?” you snarked back on instinct.

But the barbed jab you expected in return never came. There was just silence, which Ilsa broke by clearing her throat. You’d inadvertently hit the nail on the head. She was upset, and she was anxious. You’d forgotten how much she did care. Ilsa didn’t just abduct someone because she could. She wasn’t a ‘because I can’ person. And the arguments you’d been having all morning, all week really, they were upsetting.

“I’m not going to feel bad just because you’re playing the victim card.”

“Stop. Just fucking stop.” Ilsa’s voice broke. “Get your ass back inside.”

“Ilsa, I’m-”

“No, nope. Inside.”

You walked inside the house, shutting the door behind you. You never did get a good glance at Ilsa’s face, but you didn’t need to. Through the screen door, you saw her slump to her knees on the back door steps, and her shoulders heaved. And there was that guilt again. Bella had slunk inside with you again, pawing at the door in confusion.

“I can’t let you out.” you whispered.

“Meh.” she protested.

“It was your own fault, you should’ve stayed outside.”

The walk upstairs to yours and Ilsa’s room felt a lot harder than was reasonable. You knew that it wasn’t all that rational to feel guilty about tormenting someone who was equally, if not exceeding you in torment. But you could empathise with her pain. She was doing a lot for you. And even though you couldn’t go outside without her, even leave the garden, she was doing a lot for you. The food in the fridge, you didn’t pay for. The furniture and games you wound down with hadn’t been out of your pocket, and the skills she was teaching you, the boxing, the german, the little tricks for hacking, those were all things she’d given you for nothing much, other than a few small requests.

Out of the second story hallway window, you could see Ilsa leaving the garden, slipping into her Benz. She’d be gone for hours, probably. And your time felt… Hollow. Mario Kart was repetitive and infuriating. Language learning with help from the green bird didn’t amount to shit, even with Ilsa’s super membership. Nothing you did was fulfilling. So you did as your cat did, slumping into the bed and taking a nap. But still, that didn’t feel right. With great mortification and a small degree of realised irony, you picked up Ilsa’s pillow and buried your face into it. Then, and only then, did you sleep.

<->

Ilsa didn’t do anything but drive. She ended up in a farmer’s field, sitting behind a hedge and just fucking fuming. She was mad. Mad at herself, mad at you, mad at her life. In another life she could have pursued you normally. In another life where she could walk into a supermarket at rush hour without fear of an anxiety episode, she could have struck up a conversation with you there. But she wasn’t normal. And so she’d resort to abnormal methods to get you, because something with you was better than nothing. 

“Bella, you silly girl.” Ilsa sighed as she walked into the house, blocking the fat tuxedo from getting out.

It was quiet, too quiet for Ilsa’s tastes. She rushed through the house, looking for you in every room until she eventually burst into the bedroom. You were curled up, sleeping. Ilsa slumped against the doorframe, letting out an audible sigh of relief. And… Was that her pillow? Jesus Christ, you were precious. Ilsa took off her shoes and her overcoat. She was wet from the rain, so everything came off, aside from underwear and a sports bra. Slipping into bed with you felt so right. Ilsa needed that physical contact with you, and she’d sneak it where she could. The pillow was replaced by her arms, a delicate act of shifting. You smelled so good to Ilsa. 

“Oh… Princess.” Ilsa whispered, almost ready to cry again.

This week had been the most infuriating week of her life. You almost never touched Ilsa, unless it was in a boxing set-up. Training you had been a lovely way to break tension. She could guide your posture, adjusting your body with her hands. Showers were the best thing for Ilsa. She’d let you finish up a few exercises while she showered, using the head to relieve the ceaseless aching that came when she was too close to you for too long. And the emotional whiplash. Ilsa was fatigued of the constant bickering, arguing and overall tension between the two of you; not the sexy kind. Drugging you again was a thought that flicked through her head daily. Just long enough to cuddle you, to breathe in the smell of your skin without the threat of you waking up.

“Mmph.” she heard you softly complain.

You shifted your body, wiggling deeper into her arms. With every exhale, your breath would ghost over her neck and it was driving her insane.

“Princess, don’t tease, I know-”

“Shut up.” you mumbled, clumsily pawing at her face to get her to stop talking.

Ilsa let out a startled laugh. She’d forgotten you were a light sleeper.

“Shh… Let me sleep.” you continued to complain.

Ilsa rolled her eyes, holding you closer, half-listening to your complaints. 

“Let me hold you.”

And this time you didn’t push her off. She was warm, body temperature raised from her run, or wherever she’d been. She smelled like hay, for whatever reason. Bella, sensing the cuddle puddle, hopped up on the bed, sniffing around the two of you, turning about four or five times before she slumped into the bed, yawning. 

“Are you still upset with me?” Ilsa eventually asked.

“A little.” you admitted. “It would be hard not to be. I don’t like feeling guilty for making you upset.”

“Because you want to hurt me for what I’m doing to you?”

You let a frustrated sigh. When she put it like that, it made you sound like an asshole. It was complicated.

“I don’t like that I can feel myself starting to like you. Because you’re not mean, you don’t hurt me, and you take so much of my shit. I’d be lucky to find someone like you, but you’ve taken my entire life.”

Ilsa hummed, shifting you in her arms. She took another deep breath, and you felt her thigh graze your pant leg.

“Are you just in a bra and panties? Seriously?”

And just like that, whatever understanding you were going to reach disappeared. She was a constant voyeur. When you baked, when you read, and you suspected when you were changing. You’d never seen one of the cameras, but you were sure they were there somewhere. Hence you hadn’t been masturbating at all. It was infuriating, the lead up to your period didn’t make it too difficult, but still. A week with nothing? 

“Hey, hey, hey.” Ilsa sat up, trying to pull you back. “Stay on the bed, I’ll go change. My clothes were wet, Jesus Christ.”

Ilsa grabbed a change of clothes, shutting the bathroom door behind her. She stripped completely, mumbling something under her breath about ‘not catching a damn break’. That’s when she saw them. You never left your clothes out anymore, shoving them in the hamper. You were religious about home cleanliness with nothing else to do, so most laundry was collected and washed. You’d left your panties out after your morning shower, probably because you still had Bella on your mind.

“I think I’m just going to take a shower, my hair’s all wet.” Ilsa called from inside the bathroom. 

“Yeah, whatever.” you called back.

Ilsa turned on the shower, stepping in the water for a moment, then stepping right back out. She needed her body wet to maintain the lie, long enough for her to enjoy the remnants left in your panties.

“Oh my.” Ilsa whispered to herself.

Her body heated up almost immediately, nasty thought after more damnable nasty thought flicking through her head. She wanted to pin you to the bed so badly. What would you smell like at the source? And the taste? How rich it would be, how debaucherous and unsoiled. Not these cloth remnants. She dropped the cloth garment to the floor, staggering back into the shower. She needed to focus, to breathe, to run her fingers over the dripping wet seam between her labia. It wasn’t enough. When had this stopped being enough?

<->

You hadn’t seen Ilsa since she’d gotten in the shower. You were fully awake by the time she had left the bed, and there was no sense hanging around. Not for her, anyways. By this point in the mid-afternoon, day drinking seemed excusable. So you slipped into the basement and found one of Ilsa’s wine bottles. You weren’t a wine drinker. Especially dark wines. But alcohol was alcohol. A glass of wine and Mario Kart on a weekday afternoon? The lap of luxury, truly.

“Hey.” you heard a breathy sigh near your ear.

“Hi Ilsa. I’m busy.”

The woman sat next to you. She smelled nice. Vanilla cashmere lotion. How long had she been grooming for? Not that you cared.

“Can you be a little less busy for me?” Ilsa asked.

You turned, looking at her full on as you paused the game. You opened your mouth to snark at her, but she looked… Good. Her hair was a little damp and she’d taken pains to get herself clean.

“Umm, what is this about?” you gestured to her sweats that were just a little too tight.

Ilsa took a deep breath in. 

“I want to spend some time with you. Do you mind if I pour myself a glass of wine?”

“It’s your house and your wine, don’t ask me for permission.” you shrugged.

Ilsa chuckled, a breathy sound. What was up with her. You didn’t care, you just unpaused the game, returning to the high stakes race that was ‘Rainbow Road’. Ilsa busied herself, pouring herself a glass of wine. She settled beside you, eyeing the glass of wine you’d barely touched.

“I keep thinking…” Ilsa whispered in your ear. “About that night you came over with my friends…”

She was distracting, and you had to fight to stay on course.

“Ilsa, please, I’m trying to get a trophy right now.”

Ilsa had other plans. Better plans. Plans that involved you paying attention to her. So she scooted closer, using the distraction of your hands on the switch controller to place her hands on your waist.

“Just wait, I’m almost fini-”

The former spy leaned in, her mouth meeting your neck. Wet, sinful kisses placed one after the other on your rapidly accelerating pulse, tongue slipping out just past her lips, tracing lines and patterns over the sensitive skin.

“I can’t get your taste out of my mouth, I can’t unhear your little moans.” Ilsa whispered, a distinct reediness to her voice, like she was speaking with a sore throat.

“I have one more lap, please, Ilsa.” you groaned, searching for anything to get away from the woman, even briefly.

But was it her you were trying to get away from, or yourself? You couldn’t deny how hot it had been to makeout with her, how sexy and commanding she had been. And her hands were slipping lower, squeezing and releasing your hips in time with those kisses trailing up your neck, to your jaw, to your ear.

“You said you didn’t do hookups, but I think we can both agree that it wouldn’t be a one time thing.”

There was a lump in your throat. You had to cough to dislodge it. You were in first, you could let down your guard for a-

“Fucking toad!” you growled, all of your senses back in gear to win rainbow road.

“Toad can wait.” Ilsa growled.

She swung her leg over your lap, settling her pelvis in the space created by your crossed legs. This time her mouth was hungry, nipping, sucking licking. Over your neck, your jaw, biting and sucking your earlobe into your mouth. The grip on the controller grew lax, and you shut your eyes, not even caring that it caused your car to slip off the race track right before the finish line.

“I’m listening, I’m listening, Jesus.” you swore. 

Ilsa looked into your eyes, nibbling on her lip with mixed desire and anxiety.

“One night.” Ilsa begged. “Just one.”

You opened your mouth to say no. But that look in her eyes… One night couldn’t hurt. She was a good kisser, she’d treat you right… And then you could go back to hating her in the morning. But a little steam. Just letting loose a little.

“... Okay. Just one night.”

Ilsa didn’t delay. She didn’t wait. Her mouth was on yours, and she let out a sound in between a hum and a huff, like she was relieved and yet still frustrated that it had taken this long. Placing your arms around her waist felt right. She had a firm, muscular backside, but in the jumper she was wearing, she had a softer feeling. And though her mouth was demanding and needy at first, Ilsa slowed down, pressing her lips against yours slowly, tongue lightly gracing your bottom lip with every soft smooch. You opened your mouth just a little, gracing your tongue with the feeling of her bottom lip, her tongue. Ilsa held your head steady, leaning in and drawing your tongue out, just long enough to divert it so she could slip her tongue in. She tasted like red wine, and… She’d been chewing that cherry tobacco again. She tasted like sin. One of your hands slipped beneath her jumper, tracing those abs that were always peeking out below her sports bra. She had a soft layer of tissue above the muscles, like a padded layer making her harder points comfortable.

“Princess, take off that t-shirt for me.” Ilsa whispered.

You chuckled.

“I will, but you’ve got to tell me why I’m ‘princess’ in the first place.”

Ilsa smiled, kissing your jaw softly.

“Innocent, gentle, and those hands.” Ilsa smirked, cupping one of your hands against her bare waist. “Princess hands, so dainty and gentle.”

You blushed, and you didn’t resist as she brought one of your hands to her mouth, gently kissing your palm, your knuckles, and then eventually, enveloping your fingers in her mouth entirely.

“Mmm…” Ilsa hummed, a wrinkle relaxing around her eyes. “Finally.” she whispered, kissing your hands again, one after the other.

There was a gentle beat, and then she reached for your t-shirt, pulling it off as you raised your arms. Ilsa spent a good minute just looking at your bare chest. She reached out, aiming to touch one of your breasts, but she paused.

“May I?”

There was irony here in her asking consent, but you weren’t focused on that. You were focused on those soft eyes and how they twinkled with excitement.

“You may.” 

She reached out with both hands, cupping your breasts, humming softly. She didn’t stay in one place for long, massaging your sides and gently kissing your collarbone. It was easy to relax, even as she lowered you to lay sideways on the couch, it was easy to relax. You helped her take off your pants and your panties, and Ilsa was quick to pull off her sweats, leaving her in nothing but a sheer, see through bra and panty set.

“I didn’t know we were dressing up.” you flushed, trying to hide your arousal.

“It doesn’t matter. I’d have ripped off whatever you were wearing anyway.” Ilsa husked, settling atop your hips, crossing her arms.

“... Do you know that Ankah meme?”

Ilsa rolled her eyes, not giving two shits about you and your little memes. Her lips attacked your neck again, urging you to just get lost in the moment. Her hair was soft under your fingertips, and her back… You wanted to take a moment to just admire every curve of her spine, of her trapezius, her deltoids, her latissimus dorsi. She made you smarter, you realised. It was her training, her attention. She’d taught you the names of these muscles, and she’d teach you more, you realised.

“I can’t be slow, honey, I’m so sorry.” Ilsa whispered.

You met her eyes. She looked so… 

“What do you need?”

Ilsa tugged off her panties, then the bra. You watched in shock as a literal string of arousal extended from her entrance to the cloth of the panties, before eventually snapping back.

“Oh.. My go-”

Ilsa wasn’t in the mood for talking, rather only in the mood for one thing. She shoved the soiled panties into your agape mouth, nearly causing you to gag.

“No talking, none.” Ilsa huffed.

She slipped one leg over your hip, the other leg slipping beneath one of yours on the opposite side. Ilsa was going to press your bodies together, but the shocked look on your face gave her pause.

“Sorry, I’m not thinking.” Ilsa sighed, pulling her panties out of your mouth. “Do I have your consent?”

“Can we maybe slow down?”

Ilsa let out an angry noise. You weren’t expecting her to just… Get up and leave.

“Woah, woah, this isn’t effective communication, you’re not telling me what you need!” you ran after her, noting how her ass would jiggle a bit with every step.

“I’m too frustrated, and it’ll be better for me if I just do it myself.” Ilsa spat.

Now you were confused. She’d begged you to have sex with her, and now she didn’t want it.

“Hey, hey, let’s talk about this.” you tried, snagging her elbow.

Ilsa had tears in her eyes. Now you felt like an ass, and it must have showed on your face, because Ilsa blubbered out reassurances immediately after.

“I just… I am so frustrated, it hurts.” Ilsa stammered.

It was those eyes. It had to be those eyes, because you wouldn’t have done what you did next without some explanation. Taking her hips, you pushed her against the hallway wall, falling to your knees in front of her, hooking one of her thighs over your shoulders.

“Just let me take care of you, hmm?”

Ilsa groaned, tangling her hands in your hair, tugging at the roots. The tension in her body evaporated as your arms glided up her thighs to rest on her hips. Your eyes looking up at her, so glassy and reassuring. Your mouth open, wet, hot, air ghosting over the mess that was her core. And then those lips, closing over her entrance, tongue parting her labia, drawing steady strokes up and down, igniting pleasurable sensations that slithered up and down her spine. Ilsa relaxed, letting out a long, satisfied moan. All these months of stalking, of monitoring, of tirelessly working to get you here… And now you were on your knees, gently servicing her with those wet, warm lips. She nearly cried when you wrapped your lips around her clit, licking and sucking, drawing steady circles over the buzzing nerve. 

But for you… This was a different experience. You were nervous, anxious to please, anxious to bring her relief, and almost too focused on the process… That was until her fingers drew up and down your scalp in little scratching motions. You moaned into her, to which she gasped, and whimpered. It was the sexiest thing you’d ever heard. You trailed your hands down, parting her outer labia and pulling the clitoral hood up, only to let out a deep moan around the nerve. 

“Fuck!” Ilsa cried out, her hips bucking. “Oh my god, pleaseeee.”

You hummed again, licking and sucking at her clit with full abandon. Her hips canted in circles, grinding herself into your mouth, against your chin. You felt a mix of saliva and her own arousal slipping down your chin, to your neck.

“Just like that, oh goddd.” Ilsa whined again, struggling to stand. 

She grabbed the hallway cabinet to her left for leverage, her muscular thighs rippling as she focused on the sensations of your blessed mouth tracing patterns over her hyper-sensitive clit. You pressed your face deeper into her, spelling out sentences with your tongue, letter by letter, suckling in between the messages. ‘Lover’, ‘Sexy’, ‘Needy baby’. Whatever you could think of, whatever her whines and moans stirred in you, that was what you wrote.

“Oh.. Oh.. Oh, oh oh!” Ilsa panted, the motions of her hips growing desperate.

You knew better than to stop, so you doubled down, drawing your tongue in steady circles, even as your jaws ached, as your head buzzed, as your neck screamed. Both of her hands flew to your head, shoving you into her. You moaned as she tugged on your scalp again, and that is what sent her over the edge. Ilsa’s back bowed, her thighs tensed, and she threw her head back in a silent scream, followed by intermittent pants. She held on for as long as she could, but her legs were too wobbly to safely remain standing.

“Coming down.” Ilsa warned, sliding down the wall and into your arms.

She was panting and flushed, you were panting and massaging your jaw which ached like a bitch. Ilsa took several moments to just commit the image to memory. 

“Turn around.” Ilsa rasped.

You sat down on your back, giving your sore knees a break. You’d have tender bruises there soon, visible or otherwise. Awkwardly shuffling around, you managed to slump into her back, to which Ilsa let out a sound that almost sounded like a purr.

“Hike your legs over mine.” Ilsa cooed.

You flushed, placing your knees on either side of her bent ones. Her lips returned to your neck, her hands sliding up and down your front. One of her hands found a breast, gently toying with one of your nipples again. 

“Ilsa…”

“Shhh, princess. Let me make you feel good too. You deserve it after loving me so spectacularly.” Ilsa murmured, pressing slow kisses to your jaw.

Her other hand travelled lower, parting your glistening labia. Two fingers held your labia taught, the middle finger drawing slow circles over your clit, a gentle stimulation. 

“... Oh.. Ohhh.” you hummed.

It felt better than when you touched yourself. She wasn’t doing anything unusual or otherwise groundbreaking, but it felt so good when it was her hand. Ilsa smiled against your neck, gently kissing over your neck. Her lips attached themselves right above that flickering pulse of your artery, sucking, leaving her mark. You shut your eyes, letting her just work you over.

“Moan for me, let me hear how good it feels.” Ilsa whispered, kissing your ear.

The spot on your neck where she’d sucked an angry hickey throbbed, electrifying the other senses her hands were creating on your body. You let out a tentative moan as she sped her fingers up just a little.

“Can you talk to me?” you whispered.

Ilsa chuckled, nibbling your ear.

“Of course I can, princess. I’ll tell you all about how wet you are for me, hmm? And how good you’re doing, sitting so pretty with your knees in place…”

You whimpered again, and you were rewarded with a bit more pressure from her finger.

“Oh, good girl. It feels so good, doesn’t it? Having your body loved like this?”

A head lean into her and another needy moan was enough assurance that Ilsa was doing what she needed to do. 

“Mhm, just like that, are you feeling yourself getting close?”

A shuddering breath and a soft head nod was enough for Ilsa. She gently sped up her fingers, drawing harder circles over your clit until your thighs trembled and your hips bucked.

“Ilsa!” you moaned, arching your back against her hand.

Ilsa cooed softly, continuing to roll her fingers at that steady pace until your hips relaxed, and her hand with it. Her arms wrapped around your sides, and she kissed you up and down your face, your jaw. She smiled, cuddling you to her. In the dark light of the hallway, Ilsa looked up, noting the little red dot that flashed. Once was enough for now. She could replay this on her laptop as many times as she wanted to now, she could see the angle of your body from the front as you bucked into her arms. She’d recorded this, after all. And she’d save it for as long as she needed to. 

This was just the beginning.

Tags (For previous askers and people who might want this): @lakita-fisher, @ilovehotactresses, @gay-and-sad-tm, @needyformilfs

[five-one-two-station]

Everybody should have their own fun, and this isn't trying to harsh anybody's buzz, but I find the impulse to make your own cutesy/badass Replika oc doing funny or heroic or badass things a little odd. Like, that character you designed as a super badass soldier, or well-armed and armored steely eyed cop type... who would they have been built to fight or police exactly? Remember who all those guns and weapons were intended for use on?

I know we're all sick of discourse over who "gets" the game, and I'm by no means scolding anybody for something that harmless, but what's interesting to me is the sense that designing overtly "cool" Replika personas and OCs, complete with the propaganda poster style imagery, feels a little...

I mean, bluntly, it's like the in-world propaganda worked, unironically, on some level, for many people. Kolibris aren't scary, they're whimsical and fun! Storches aren't notably cruel enforcers and chain gang drivers, they're Protektors! Falke isn't a camp commandant, she's a beautiful angel!

The Replikas aren't cool and heroic figures in the reality of the game. They're the carefully crafted organs of a system of control so dreadful it could do what it did to Elster and Ariane. They're victims to that system themselves too, sure - and humanising them is a nuanced and valuable observation of how totalitarian regimes maintain themselves - but that doesn't negate the fact they're also the ones who operate, enforce and perpetuate it, a big part of what the game knows and communicates about such societies. It's notable that the game makes it clear few, if any, of the Replikas actually buy into the Nation as an ideal at all - they enforce it no less pitilessly anyway, incapable or unsafe to imagine anything else.

Their affectations, pasttimes, trinkets, and even affections for each other, all serve to draw a stark contrast to how callously they regard the gestalts they keep suppressed. Their disposability is something they're conscious and fearful of themselves, but fail to recognise as a commonality with the people they brutalise every day, their business as usual. The only grief, tragedy or suffering they acknowledge is their own - they have no regard for any such things in the humans they have... well, dehumanised.

But S-23 Sierpinski was such a hellhole for most of its denizens under "normal" conditions that the nightmare it becomes is arguably an improvement; if only because there are fewer people left now to suffer it. There's a dark poetry here - because the place's banal cruelty is "off camera" to us, it's very naturally less real to us than the grief of the crying Eule. It's only natural, too, to forget how grim the Replikas' purposes are when you don't have to see anyone endure the brunt of it.

And isn't that the very same effect a state like the Nation is seeking in the first place, by disappearing people away to such dark little corners to have it done? In our world, no less than that one.

That works like a kind of propaganda too, not being able to see it - a propaganda of hidden things, as powerful as any poster. A space that's been intentionally left blank.

Kolibris are literal thought police; they intrude on people's very minds, interrogating them to death as a matter of course, with hardly a care either way. The various Protektor classes are functionally concentration camp guards and slave drivers. Falke and Adler are overseeing what amounts to a gulag, one so unimaginably awful Ariane preferred to spend years of her life alone in space to the prospect of being sent there, and inevitably worked to death, far underground.

I think there's a reason we never see one of those posters for LSTRs in game. How could we be asked to forgive our own if we ever did?

[ineffable-endearments]

Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell

Wow. There is...there is so much here.

First, a caution about the book itself: there is significant sexually violent narration, and lots of torture as well. This post is going to discuss these topics only in general terms - I don't think I need to go into detail to discuss what they mean for the story - but take care of yourself when you're deciding whether to read it. If you have any questions, always feel free to send an ask or message.

I am going to need to make multiple posts about this book. For this first one, I'll focus on summarizing the book and its main themes, especially the ones that I think relate to Good Omens. As always, I can't summarize it in a way that will give you a better understanding than simply reading the book, but summarizing it will help me put my own thoughts together and hopefully help you follow along as I try to articulate them.

Because it's impossible to miss, I think it is best to confront this issue at the outset: there is a lot of especially blatant misogyny on Winston's part in Nineteen Eighty-Four. This is not meant to be a good or sympathetic thing. It is a demonstration of how messed up he is, and how messed up everyone in that society is.

The Society

The plot of Nineteen Eighty-Four is tied up very much in the story's world. The characters are at the mercy of their society in this story, much more than in most. It will make sense to describe the world first. Indeed, a massive portion of the book is just information about Oceania itself.

In the world of Nineteen Eighty-Four, the entire planet is supposedly ruled by three perpetually warring authoritarian states: Oceania, Eurasia, and Eastasia, conglomerations of Earth's former independent nations. Through the novel, it is revealed that all three states have governments that are structured in largely the same way with approximately the same quality of life for their people, and the perpetual war is itself a way of controlling each population.

Technically, we don't know for sure that the war is really happening. In fact, we don't know that anything is true, because almost all the information the characters have comes from the Party, the government of Oceania, and the Party's operations revolve around reality control. The Party's "leader" is an enigmatic figure referred to only as Big Brother, who, of course, is watching.

Our protagonist, Winston, lives in Oceania. There are Inner Party members, who are the highest-ranking, with the highest responsibility and the highest quality of life. There are Outer Party members, who work for the Party, are heavily surveilled, and whose daily needs are all provided for with low-quality supplies; they have a highly regimented daily schedule. Inner and Outer Party members have telescreens, which broadcast Party propaganda but also have cameras to monitor all Party members. It is incredibly difficult to get away from telescreens, since there's at least one in every home and they're everywhere in public. Altogether, the telescreens form a panopticon that is hard to evade.

Then there are the proles, a shortened term for proletarians, who are the lower classes of Oceania and make up the majority of the population. The proles live in poor conditions and are constantly manipulated by State-generated propaganda. However, they have more freedom than Party members, in the sense that they are also largely ignored by the Party because they have no real power and are assumed to be incapable of engaging in revolutionary behavior. For this reason, proles get to have human relationships and enjoy pleasures, wherever they can find pleasures, in ways that Party members are not allowed. In reality, the Party's perpetual war is a way of grinding through resources in order to keep people, especially the proles, buried under work without improving their quality of life. This is because when people have free time, they can use it to learn and organize, and they might become a threat to the Party.

Winston is one of the Outer Party members. He works in the government department that rewrites history. See, every time a fact or anecdote in the media is inconvenient for the Party, the Party goes back and destroys all old copies of newspapers and books, all old video content, all paperwork, any scrap of evidence that anything was different. Newspapers are routinely reprinted with "updated" (falsified) information. For example, Oceania is always either at war with Eurasia and allied with Eastasia, or at war with Eastasia and allied with Eurasia, and as far as the Party is concerned, this has never changed. Every single time Oceania's alliance changes, the newspapers are updated so that the current alignment has always been true. Every time someone becomes a disgrace to the Party, their previous deeds are rewritten.

On the surface, this sounds difficult to implement, but over the story, one realizes the vast majority of the Party's operations revolve purely around the constant reshaping of history, control of people's memories, and control of people's emotions for the purpose of maintaining power eternally. Art produced by human beings is actively discouraged; instead, the Party mass-produces art, including novels, using machines, to control what kinds of ideas people are consuming.

The Party is essentially a machine that controls reality, or at least, what the people inside it consider to be reality. There are people who specialize in managing the thoughts of the public: the Thought Police. While they may technically not be able to literally see inside one's mind, they watch everyone carefully and are excellent at noticing everything: every facial expression, every eyebrow twitch, and every breath.

The Party rules through a series of four "ministries." These are the Ministry of Truth (like an educational ministry, responsible for producing propaganda), the Ministry of Peace (like a military, responsible for warfare), the Ministry of Love (like the correctional system, responsible for jailing and torturing dissidents), and the Ministry of Plenty (like the treasury, responsible for rationing).

When it suits the Party, anyone can be "vaporized." This means they are secretly murdered and all evidence of them - any existing record whatsoever, any news story, any list or database entry - is erased.

The Party has a new language they're developing as a method of thought control called Newspeak. The purpose of Newspeak is to make it impossible to articulate certain kinds of thoughts. The following is a character named Syme describing Newspeak:

"Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. ... In fact there will be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking - not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness."

It's worth noting that Syme is later vaporized, presumably just for being too insightful out loud about Newspeak. In Newspeak, people who have been vaporized, if they must ever be referred to at all, are called "unpersons." In this way, no one has ever been killed by the Party, because those people have never existed in the first place.

There's a key Newspeak word that appears over and over: doublethink. It's the ability to believe two contradictory things simultaneously, and unlike the way we usually experience cognitive dissonance, there is no urge or attempt to reconcile what is really true. With doublethink, the existence of two contradictory ideas at once is itself exploited to help Party members serve the Party.

The Party (and its equivalents in Eurasia and Eastasia) uses perpetual war to control the population by squandering the resources produced by human labor and keep people in a perpetual combination of patriotic fervor and fear. The war is infinite and can never be won; the whole purpose of the war is to be at war.

Socially, the Party has destroyed family life. Winston was married years ago. He and his wife are so estranged that he is no longer sure if she is alive. They did not have a good relationship. The Party does not want close emotional relationships between its members, so while they are strict about who is allowed to marry (not for love, strictly for procreation), they don't care if people continue to live together. However, the Party does not want people forming new relationships, so divorce and extramarital sex are also illegal. The Party has also turned children against their parents by encouraging children to report their parents' potential thoughtcrimes. All in all, family members are generally afraid of each other.

We see, over and over again, how the Party does its best to frame human beings as both inherently untrustworthy and as objects to be used. Pitting people from individual family members to entire classes, sexes, and races against each other is one of the Party's many techniques for controlling people, and it has seeped into Winston's everyday thought processes. Only actual experiences with other human beings even begin to break these ideas down.

Eventually, it becomes apparent that the Party's motivation is immortality through the denial of the individual. Human beings are denied their own personal thoughts, feelings, and bodies. Only their ability to be assimilated into the Party is permitted. Even thoughts and feelings about the greater good are unacceptable because these lead to regime changes and interfere with the raw totalitarian power of the Party. Every Party member in Oceania is meant to strive exclusively for the continued power of the Party. Dissidents are denied even the ability to be martyrs, because the Party does not kill people while they carry hatred for Big Brother; they simply change their thoughts until they are good Party members again, and then kill them later, when they are no longer dissidents and have no legacy of resistance to leave behind.

Winston's Plot

Winston has a secret desire to be free of the Party. He does get swept up in the Party's fervor when he's in the middle of it, but he also longs for the extremely basic pleasures and freedoms that have become taboo. For example, Winston secretly buys an old pen and journal to write in - a completely forbidden act that he has to conceal from the telescreen in his own apartment. He finds himself almost unconsciously writing things like "DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER" in that journal.

There is an Inner Party member named O'Brien who Winston admires greatly from a distance despite knowing only his appearance: "intelligent" with a "prizefighter's physique." Winston perceives that he and O'Brien "understand" each other somehow, and even believes O'Brien has spoken to him in a dream, saying they "shall meet where there is no darkness." Eventually, Winston imagines he is addressing his journal to the mysterious O'Brien, believing him to be an ally.

Winston has an acquaintance at work named Syme. Syme is very passionate about revising the Newspeak dictionary. However, he is a little too openly insightful about the true purpose of Newspeak for his own good. Even though Syme does not seem to have any intention of betraying the Party and in fact is extremely taken with Newspeak, Winston is convinced he will be vaporized, and sure enough, he is.

There is a woman Winston thinks he hates because she looks like the perfect Party member who would turn him in to the Thought Police. Actually, the narration outright states that he doesn't like women entirely, because he thinks they're too committed to the Party and enjoy betraying men. However, it turns out that this woman observes Winston by the shop where he bought his illegal notebook. By simply observing Winston in that shop, the Party would suspect he's committing thoughtcrimes, and Winston panics. However, the woman later bumps into Winston at work and passes him a note that says, "I love you." Winston then instantly decides he wants to be with her; the idea of not being with her never even occurs to him.

The woman's name is Julia. It turns out Julia is putting on an incredibly convincing act, but she hates the Party, too. Winston is technically married, so he can't legally marry Julia, and any kind of non-procreative sex is illegal anyway, so their relationship is entirely forbidden.

Winston and Julia meet up and have sex in secret. It's worth noting that during their first meeting, they enjoy listening to a thrush singing. During this first meeting, they go out to the countryside, where there are fewer telescreens and microphones; Winston comments that it's like the "Golden Country," his symbolic dream-place where people are free.

A man named Mr. Charrington owns the shop where Winston had bought his notebook, and he also owns a room for rent above the shop. It's an old-fashioned prole room without telescreens and with a great number of old-fashioned fixtures. Winston and Julia rent it to get away from Party life for a few hours every now and then. When they first start staying in the room, Julia observes a rat and throws her shoe at it. Winston is utterly terrified, showing that he has a serious phobia of rats; it is vaguely implied that he had a traumatic moment related to them as a child. Julia takes the rat in stride; they are everywhere. She promises to block up the hole so the rat does not return.

Julia and Winston spend time in their prole room knowing for sure that it will eventually lead to their capture, torture, and death, but they decide it will be worth it. Winston voices some interest in trying to work against the Party; Julia does not believe this is possible whatsoever, and is not interested in trying. She believes people are better off putting on a convincing act and getting away with as much as they can for as long as they can.

Meanwhile, during the workday, O'Brien speaks to Winston. He mentions Syme without using his name, which is incredibly unusual, since people who are vaporized are never ever acknowledged again; all their work is erased from history. But O'Brien mentions Syme's work on the Newspeak dictionary and gives Winston his home address so that Winston can borrow the dictionary. Party members also don't often give each other their addresses. Because of these unusual cues, Winston infers that O'Brien is inviting him over to conspire against the Party.

While Winston and Julia meet up and have sex, they also indulge in other pleasures of the world, like real coffee and chocolate, and proles singing outside their window, and art that hasn't been generated by the Party. Observing the proles and their richer emotional lives, Winston and Julia decide they are going to worry only about their feelings. The Party can coerce them to do anything, including to confess, but as long as the Party can't make them stop loving each other, they agree, they will never have betrayed each other. Julia says that for all the things the Party can do, they can't get inside their heads.

So seized are Winston and Julia by their conviction that they decide to go visit O'Brien together and confess to wanting to destroy the Party. O'Brien tells them they may join the Brotherhood, a mysterious group of dissidents working to bring down Big Brother, but they must be willing to sacrifice everything; they must be willing to not only suffer and die, but to murder civilians, to spread disease, to sow discord, to do anything the Brotherhood asks of them. They even, O'Brien says, must be willing to "separate and never see one another again." This is the only thing Julia and Winston are unwilling to agree to. O'Brien accepts them anyway and, many days later, gives Winston a book through a secret messenger.

This book contains the writings of Goldstein, the supposed leader of the Brotherhood, outlining the Party's core philosophy. Winston reads this to Julia, who is hinted to not be all that interested, but she does listen a little.

While they look out the window and contemplate that the proles are alive and the Party members are already dead, Winston and Julia are captured. It turns out Mr. Charrington was a member of the Thought Police and the room had surveillance in it. Winston and Julia are separated and dragged to the Ministry of Love.

While at the Ministry of Love, Winston spends a lot of time waiting, watching other prisoners pass through. Some of them are proles, and some of them are people he knows. The waiting room is enormous and brightly lit with telescreens on all walls. There are essentially no shadows.

Another familiar face appears at the Ministry of Love. It's O'Brien. Winston first thinks O'Brien has been captured, but it soon becomes apparent that O'Brien was masterminding this whole operation and is in charge of Winston's torture. They have, indeed, met "where there is no darkness" - because of all the telescreens and artificial lighting. O'Brien and other Party members even wrote Goldstein's book as yet another propaganda piece. O'Brien states the description of the Party in the book is true, although the book's implication that the Party can be defeated through a prole uprising is false because a prole uprising will never happen. (Note that Winston did not actually read the part of the book where "Goldstein" outlined how the Party should be defeated.)

Winston is tortured for an undetermined amount of time. He discovers that he is a prisoner of his body; his torturers can get him to say pretty much anything through punishment and reward. In fact, they can force him to feel certain ways, too. O'Brien and the Party aren't only trying to get Winston to give away information; they want him to really internalize sincere belief in the Party doctrine, like doublethink, symbolized by the concept that 2+2 equals 5.

Winston starts out promising to himself there are certain things he will never agree to or say out loud, but torture proves an effective method at getting him to say whatever O'Brien wants. Winston vows that he will recite the Party lines, but will not actually believe them. If he lies to get the torture to stop but still retains his ability to reason for himself, Winston believes, then he can beat the Party.

However, O'Brien and the torturers are slowly able to break that down, too, as they are good at reading Winston's emotions, and they torture him every time he recites their desired lines without the sincere belief they're looking for. Winston is highly resistant to the 2+2=5 idea, but as he is tortured over and over, he does come to believe that because the Party can define his reality through brute force, then 2+2=5 could very well be true. They can force it to be true. He has no choice but to believe it, because only believing it might possibly end his torture, and the torture must end.

In other words, Winston and Julia were wrong. The Party can, in fact, get inside your head.

When Winston starts to believe 2+2=5, O'Brien does indeed start to improve his treatment of Winston, providing him with food and comfort, allowing Winston to become much healthier over time. This bonds Winston to O'Brien and makes him feel attached. However, Winston has not forgotten Julia, and in an unguarded moment, he cries out for her. This prompts O'Brien to ask Winston his feelings, again, about Big Brother. Winston states that he hates Big Brother.

It is at this moment when O'Brien sends Winston to the notorious Room 101.

In Room 101, prisoners face their worst fears - which, of course, the Party knows, because they know everything about everyone. Winston, who we know has a phobia of rats, is shown a pair of cages with starving rats in them. He is told that the rats are, as everyone in this world knows, flesh-eaters, despite being rodents. Winston is restrained, his head held in place, and O'Brien informs him that the rats will be released to eat his face.

Winston realizes what O'Brien wants to hear: he realizes his torturers will probably not allow the rats to eat him if he is willing to inflict the torture on Julia instead. They want Winston's betrayal of Julia to be complete. They want him to stop caring for her, the one thing he and Julia had once agreed they would never, ever do. And Winston has reached his limit: he cannot tolerate the idea of being eaten alive specifically by rats. So Winston says, "Do it to Julia! Not me! Julia!"

And then he is finally let go.

We continue with Winston once again living on the outside. He has seen and spoken to Julia, who was also let go. But the bond between them is completely broken. Julia admits she also betrayed Winston when she was faced with Room 101.

"Sometimes," she said, "they threaten you with something---something you can't stand up to, can't even think about. And then you say, 'Don't do it to me, do it to somebody else, do it to so-and-so.' And perhaps you might pretend, afterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it to make them stop and didn't really mean it. But that isn't true. At the time when it happens you do mean it. You think there's no other way of saving yourself, and you're quite ready to save yourself that way. You want it to happen to the other person. You don't give a damn what they suffer. All you care about is yourself." "All you care about is yourself," he echoed. "And after that, you don't feel the same toward the other person any longer." "No," he said, "you don't feel the same."

In other words, by demonstrating to Winston and Julia that they ultimately cannot escape their own self-interest, O'Brien has caused them to reject each other.

At the tail end of the book, Winston is sitting in his usual spot at a place called the Chestnut Tree Café, pondering a happy moment from his childhood before pushing the memory away, believing it to be a false memory. When an enormous military victory is announced on the telescreen, Winston realizes that he finally, truly loves Big Brother.

Interpretation of the End

Although the events at the end of the book are pretty straightforwardly described, I found them slightly confusing on an emotional level. Winston and Julia aren't really angry at each other for their betrayals, it doesn't seem - in fact, they admit to each other that's what happened, and they agree on their mutual experience. But they don't love each other anymore, and Winston loves Big Brother instead.

So, here is my initial thought on what the characters went through:

For people to love each other, both need a sense of individuality. There needs to be a connection, but there also needs to be a specific You and a Somebody to love, to connect to.

Through torture, O'Brien has effectively torn away Winston's individual sense of self. I know that's a weird thing to suggest when the book repeats "all you care about is yourself" multiple times, but I think that by so completely obliterating Winston's ability to make anything resembling his own decision, O'Brien has essentially made "Big Brother" and "Winston ('yourself')" the same person. Big Brother's wishes are Winston's wishes. Winston has been assimilated into Big Brother. Winston and Julia's conversation at the end describes what it feels like to be liquidated as a person and assimilated into a collective.

Winston now knows that the one core impulse he can never escape is self-preservation, and the only one who can provide that, with infinite military might and an infinitely-deep torture repertoire, is Big Brother. Julia represents the ideal that caused Winston to estrange himself from the safety of embracing and trusting Big Brother. And because Big Brother is both eternal and almighty, giver of both life and death, he is the only one it is safe to trust.

By betraying Julia, Winston discovered that his own will inherently had limits; because he would always, eventually, revert to self-preservation, his will and therefore his identity became synonymous with the force that decided whether to preserve him. That's why the end of the novel involves Winston imagining that he has finally been shot in the head and killed; he has experienced the death of his sense of self. And this is exactly how "Goldstein's" book indicated the Party's operations work: eliminate individuals and assimilate them into a collective to achieve immortality.

Character and Faction Parallels Between Nineteen Eighty-Four and Good Omens

The Party and Heaven and Hell

They're both the one overarching power over everyone's existence. The inner workings of it are mysterious to the characters and even moreso to the audience. The main characters are agents working for these entities, and they are controlled through surveillance, punishment, and reward.

Although Heaven and Hell give the impression of being two large overarching powers, it seems apparent to me that the whole thing is really just one system that has intentionally split its workforce into factions. Ultimately I think we will see in the most explicit way possible that whoever is actively calling the shots in Heaven is also actively in charge of Hell.

Winston and Julia, Aziraphale and Crowley

Both pairs are agents who are in love with each other even though they're not supposed to be, who enjoy Earthly pleasures and experience the joys of humanity before getting arrested and dragged away by their authoritarian "employers."

It's tempting to try and figure out which character mirrors which - Aziraphale mirroring Winston, Crowley mirroring Julia? - but I think, sort of like with Nina and Maggie, the reflections work in every direction. The characters aren't literal stand-ins for each other, but they are exploring similar themes, including what happens to people when a society forbids intimacy.

O'Brien and the Metatron

"More even than of strength, he gave an impression of confidence and of an understanding tinged by irony." This line describes O'Brien from Nineteen Eighty-Four, but it sounds quite a lot like the Metatron's manner as he enters Aziraphale's bookshop. Confidence and an understanding tinged by irony indeed.

O'Brien seems to appeal to Winston's ideal in authority figures, appealing both intelligent and physically strong. The Metatron seems to have tailored himself to appeal to Aziraphale's ideal of an authority figure: someone who is calm and in control, but also has an exceptionally gentle manner (and this isn't really true of the Metatron, but he can make it look like it is).

There are more similarities. Winston thinks and hopes O'Brien will be a helpful figure, and O'Brien convinces Winston he's a helpful figure, but in the end, O'Brien is the mastermind behind Winston's capture and torture. Additionally, Winston assumes, during his torture, that the Party's drive for power is for the Greater Good. But O'Brien tells him this is stupid, and the Party's drive for power is just for the pure sake of having power, because that's the only thing that will guarantee the Party's immortality.

This reminds me a little bit of the Metatron telling Aziraphale the point of the war is to win it, not to avoid it. It also hits me as a potential motivation for Heaven - like, why do they do what they do instead of doing something else, since the universe seems perfectly capable of running itself? "Power" or "immortality" could be a reason, and it would also be a reason that would resonate with very human themes, since power and (symbolic) immortality are among the motivations that can drive real-life authoritarians.

The Proles and Humanity

The common people. The populations who are considered by the main characters' societies to be "beneath" them, but who the main characters become fascinated by, and whose lifestyles the main characters come to prefer.

Both Nineteen Eighty-Four and Good Omens contain in their narratives the notion that the prole or human way of life is where true meaning can be experienced. Winston and Julia go as far as to announce that proles are alive and Party members are dead. And at the end of Good Omens Season 1, Aziraphale outright tells Adam that being "human incarnate" is better than being Heaven or Hell incarnate.

This mirror is probably the one that brings up the richest speculation possibilities for me. I won't go in-depth here, but I see in both stories the main characters developing this love for the proles and humans while continuing to separate from them - even trying to turn around and exploit the very power structures that have oppressed them in an effort to fight against the oppression.

It's worth noting that in Nineteen Eighty-Four, Mr. Charrington, the man who Winston and Julia rented their secret love nest from, and whom they thought was a prole, was actually a member of the Thought Police who helped capture them, whereas in Good Omens, so far, the humans have just been humans, and while Adam Young started out as an incredibly powerful non-human, he later chose to be a human and used his power to reject authoritarianism.

The Themes

Authoritarianism and Power

Obviously, the whole overarching cautionary tale in Nineteen Eighty-Four is about authoritarianism and the insidious ways it affects populations. The Party's power is almost as absolute as it can possibly be. Big Brother really is almost always watching; there is almost always a telescreen somewhere nearby. Even when there isn't a telescreen, there are microphones. And unorthodox ideas and behavior are punished with annihilation - not just death, but the total annihilation of the self.

Doesn't this sound like a version of Heaven and Hell in Good Omens?

At first glance, it appears Oceania's Party is more aggressive about surveilling its Party members than Heaven and Hell are about surveilling Aziraphale and Crowley. One has to wonder if perhaps Heaven and Hell are just as aggressive with surveillance in the Upstairs and Downstairs themselves, but are less aggressive or maybe even less capable on Earth, just like the Party's surveillance is less in the countryside (although it is still a significant threat there).

But still, we see Michael pull out those photos of Crowley and Aziraphale through the ages, and we hear the Metatron refer to reviewing Aziraphale's "exploits," and we see Hell drag Crowley down in 1827, and we see both Crowley and Aziraphale anxiously glancing around throughout history with the assumption that someone might be listening, and we see how ready Heaven is to erase Gabriel's memories (his identity! his entire self!) from existence. We also watch Heaven and Hell try to make Aziraphale and Crowley disappear in a gout of hellfire and a tub of holy water after realizing that Aziraphale and Crowley do represent a threat to the current celestial order. Heaven and Hell's Nineteen Eighty-Four-esque insidious threat is clearly established in both seasons.

Vaporizing Dissidents

In fact, Heaven and Hell's arrest of Aziraphale and Crowley reminds me a bit of Winston and Julia's arrest, in the sense that the protagonists knew what was probably coming but not exactly when. And Heaven's attempted execution of Aziraphale in particular reminds me very much of the Party choosing to vaporize a dissident. They were going to try to disappear him. No angel or demon other than the ones who were involved would have known what happened to him. Hell's attempted execution of Crowley, meanwhile, reminds me of the Party's public executions of war prisoners.

Finally, the Party will attempt to erase people from existence by killing them and then erasing all records related to them, down to the very last detail. Meanwhile, the Archangel Michael threatens Aziraphale with being literally written out of existence in the Book of Life. There's lots of speculation about how possible this is. I wonder if maybe, it's a flawed process. Maybe erasing someone from the Book of Life can cut a hole shaped like them in the universe - but maybe it isn't that simple, and they don't actually get taken from anyone else's memories. Maybe, as people in Oceania haven't quite lost the ability to remember their dead, Heaven cannot actually erase the fact of anyone.

Social Disconnection

I see a lot of complaints online about the characters of Nineteen Eighty-Four being impossible to like. What tends to make characters likable? Their behaviors toward others, especially humor, compassion, individual quirks, and affection. Their moral strengths, like a sense of justice, might appeal to us, too. And what has the Party been systematically beating out of people for decades now? Anything that could possibly make fictional characters likable.

One of the Party's primary modes of social control is to keep people from having individual, intimate relationships outside of the Party. Each individual regards every other individual with distrust at all times, and only the Party is capable of providing safety. Winston mentions many instances in which he believes parents are afraid of their children, for example. There are also a number of people who he thinks would report him for thoughtcrimes.

This is getting into heavy speculation territory, but it hits me as a major motivation for the Fall in the first place. It's a great way to instantly divide Heaven itself in half, make everyone instantly suspicious of everyone else, and set up a whole bunch of rewards and punishments to hold over people's heads related to Falling.

One thing that's obvious, though, is the total lack of social connection in Heaven. Michael and Uriel are constantly treating each other with barely-suppressed contempt. Muriel wants approval so badly, but nobody has any patience for them. The "friendliest" any angels get are Gabriel and Sandalphon in Season 1, and that's still like, corporate-coworkers-style friendliness. Gabriel outright tells Beelzebub that no one has ever given him anything. Although it's...theoretically possible Gabriel is an outlier, I think his experience is probably representative of all the angels.

Bodily Experiences, Physicality, Gross Matter

There is a moment that made a big impression on me. Winston observes a prole woman outside singing a silly popular song at the top of her lungs as she works. This woman is not an attractive person by Winston's or Party standards; she is older, she is fat, she has a "lower-class" accent, her skin is weathered and reddened from working outside. But Winston, self-admitted misogynist who came of age on the Party's feminine ideal, thinks she is beautiful. He has a moment of realization that she's beautiful because the very things that theoretically would make her "unattractive" are evidence of a human life fully lived.

We also have Winston and Julia enjoying the world through their senses together in a way that they simply cannot in the grips of the Party. From listening to a thrush in the countryside to drinking real, delicious coffee, they experience pleasures that are denied to them and cause them to feel peaceful in a way that is denied to Outer Party members. As they experience life in a way that is much closer to the ways of the proles, they decide that only proles are alive; Party members are dead. It is at the moment when they speak this out loud that the Party chooses to capture them.

There's a darker side to the bodily experiences explored in Nineteen Eighty-Four, and that's experienced in the Ministry of Love. Here, Winston and Julia discover that their thoughts and feelings are indeed controlled by their bodies. There is only so much pain a human being can withstand before they will comply with their captors just to get the torture to stop. In fact, if the Party's psychological manipulation tactics haven't worked thus far to indoctrinate the population, then the body can be used to brute-force an attitude change.

The connection to Good Omens here is obvious. Aziraphale and Crowley are just like a couple of Outer Party members who haven't experienced real pleasure before, and then they discover wine and ox ribs and music and nice clothes and all those delightful human experiences that the other angels sneer at. It seems Heaven looks down on Earthly pleasure as a morally inferior, dirty pursuit, while Hell looks on Earthly pleasure as a kind of weakness, a pathetic softness. But Earth is where Aziraphale and Crowley have found meaning. Physical existence is where they've found themselves, where they've connected with each other, and where they've connected with the stuff of the universe itself.

Memory Manipulation and Thought Policing

In Nineteen Eighty-Four, there are massive governmental departments dedicated to revising all printed records, including reprinting newspapers as needed. Private writing is also not allowed. This means that even if a Party member has a memory, there is no physical evidence of it. Even if there were physical evidence, something a person had stuffed away in a safe place, there would be another, more "official" source to prove one's personal source wrong. Of course, anyone trying to make any kind of fuss about official sources being wrong would disappear, too, so no one will even try.

Winston mentions often in his narration that he has trouble remembering large portions of his life because of the way the Party has controlled the public narrative and obscured any fact that would once have been a point of reference for him. For example, Winston estimates that the date his journal starts would be April 4, 1984, but he actually isn't certain, not even about the year, because time isn't kept track of by those dates anymore. Historical facts, like events that led to the Party's ascent to power, have been rewritten so many times that Winston can no longer know what really happened. He can be sure there was chaos in the streets, followed by violence, and then proclamations from above about what was supposedly true, but one individual human being usually can't judge the big picture of what's going on in their entire society without a relatively objective source of information for major events.

Nineteen Eighty-Four also has literal thought police, Party members who study their fellow citizens for any sign of even the most remote disagreement with Party doctrine. If someone proves to be a problematic thinker, as Winston and Julia both did, they are dragged to the Ministry of Love to be violently re-educated. Using a series of punishments and rewards, prisoners are slowly broken down until they are unable to think for themselves at all.

Although it's unclear what Heaven is like in regards to spreading information, we've got the Metatron and the Archangels literally ready to erase Gabriel's memory. In Good Omens, since it's all dressed up in Heavenly attire and the characters have their unique attitudes, it comes across as less dystopian, more quirky and fantastical. But they are fundamentally threatening exactly what is done in Nineteen Eighty-Four. And based on Beelzebub's comment about how Gabriel's memory is "all your...you," the same identity issues would be at play. To erase Gabriel's memories would be to erase everything that makes Gabriel himself - an execution by another name.

Reality As A Construct (Or Not)

The Party's stance on reality is fairly simple: human beings perceive reality, so if human perception can be altered, reality can be changed and turned into whatever the Party wants it to be. This sounds wrong because it is wrong, but people who the Party has targeted for thought control don't get to think for themselves about it, because they can't withstand the torture.

This might be Heaven's approach to reality as well. Look at how questioning is discouraged, and how the angels choose to believe whatever is most convenient for Heaven, or whatever they believe should be true ("there are no back channels").

More importantly, though, we have characters in Good Omens who actually can change reality. In particular, this is what Adam Young does - and what he actively chooses not to do for the majority of the world, in the end. He only adjusts reality enough to be allowed to make his own decision: he's not the Antichrist anymore. Otherwise, he restores the world to its state from before he ascended to power (aside from a couple of tiny little eleven-year-old-boy-ish tweaks here and there; hey, you can't blame a kid for adding a few extras of his favorite books to the world).

Proles as the saviors of society

So this one is complicated because repeatedly through Nineteen Eighty-Four, we come across this feeling from WInston and Julia that the proles have some almost mystical connection to True Humanity which Party members have lost. However, there is also the repeated assumption that the proles are incapable of revolution on their own. And in a practical sense, this appears to be true. The intellectuals of their world look down on them for it, but the truth is that just as in real life, the proles are living in poverty and are far too desperate for their basic necessities to ever gain the class consciousness needed to overthrow the Party. This is, of course, by design.

Winston goes as far as to believe the proles might possibly rise up and overthrow the Party, but he never considers working with them. He goes straight into the jaws of the Inner Party instead! This seems to be for a couple of reasons, but primarily because Winston has formed this sort of attachment to O'Brien, his Inner Party member of choice.

In Good Omens, Season 1 and the book, humans do eventually save the world. Well, Adam - technically an Antichrist - saves the world by thinking like a human and accepting humanity as his true "side."

Free Will

"Free will" as a theme really ties into humanity as a theme in Good Omens, since Earth is neutral ground between Heaven and Hell and humans aren't born to a particular Side. In Nineteen Eighty-Four, of course, the Party's goal is to eliminate free will, while in Good Omens, Heaven and Hell are looking to eliminate humanity.

Individualism Versus Collectivism

Oh there it is! There's my pet theme!

I've always argued that in Good Omens, the core of the dualism explored between Aziraphale and Crowley is individualism and collectivism, with Crowley the dedicated individualist who nonetheless would like to belong somewhere, and Aziraphale the nervous collectivist who is secretly desperate to have an identity and belongings to himself. Good Omens has already touched on the notion that working together as a collective is necessary to keep the world turning, but it's also important to preserve individuality, so we have people to keep us company and meaning to live for. I think this will come up again.

Meanwhile, Nineteen Eighty-Four explores an authoritarian and destructive form of collectivism in which human beings are not allowed to have individual interests or experiences; everything flows toward the power of the Party. Individual identity is viewed as a weakness. With that said, Nineteen Eighty-Four does consider the potential power of collectives to overcome authoritarianism.

Mortality, Immortality, and Change

In Nineteen Eighty-Four, O'Brien eventually reveals that the goal of the Party is to become immortal through collectivism. While the fate of an individual human being is always to die, the Party believes a collective that is single-minded enough about maintaining power can live forever. In that way, people who submit to the Party's power can live forever, too. One has to wonder about the real point of all this, of course. The Party regards change as its downfall. For the Party to succeed, it must keep everyone moving toward the exact same goal of maintaining power forever.

In Good Omens, many of the characters are naturally immortal, as angels or demons. They don't have to change, and Heaven and Hell don't have to change. However, existing as immortals in Heaven or Hell, not experiencing any of the things mortals do in the physical world, all seems pretty obviously pointless. Aziraphale and Crowley, and then Gabriel and Beelzebub, and then Muriel, all start to find meaning on Earth among mortals. And I think this is all yet to be expanded upon, especially with the looming Second Coming.

Where Good Omens is concerned, the notion of change as a type of death and/or death as a type of change may be important (and ties into The Crow Road by Iain Banks as well).

By coming to Earth, the immortal characters are essentially doing the reverse of assimilating with the Party or Heaven and Hell: they're discovering themselves. With self-discovery comes the risk of change - changing from who they used to be in Heaven or Hell - and the reward of meaning.

The Party of Oceania wants to assimilate everyone into the same goal of maintaining the Party's power in order to make the Party immortal. While "maintaining power" is a "purpose" of sorts for the collective, on an individual level for any specific human being, it is nihilistic, since there is no place for the individual other than ensuring the success of the Party's destruction of the individual.

Freedom in the Natural World

In both stories, we've got the notion of nature as a place of freedom. The countryside where Winston and Julia first meet up lacks telescreens, and there are fewer microphones as well, allowing them to act naturally in a way that isn't usually permitted in the city. The room that Winston and Julia rent from Mr. Charrington is also so old-fashioned that it doesn't have a telescreen; they believe themselves to be momentarily safe in their own little world there. Unfortunately, Mr. Charrington is not really an ordinary prole, but a member of the Thought Police, which allows the Party to invade Winston's and Julia's space.

Of course, in Good Omens, Earth is the ultimate place of freedom. Heaven and Hell are both awful in their ways, hyper-controlled and devoid of real meaning. It's on Earth that Aziraphale and Crowley can begin to truly live. Of course, the safe little place they create together, the bookshop, is eventually invaded by Heaven and Hell.

I'd like to leave you with a pair of quotations.

"If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face---forever. ... And remember that it is forever. The face will always be there to be stamped upon. The heretic, the enemy of society, will always be there, so that he can be defeated and humiliated over again. Everything that you have undergone since you have been in our hands---all that will continue, and worse. The espionage, the betrayals, the arrests, the tortures, the executions, the disappearances will never cease." O'Brien Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell Part Three, Chapter III

"If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends. If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boot . . . no, imagine a sneaker, laces trailing, kicking a pebble; imagine a stick, to poke at interesting things, and throw for a dog that may or may not decide to retrieve it; imagine a tuneless whistle, pounding some luckless popular song into insensibility; imagine a figure, half angel, half devil, all human . . . Slouching hopefully towards Tadfield. . . . . . . forever. Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett

[fedorah-the-explorah]

will you pleeease write player and carmen being goofy :3

Oh, absolutely.

It was three in the morning when someone saw fit to snap off his window lock and show herself in to his apartment, and Player hardly bat an eye because he had long since learned that her breaking into his apartment was how she showed her affection. It wasn't so terrifying after the third or fourth time, and after the fifth time, it was even endearing!

"Hey, Red," He called from his computer, "What brings you?"

He had a bit going on right now. There was work to do for some clients, and he was also busy tracking the movements of their good friend Paper Star--former VILE operative and all around menace to society--but he always had time to spare for her.

Carmen pulled herself the rest of the way in through the window then turned to slide it shut. From over her shoulder she called: "This is a wellness check!"

"Cool." Said Player, not quite paying attention. He was having some trouble trying to hack into a CCTV camera in Atlanta, so it took him a few minutes to process what she had said.

"Wait, what?"

It was too late. Carmen was upon him now, and she was a woman on a mission. She grabbed the back of his chair, pulled him away from his desk, and spun him around to face her. She pointed a spray bottle in his face and said: "Quick! When was the last time you slept?"

Player sucked in through his teeth. "Uh..."

She shook the spray bottle. "If you have to think about it, you're wrong."

"Uh..." Player said, still stalling, "Um. Three?"

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Three what?"

"Well..."

"Three this afternoon? Three hours ago?"

"Okay, look--"

"Player, I swear on my hat, if you tell me it was three days ago..."

He grinned sheepishly and shrugged. He hoped if he looked apologetic, she might take mercy on him, but alas, he was a fool. She pressed rapidly on the trigger, spritzing him like he was nothing more than a misbehaving cat.

"Bad! Bad hacker, bad!"

"Stop! Stop! I can explain!"

She quirked an eyebrow, lowering the water bottle. She gestured with her hand for him to go on, and tapped her foot impatiently.

"I'm listening."

"Okay, look. I was going to sleep, and then I didn't, and it was an honest mistake, and you'll forgive me because I'm your best friend and everyone deserves a second chance."

"No."

"Extenuating circumstances?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Um..." He spun idly in his chair, wracking his brain for something he could say to get out of this. "When... When was the last time you slept?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "That's irrelevant."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Is not!"

Carmen scowled. "Do you want me to call your mother?"

He laughed. "You can try, but I blocked your number on her phone like weeks ago. You can't outsmart me, Red."

She crossed her arms, glaring at him. Player hummed, feeling rather triumphant, and turned back to his monitors. It was his god given right to be a workaholic, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.

"...How much would you say you weigh?"

Player froze, fingers hovering above the keyboard.

"...Are you about to drug me?"

Carmen scoffed. "No, I would never do that. I'm just trying to figure out how much strength I need to use to do this."

She grabbed him by the shirt at both shoulders and pulled him backwards over his chair.

"Woah!"

She looked down at him and grinned. "This takes me back, buddy. You know, I did this to Gray once."

He winced at the comparison. "That's the worst possible thing you could say to me right now."

"Go to bed. Now."

He crossed his arms, still upside down.

"I'm busy, Red."

She rolled her eyes. She went to pick him up, but he slipped from her grasp like water. Now he was lying face down on the floor, protesting. She went to try again and he went limp.

"Do not go boneless on me, Player!"

She grabbed him by the arm and pulled. "You are being so immature right now."

He smirked into the floor. He wasn't having a great time right now, but it was nice to know she wasn't either.

She dragged him to his bed and nudged him with her foot, prompting him to roll over. She pointed to the bed and said, "Go to sleep or I'm selling your PC on eBay."

He frowned. "Hey, the oughties called. They want their store back."

"The nineties called, they want their joke back."

He sighed, getting up off the floor. He sat on his bed and looked at her. Noticing the bags under her eyes, he hummed.

"You know, you never answered my question. When was the last time you slept? You and I both know we have twin sleeping habits."

(Twin sleeping habits meaning they were both horrifically terrible at taking care of themselves.)

"This isn't about--"

"--I'll go to sleep if you go to sleep."

She peered skeptically at him, lips pursed.

"...Alright, deal. But I'm sleeping in your bed and stealing your blankets. Is that okay with you?"

He shrugged. "Sure, Red. Whatever."

He yawned, scooting over to give her some space. "Just try not to start sleep boxing."

She groused, making good on her promise and hogging his blankets. He didn't really mind, he was one of those freaks who slept on top of their comforter.

"That was one time," She muttered, "When are you guys gonna let me live that down?"

"Mm. Probably never."

She groaned. "You're the worst, you know that?"

He hummed, reaching over to flick his lamp off.

"Mhm. Good night, Carmen."

Carmen sighed contently.

"Good night, Player."

[simpingresponsibly]

'how do you get them to a point to fucking do that'

Danger.

Could be literal, or in an IRL style fic, probably more along the lines of extreme emotional distress and/or real potential consequences.

It works for both Plot Moments and Practicality! Put them in a situation where they feel like they have no choice and then let them work through the emotions that happen when they are forced to.

If they choose to do it again, not under duress, that's character/relationship development baby 🤌

On writing sylvnap and (heterosexual) amatonormativity:

While I think the ultimate message is write what you want, normalize close m/f friendships regardless of sexuality, some of what you're feeling is probably a reaction to the people themselves

Sapnap doesn't generally get very physically affectionate with his girl friends and Sylvee doesn't with her boy friends. Sylvee has been all over Gia and Tina and Hannah, but not Dream or George despite also being friends with them. Sapnap wasn't that physical with Hannah or Gia but very physical with Foolish or even Quackity (choosing non DTeam people because they're different obviously).

Since they're usually very physically affectionate with friends of the same gender, but not other genders, that affection comes off as Different. The Difference is what people fill in the blanks with Romantic Love because of Amatonormativity.

Personally I think you were on the right track with Sylvee wanting to cuddle up to him because he's warm as a hybrid! The key to it not reading as immediately being romantic is it's either for a) Practical reasons or b) Big Important Story Moments.

This means that if Sylvee and Sapnap are physically affectionate with each other, especially where others can see them, it's a Plot Point (this is obviously based on what us as viewers see, they could be cuddling for whatever reason off camera all the time). The same would go for them interacting that way with other friends of different genders. If you're writing them as being physically affectionate with everyone that's obviously a completely valid character choice for a fic, but that might be worth addressing to readers as a departure from the characters we're used to!

This is obviously just my opinion etc but I hope another set of eyes is helpful (<- is not aro but is around a lot of aros)

OH MY FUCKING GOD THATS WHY IT FELT SO WEIRD!!! Thank you!!! :D I honestly just thought of it in terms of pure practicality tbh (ie everyone is fighting over who gets to sleep next to Sapnap) but this makes So Much Fucking Sense thank you 😭😭😭😭

[srbachchan]

DAY 5826

Jalsa, Mumbai Jan 30/31, 2024 Wed 12:04 am

Birthday - EF - Valentina Ivanovna/Ef Sourav Banerjee/ Ef Madhumita Gupta,Birthday Wednesday, 31 January .. all good wishes for this special day .. from the Ef ..❤️🌹

.. and the ever present social media lingers about .. once started it remains page after page after page .. making the World an 8 billion inhabitant journalist question markers .. and around 4 billion camera operators ..

the scarcity of information was never more acute than now ..

😂

Social media, once heralded as a tool for connectivity, has devolved into a breeding ground for societal evils. Its addictive algorithms manipulate users, fostering a culture of comparison and low self-esteem. Cyberbullying thrives in the anonymous shadows, leading to mental health crises. Privacy erosion becomes the collateral damage as personal data is exploited for profit. The incessant barrage of curated content perpetuates misinformation, polarizing societies and undermining critical thinking. The pursuit of online validation eclipses genuine human connections, contributing to loneliness and disconnection. Social media's insidious influence seeps into every facet of life, corroding empathy and amplifying the darker aspects of human behavior.

Social media, despite its drawbacks, offers a myriad of benefits. It facilitates instant global communication, connecting people across distances and fostering a sense of community. Platforms serve as catalysts for social movements, enabling collective activism and awareness. Businesses leverage social media for marketing, reaching diverse audiences efficiently. Educational opportunities flourish through online courses and collaborative platforms. Social media becomes a tool for self-expression, giving marginalized voices a platform. It serves as a vast information hub, promoting knowledge-sharing and global awareness. Ultimately, social media, when used judiciously, can be a force for positive change, empowerment, and enlightenment.

the opinions from the informed .. above 👆🏼

sensible and within the limits of ts express .. for every opinion in the Universe of the DAY , is ever pronounced by the question mark of the question ..

Is it ..?

Will it ..?

How ..?

what will be .. ?

can it be .. ?

the question is .. ?

good night .. without any question mark ..

Amitabh Bachchan

[princessleechan]

“Choi Seungcheol Must Die” profiles #1

Masterlist

📌synopsis: Mingyu wasn't the one with his heart broken. It was his little sister. And Seokmin's older sister. And Chan's best friend. Choi Seungcheol is a menace to society and needs to be put down. Immediately. The sure fire way to do it is to give him a taste of his own medicine: break his heart.

📌pairing: fem!reader x ??? (seungcheol, mingyu, seokmin, chan)

📌genre: slight angst, romance, humor

📌series tags: SMAU, inspired by “John tucker must die”, John tucker!seungcheol, college au, revenge fic, tags will vary from chapter

taglist: @mhlsymlysn @silvsie @christinewithluv @tara-drabbles @aiforyuu @2youngsworld @justcruisingalonguntilbamkpop @asyre @simpxxstan @anzellll

🐈‍⬛YN(reader): background character turned 'it girl' with help of three men in it for revenge against a infamous asshole. a lover of cats with misfortune of not owning one and an undecided major. didn't think much about helping take down a guy that has done nothing but broken countless hearts but gets more than they ask for after getting themselves involved.

🏀Choi Seungcheol: resident asshole whom is a serial dater and has a reputation of dating multiple people at once. athletic scholarship student (not that he needs it being loaded) that gets off on attention of all kind, especially with his big social media presence. Visibly a 2D Character whose only personality is that he dates and has a close friendship with Yoon Jeonghan, another athletic scholarship kid.

📸Kim Mingyu: older brother to a dating victim of Seungcheol's. film and photography major that takes part in AV club. He is the leader and brains of the operation and has never liked Seungcheol but now has a good reason. Access to camera equipment, records and/or captures everything instinctively. Usually the man behind the camera but has always been told he has the face to be in front of it.

🎤Lee Seokmin: Younger brother to a dating victim of Seungcheol's. Performing arts major with a minor in music theory. Spends most of his time performing and perfecting his craft. Other times is the doting brother that has a hard time believing his strong sister could be hurt by simply a guy. Typically unconfrontational but would do anything to see a smile on his sister's face again.

🌟Lee Chan: Best friend of a dating victim of Seungcheol's. Creative writing major with a love for all thing romantic comedy and a sense of justice. has always been madly in love with his best friend, Haru, but has always been unconditionally supportive of anything in her life, including relationships, and he is okay with just being an important person in her life. After hearing her heart was broken, he wants nothing but be by her side.

[typewritingyip]

The Arcturus Missions

Part Three - The Final Frontier

Part Two

———

People or more specifically organics were not in mind when space bridge technology was originally designed on Cybertron at the beginning of the Golden Age. It would have its tweaks done by other societies later, but most of the bridges opened by Cybertronian’s were not made for organics to go through safely. Groups that stole cybertronian technology didn’t realize that for a rather long time and some still don’t, at least according to the reports. Some simply just don’t care, so long as they are in a certified space craft than that’s safe enough to get through the bridge without much hassle.

Opening bridges in the most random parts of space had become a custom of different species, sometimes to dump things they no longer desired or to hide things from authorities, it was the easy way the intergalactic underworld operated since they left limited traces throughout the vast universe. No one was hurting anyone, most people didn’t go to the Orion Sector, there wasn’t much there other than a handful os uninhabitable planets for the most part. Or unintelligent life forms that still needed to evolve, the perfect place to dump space junk or hide your treasures. If stuff came back through the bridge, it wasn’t their responsibility.

—

Each space shuttle was named after something iconic, usually a ship or command module from the Apollo era. The shuttle carrying the Mech suits was specially crafted for this purpose by Mecha, with assistance from NASA, the Odyssey was titled after the Apollo 13 command module that never reached the lunar surface. It defied the odds assigned to it. The pilots weren’t sure if it was meant to be hopeful or show their fate, but it was titled that non-the-less. The Arcturus missions were projected to use three shuttles and two rockets, the second shuttle was already under construction even before the Odyssey had been moved out of Palmdale. The Iliad and the third thought to be called The Aeneid, but the jury was still out. Supposedly the boss had fallen in love with the thought of the trilogy, even if it abandoned previous precedent, he would leave it up to NASA to cover the change. Usually, space shuttles were built with the capability to return to Earth, landing on a typical runway of sorts from orbit, though Mecha doubted that these three shuttles would be returning anytime soon.

Thirteen days, twenty two hours, and thirty six minutes had passed since they left Earth. It certainly already felt like longer, well over a million miles from home, and their differences shining almost brighter than the sun. The locks to their suits were still currently active, as it was trying to conserve energy for the shuttle as they hurdled through space. So, the pilots were confined to the main bay and cockpit, unable to access their usual and more comfortable spaces. Footage had been sent back to Earth multiple times, but at the moment the cameras were not rolling and Hound was thankful for that, as the twins were acting up, starting to go a little stir crazy in the confined space. They were all back in the main bay, enjoying the artificial gravity, though that meant that the twins could be at each other’s throats with equal footing.

“Nothing is happening and nothing has been happening for almost two weeks, so please, for all our sanity turn off your ‘kicking-butt’ playlist!” Sunstreaker was practically shrieking, pulling at his hair, which Hound thought would be incredibly painful, “I don’t have much other music bro, so just chill. If you and the old men didn’t have such shitty taste, I wouldn’t play just this when it’s my turn to play music.” Sideswipe shoved his brother while gesturing to the MP3 player in his hand, “They are children.” Breakdown had his face leaning against his fist, clearly bored himself as he played solitaire. Nodding slightly, Hound moves over to the airlock back into the cockpit, really not interested in whatever argument they were about to get into; “Just pick something else to listen to! For all our sanity!” They continued to argue while Sideswipe turned the music louder. Hound shutting the door behind himself for a blissful moment of quiet before going through the routine of adjusting to non-gravity, entering the cockpit.

He knew they’d be arriving at Jazz’s last coordinates soon, he for one figured the guy had crashed into some space debris so there wouldn’t be much there, but it was something to report at least. That there was nothing there. Moving up to his seat, he straps in loosely, checking through the system for any messages from Earth, at their ever expanding delay. Sighing slowly, he sits back the best he can and stares into the emptiness; there really wasn’t any way to prepare someone for how much nothing there was out here. The dash lights up briefly, so he presses the receiving button, “This is the front.” Hound sounded tired, which in all honesty, he was. It was hard to sleep the last two weeks, just anticipating today, “Uh, Hound, the airlocks to our suits have deactivated. This part of the plan?” Breakdown sounded outright anxious and the twins were yelling obnoxiously in the background, “Um, yeah, I think so. We were supposed to gain access to them once we got to Jazz’s last coordinates, just in case any kind of recovery could be made.” Even though it had now been years since his disappearance, “Are you sure?” There was something else in his tone other than an anxious tilt, it was more than anxiety and bleeding into worry; “Yeah, but you should all come up here and get strapped in, I don’t want us to get thrown about in whatever Jazz crashed into.” Hound turns off the connection and sighs, checking his watch, Thirteen days, twenty three hours, and five minutes since they left Earth.

Slowly, the others made their way back into the main capsule. Though the twins had both gone through the tubes to their mechs, only to discover they hadn’t gained full access yet. They were still bickering of course, but it had quieted down when Breakdown pulled communications back up with Earth. It was hard, to sit in the dark and quiet space, just waiting to see if there was anything out here of their fallen friend. For the moment, with the movement of everything in the last five years, there was nothing in site other than distant Mars. They all fell silent as the minutes ticked by to the two week mark, to the very moment that Jazz had gone missing. Five years to the moment, Hound cues up the microphone, “Command there is nothing out here for the moment, next report, five minutes.” Sunstreaker sighs slowly, loosening his hold on his seat, “I didn’t know what to expect.” Nodding, Sideswipe clears his throat, “Maybe some aliens but not nothing.” They fell quiet as the seconds ticked by, before the very moment Jazz officially went off radar hit. Breakdown gulp, Hound swore quiet, Sunstreaker held his breath, and Sideswipe clutched at a chain around his neck.

—

They all stared at nothing.

Five minutes till next report, in five minutes they’d send another report to Earth that would have a twenty minute turn around. Their current report hadn’t even reached Mecha command, let alone NASA. They were entirely alone out here so if anything did go wrong, it was just them and their locked mechs.

The locks disengaged distantly as a precaution set on a fixed timer.

Five minutes could feel like forever while they waited, it was the anticipation of it all, right?

—

Every instrument in the shuttle flashed bright as they hit, something. The front window lighting up a bright, green? Before they were re-introduced to a dense gravity, slamming into the base of their seats; “Everyone to your suits, now!” Hound was tearing off his seatbelt and getting to his feet as quickly as he could. Stumbling over the shift in gravitational pull. Breakdown was trying to get the shuttle operational system back online. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe stumble out of their seats and throw themselves at the airlock, tugging on it the best they can.

“It’s stuck!” Sideswipe tugs at the emergency handle, Sunstreaker joining in to try to get it open. “Move!” Hound grabs the emergency handle and pulls as hard as he can, getting it to move just enough for them to slip through. Sideswipe was the first one through the door, pulling Hound through next and taking off towards the suits.

The entire shuttle shock violently, the metal heating up rapidly, wherever they were, it seemed they were entering an atmosphere. Sunstreaker fell across the cargo bay hold, sliding towards his suit’s tunnel, “Shit!” He crashed into one of the tables as the whole shuttle tilted.

Hound was the first through his tunnel and into his now unlocked mech, climbing into the piloting chamber while pulling off the top half of his spacesuit. Assisting suit folded in the command chair, system still shut down, he pulls himself into the command seat, “Come on, we’ve gotta survive whatever this is, yeah?” He pulls the visor on first and boots up the suit.

Comms were one of the first things to come online, Sideswipe coming online at the same time as Breakdown was reporting from the shuttle. Everything was heating up as they were dragged towards the surface of somewhere.

“How the hell did we go from being in the middle of no where to being dragged to the surface of a planetoid?” Sunstreaker shrieks as he too comes online, “I have no idea but get ready to brace for impact, alright? We don’t know where we are or how we got here, but we’ve got to focus on landing safely. One of you is going to deploy with me and the other is going to help Breakdown land the shuttle.” Hound was quick to finish his set up in the suit and disconnect from the shuttle, shifting into awareness like the suit was a second skin.

“I call it!” Sunstreaker was quick to deploy too, still setting up his suit though, “Jerk! Alright Breakdown, I’m with you.” His own mech shifting about to help guide the shuttle into not only a more gentle landing but to protect Breakdown’s own suit. If they lost a suit out here they would never stand a chance against the alien’s if there were more than what attacked in the battle of the Atlantic. If they really were going to get to the place where they were originating from, they’d need all four suits operating at their peak capacity.

Hound and Sunstreaker were in a free fall, integrating completely with the system, adjusting their assistance suits on or over their space suits quickly while adjusting the systems to the shift in gravity.

When you were in a suit, it wasn’t like you were actually in a suit, it was as if you became a bigger metal version of yourself. Every pilot would talk about feeling the most themselves when in their suit, feeling at home, but being at home wasn’t quiet the right description, it was like feeling at home in your own skin for the first time. Added joints or an advanced vision, none of that took away from the feeling of being a bigger version of yourself. It was natural, it was just who you were once you were found compatible with the technology.

It was hot, the decent towards the surface. They were all hurdling towards the planet with no idea of where they were, how they got there, or how they’d get back to their planned mission route.

———

A/N:

Again, lol. Alright! Part three done, part four anyone? It’s funny cause I started to write this with of course keferon’s inspo for the Mecha AU, but my sister and I talk about their art and AU’s all the time. So this was at first me writing down our ideas and I’ve just… expanded.

I desperately wanted to include my OC originally, but decided against it cause ew. If they pop up it will be like, a bit piece for myself, but I’m still undecided yet.

Thank you for reading it and I hope you continue to enjoy it!

Also tagging those who re-blogged it so they can find the next part.

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixill-jesters-reblogs @pixillandjester

Also would love @keferon to see it but who knows, I know everyone be blowing up their blog with their amazing writing and art too.