#that's not a mass execution anyone could pull off

[beardedmrbean]

DUBAI, United Arab Emirates (AP) — Iran announced Monday that the country's supreme leader has pardoned more than 22,000 people arrested in the recent anti-government protests that swept the Islamic Republic. There was no immediate independent confirmation of the mass release.

The statement by Iran's judiciary head Gholamhossein Mohseni Ejehi offered for the first time a glimpse of the full scope of the government's crackdown that followed the demonstrations over the September death of 22-year-old Mahsa Amini, who had been detained by the country's morality police.

It also suggests that Iran's theocracy now feels secure enough to admit the scale of the unrest, which represented one of the most-serious challenges to the establishment since the aftermath of the 1979 Islamic Revolution. Tens of thousands also were detained in the purges that followed the revolution.

However, anger still remains in the country as it struggles through the collapse of the nation’s currency, the rial, economic woes, and uncertainty over its ties to the wider world after the collapse of Tehran’s 2015 nuclear deal with world powers.

The state-run IRNA news agency quoted Ejehi as announcing the figure Monday. Iranian state media had previously suggested Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei could pardon that many people swept up in the demonstrations, ahead of the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, when the pious fast from dawn to dusk. Ramadan starts later next week.

Ejehi said a total of 82,656 prisoners and those facing charges had been pardoned. Of those, some 22,628 had been arrested amid the demonstrations, he said. Those pardoned had not committed theft or violent crimes, he added. His comments suggest that the true total of those detained in the demonstrations is even greater.

In February, Iran had acknowledged “tens of thousands” had been detained in the protests. Monday's acknowledgment from Ejehi offered an even higher than what activists had previously cited. However, there's been no mass release of prisoners documented in recent days by Iranian media reports or activists.

More than 19,700 people have been arrested during the protests, according to Human Rights Activists in Iran, a group that’s been tracking the crackdown. At least 530 people have been killed as authorities violently suppressed demonstrations, the group said. Iran has not offered a death toll for months.

“From day one there was no transparent accounting of who was arrested and imprisoned — before or after the mass protests these past months — which is why there’s no way to verify how many are being released now,” said Jasmin Ramsey, the deputy director of the U.S.-based Center for Human Rights in Iran.

“We also know that more than five months after the death of ... Mahsa Amini in state custody, not a single Iranian official has been held accountable for the mass killings of street protesters, nor the arbitrary imprisonments of tens of thousands.”

The judiciary's announcement also came ahead of next week's celebration of Nowruz, the Persian New Year. On Tuesday, some in Iran also mark nearly 4,000-year-old Persian tradition known as the Festival of Fire that's linked to the Zoroastrian religion. Hard-liners discourage such celebrations, viewing them as pagan holdovers.

There had been calls for anti-government protests around both events. While mass demonstrations have cooled in recent weeks, nightly chants against Iran's theocracy can still be heard in some neighborhoods of Iran's capital, Tehran.

The announcement followed a major development last week, when Iran and Saudi Arabia said on Friday that with China's mediation, they agreed to reestablish diplomatic ties and reopen embassies after a seven-year freeze in relations. That agreement could help aid an end to the yearslong war in Yemen, which sees a Saudi-led coalition battle the Iranian-backed Houthi rebels who hold its capital, Sanaa. It has also helped boost the rial in recent days against the dollar.

Meanwhile, Belarusian President Alexander Lukashenko visited Tehran and met Monday with his Iranian counterpart, Ebrahim Raisi. Iran has been supplying the bomb-carrying drones that Russia now uses in its war on Ukraine. Lukashenko, the authoritarian leader of Belarus, remains close to Russia, which used Belarusian territory to launch Moscow's invasion of Ukraine.

Lukashenko said his country and Iran would sign an unspecified set of deals valued at $100 million.

Iran “opposes external pressure, attempts to impose someone else’s will," Lukashenko said, addressing his hosts. "And how, in spite of everything, you develop modern technologies and nuclear energy. And, as we decided today with the president of Iran, we can be very useful to each other if we truly unite our efforts.”

[firebunnylover]

My Thoughts on Orion trying to stop D-16 from the murdery stuff.

I think there’s been enough time to think over the writing choice of Orion trying to stop D-16 from killing Sentinel. Time to whack the hornet nest of internet opinions.

Now I think it’s fair to say that plenty of people have pointed out that the autobots do murder several other bots in the film and so Orion’s attempt to stop Dee from killing SP seems hypocritical. And I can certainly see why people are coming to that specific conclusion.

And plenty of us agree the death scene was cathartic.

HOWEVER.

Let’s look at Orion’s current perspective regarding Dee’s state of mind.

He has been watching his friend go down the path of unapologetic violence fast since they found out the truth. Like, alarmingly fast. And that path is quickly becoming more of a sheer drop off a cliff.

While OP, Elita and Bee were ecstatic about being able to transform, what do we see Dee laugh over?

Being able to inflict damage onto another bot.

And we can’t forget the oh-so-woobie-of-continuities Starscream, who Orion had to tell Dee not to kill when the murder canon was activated.

That isn’t the Dee Orion knew. Orion is watching Dee turn into something he doesn’t know anymore. He’s afraid of losing D-16 to whatever he’s becoming.

To Orion, keeping Dee from publicly executing Sentinel was an attempt to keep him from spiraling further.

Unfortunately, just having good intentions don’t always cut it. And he really could have said it in a better way.

But to be fair, it had been a long miserable trip for the both of them, so Orion probably wasn't able to think that out 100%.

Another point I want to make is the comparison to B-127/Bee, who had been cutting bots with his knifehands. Granted, I’m pretty sure they were just intended to be Drones/Enforcers, as they resemble Vehicons. Which, in beast wars, were intended as bots who were mass produced and mindless. Which I think Sentinel would have preferred to have as his followers. Literal mindless/sparkless soldiers to follow his every word would probably be easier to handle.

This is Steve Slander I’m so sorry.

Continuing on.

There are a few points I want to make on B-127’s treatment of the violence. First, to me, Orion didn’t seem too comfortable with how hyped Bee was getting with his new weapons, and did intervene to keep him from cutting down more Drones.

And more importantly, he stopped trashing the broadcast room when told that the bots there weren’t the enemy.

Bee managed to do some self-control. Which I think is important to keep in mind when comparing him to Dee/Megatron

One more thing to note.

Something that I have said before in an earlier post after my initial viewing of the movie.

It wasn’t the violence itself that was the ultimate act of betrayal in the end though.

It was picking violence over saving someone.

oh it hurts

Orion jumped in the cannon’s way. Probably thinking that seeing him would give Dee enough reason to stop. But there wasn’t any pause until after the trigger was pulled. @everestentertainments pointed this out in their own post

D-16 does catch the injured Orion. He could have tried to save him, even if it was futile.

But he decided to let him fall instead.

Thus finally transforming into Megatron.

Killing Sentinel wasn’t the final step to the transformation and his fall from grace. It was the first act as purely Megatron.

And don’t forget that after taking the cog, Meg’s next act is to burn everything down, taking no regard for anyone who might get caught in the crossfire. Which is a yikes.

They probably could have made those points more obvious or could have been handled better somehow, but those are my thoughts.

[pyreo]

On September 22nd, 2004, the first episode of Lost aired. It went on to have six seasons, 121 episodes, attained critical acclaim and caused mass confusion and disappointment.

I've taught writing classes and I often reference Lost as an example of how easy it is to sound interesting. Lost pulled viewers in with multiple promises that, as time went on, it struggled to satisfy. Creating mystery is, actually, a really easy thing to write. But you're making a promise to your audience, and it needs to be upheld later.

One thing that's remained fascinating to me about Lost's production is how the style morphed through its lifespan. The premise was simple enough to grab you in an instant - plane crashes on island. Dozens survive. How will they get home? The renowned masterstroke of the pitch was that the drama didn't begin and end on the island - each episode had a self-contained plot augmented by flashbacks to reveal more about the survivor of the week. The drama was magnetic, easy to hop into, and didn't need to promise eventual payoff as much as it enjoyed portraying human backstories of betrayal, mistakes, and foul play.

But Lost was expensive, and it needed to do well, and executive meddling took hold in a way that turned episodic drama into more of a scripted reality show.

Reactions to the episodes were closely followed. Characters that were popular became more central to the plot, and disliked characters were killed off (as, well, they were stuck on an island and couldn't just move to another city). Entertainment Weekly quoted creator Damon Lindelof:

Lindelof acknowledges that they are ''universally despised'' by fans, that's going to change, he vows: ''We had a plan when we introduced them, and we didn't get to fully execute that plan."

Their writing was reactive, engaging viewers as a two-way street - if you like them, we'll give you more. The more you hate someone, the more tragic their death. The intent of the writers became secondary to the whims of consumer ratings. It wasn't so much a scripted story as a survival show, not against the harsh wilderness of the island, but against the viewers themselves.

This method extended to the overall thesis behind the famous mysteries. As people became invested, they wanted to know answers to all the active questions being raised. Why did the survivors see random animals that nobody else noticed? Why did the same sequence of numbers keep coming up? How were Locke's disability and Rose's cancer seemingly cured? To keep everyone hooked with narrative twists, the island was not undiscovered - it was in fact a former research base from the 1970s, with old, decrepit research stations. And then, the island is not even uninhabited, and the survivors contend with being preyed on by unseen natives, and then they find a pillar of black smoke roams the island, murdering anyone it encounters. The viewers loved it and demanded more, but at the end of the day, they wanted to know why, and Lost began positing pseudoscience at random to try and explain what was happening.

The eventual writing morph took place when it became clear to the showrunners that the people demanded their 'why's, and the science fiction angle could not support everything they had set up. Seasons 1 & 2 invoke a lot of sci-fi elements - research stations, animal testing, number sequences, codes scrawled on walls, hatches and ruins hiding human activity, all of which raised expectations that the final explanation for it all would be tangible. Suddenly, everything would make sense.

By season 5, everyone was time travelling. Deep below the island sat a magical wheel that teleported the entire landmass when turned. Daniel Faraday is an outright psychic. An unaging man is revealed to have been on the island since the 1860s. All while couching the revelations in science fiction technicalities to keep up the pretense - ie, the plot revolving around a hydrogen bomb, or the psychic being named Daniel Faraday.

In season 6, the writers were forced to make a decision on how to resolve their convoluted, multi-timeline narrative, and the answer was: religion. Suddenly the sci-fi veil fell and the reasoning became completely Biblical. The smoke monster wasn't a terror beast at all; it was Some Guy. We see the literal manifestations of Good and Evil as Some Guys, fighting for control of the island since time immemorial. The core conflict was never human research, as implied throughout, but the unknowable forces of heaven meddling with human existence, including direct references to the Book of Exodus. The famous series finale shows the entire cast finding each other one last time in a church and accepting the end of their roles in the narrative.

And people were confused. They had been promised something else. It's so interesting to watch the tug-of-war between scientific teases and the final, outright admission that what they wrote was not scienfitic in the least. In some ways the marriage of unspoken reasoning with the supernatural is elegant. A station called The Lamp Post used a large Foucault pendulum and a board of ever-changing coordinates to imply the island's location could be divined by esoteric logic, but logic nonetheless. The swinging, ever-moving pendulum implied mysticism; unfathomable mathematics rooted in the earth itself. But the Lamp Post is a reference to The Chronicles of Narnia, a Christian-allegory fantasy story, and the island's location is controlled by a Magic Wheel. It's compelling, it looks dynamic, and it deftly obfuscates that there's no actual science involved at all.

The original question, 'How can they get home', is by this point obliterated, subsumed by the need to submerge everyone in Island Lore. They couldn't ever get home. The island itself is unfixed in reality. This clashed with earlier implications that the island was simply a dark spot of communications and water currents that resisted discovery, but what does that matter?

One of the earliest mysteries, The Hatch, was an underground station with a computer, into which a number sequence had to be input every 108 minutes to reset a timer. This created a problem of faith that revealed much about the characters - should they repeatedly reset the timer on nothing but the belief something will happen? Or let it run out, out of denial or curiosity? It turned out the timer displays hieroglyphs for some reason when it ran out, and then it caused a giant electromagnetism burst which is discovered to have happened on the day the plane crashed - a concrete answer. The plane was in fact broken apart in the air by electromagnetism from failure to reset The Hatch, caused when Desmond failed to input the numbers after three continuous years of doing so.

But then in season 6 it becomes not an accident at all - the crash was intentional, as the plane's survivors were 'candidates' brough to the island by God to unknowingly apply for stewardship of it. And also the Hatch exploding gives Desmond psychic powers. The original philosophical conundrum served drama between the characters and nothing else, and the entire concept gets retroactively lassoed into the new Battle Between Good And Evil angle.

My enduring perception of Lost's popularity was that at the beginning, everyone was hooked on the possibilities for what was going on - the recurring number sequence, the discovery of strange testing stations, what was the monster, what was the island, really - and then the eventual mass disappointment as the final season wrapped its character arcs in a perfectly acceptable way by having them reach spiritual peace. It made sense, honestly, it was structurally sound - but it wasn't what the fans had been been theorising together for six years. And, like when characters were killed off in quick response to negative reception... why should the audience not expect to be catered to in the way they'd been led to expect?

There's a tumblr post from 2011 I think summed it up best:

We were shown miracles and then hatches; ghosts, then scientists.  Season 5 went totally balls out sci-fi and seemed to point to “Science” as the ultimate winner.  Then season 6 came, and the question was put to rest. Faith won, and science L O S T. I guess this disappointed and surprised some people, even though they had spent 6 years watching “The Magic Island Show.”

[kendrixtermina]

De-Rationalization & De-Politization of Palestinian Resistance

Notice how in mainstream media you almost never hear WHY the resistance attack happened. You just hear generic stuff about how they're "muslim extremists" or "want to kill all jews", but never their own stated reasons & demands.

Now you might think that the palestinian resistance went too far in their Methods - certainly, several hundred innocents were killed & while they made an effort not to make it harder than necessary on the hostages, being kidnapped is traumatizing by itself - the leaked convos with Netanyahu show that some captives definitely suffered..

But their basic demands as stated by themselves (that you are never told about by much of the media) are:

stop occupying us

release mistreated prisoners held on spurious charges

don't heckle people who want to pray in Al-Aqsa (this being what started this "round" of fighting)

This is all stuff that Israel should do ANYWAY. These are all things human rights orgs and/or the UN have been calling for for YEARS.

And seeing as nothing happened despite human rights orgs complaining, is it so strange ppl decided to take it in their own hands? Especially after we've seen how little political will there is to use any leverage to restrain Israel.

I believe strongly that you can only judge individuals by what they can influence, so I will not ever call the death or kidnapping of random israeli civilians 'glorious' or 'deserved' or indulge in 'nobody is innocent' talk cause that's a convevient simplification to get rid of cognitive dissonance. War is always ugly, innocents always get caught up, that's why it should only be the last resort.

However, he who makes peaceful reform impossible makes violent uprising inevitable. It's not a question of moralizing, it's cause & effect, human nature. You may drive out nature with the pitchfork but it always stubbornly returns. Humans don't like to be slaves. No amount of moralizing or repression will change this.

So when I see how the media isn't telling us why they are doing this & instead telling us that they're just irrational extremists or pointing to some long disavowed document from the 80s when they were first founded & more extreme, I see how denying the opponent's rationality obscures a correct understanding of the situation.

The deaths of Israeli civilians shouldn't have happened. But how could they realistically have been prevented? If you don't see Palestinians as rational, and think they're just killing for killing's sake, you may think the answer is more repression.

But if you acknowledge the other side's rationality, you realize that violence is dangerous to the one doing it as well. Aside from hardcore ideologues, most people would not choose violence if they had other options.

But Israel has systematically cut those off: Peaceful protesters are shot, activists get arrested, strikes & boycotts are met with slander & lawfare, diplomacy is met with intransigence...

If you see Palestinians as having reason & not being any more likely to use violence than anyone else, the blame is obviously with those who cut off all peaceful means! (and besides did a piss poor job guarding their own citizens, pulling the army to the west bank & shooting at their own ppl)

There is this saying in my country that when someone's being sanctimonious they have "rented morality for themselves" (leaving only immorality for the opponent) but what we're seeing here, much more, is ppl acting like they rented rationality for themselves.

Hence all this propaganda to portray them as an irrational horse doing gratuitous mass rape/executions instead of a competent army that, while not perfect, looks way more disciplined & sophisticated than the Israelis RN.

And of course, if they "just hate us cause they hate us", that makes it easier to justify draconic measures because there is no cause that be fixed.

Because they're scared that if ppl heard their reasoning & demands, they would maybe agree with their goals if not their methods.

Notice also that it's the same de-rationalizing as you would see with an abuser: The girlfriend just bitches cause she's a bitch, the children just contradict cause they want to contradict... not because their feelings are hurt because of abuse.

I think thinking & reason are just as fundamental to humanity as feeling & sensitivity, & that to portray them as unthinking is just as awful as to deny ppl's suffering or humanity in an emotional sense.

And yes, there's an obvious parallel to how post 9/11 they stressed the attackers' religion (encouraging persecution of muslims worlwide) to detract from their political goals. They were angry about american meddling in the cold war. Again this isn't justifying their deeds, this is just cause & effect. But then what did they do? Yet more meddling & destabilizing. The most counterproductive possible thing. & in the end they got Bin Laden with spy cameras and a swat team. The war did nothing to catch him. He wasn't even in Afghanistan.

Like even if we grant for argument's sake that Hamas are unambiguous baddies, you would, idk, get the USA to use leverage to make Qatar extradite their leaders and put them on trial, or catch them with police, not mass murder civilians.

[inkwell-intermission]

could you talk more about your ideas/story for innovator?

yes ok i wont go too crazy but i will share some more yess

Innovator was made the head witchunter seeking out heretics who were trying to bring horrorterror worship onto Prospit based off of his symptoms initially, but as the rapid increase in respect and quality of life began he started leaning into it and coming to enjoy his job, eventually coming to expect that kind of respect and enjoying his power over people and the prestige. He starts imagining things instead of waiting for an actual hallucination to occur and lying about what he sees, because he makes commission and gains further notoriety and prestige whenever he makes an arrest, he starts sending people he knows are likely guilty to sometimes execution and often exile, he loves the performance in court, he loves being dramatic as hell and acting like hes having visions like someone in Ancient Greece who would be labeled a prophet for having an epileptic fit

He's actually personally responsible for Scofflaw's exile. Scofflaw comes up in a case that crosses him- an unusually large sect attempting a horrorterror communion is uncovered and stopped, with Scofflaw at the center. He isn't the leader however, who is uncovered to be another man, but he was at the center of the ritual circle to be channeled through. Scofflaw insists he isn't at fault and was coerced and forced into it, but Innovator doesn't feel like it would look good to let him go regardless. He doesn't feel bad or guilty when he orders Scofflaw be marked as a heretic- carving a scar into his barcodes- and exiled.

He moves to Alternia with the rest of the remaining Prospit-Derse officials after Derse wins, the mass evacuation and migration occurs and they all show up on Alternia to find Scofflaw leading a budding city-state. The Prospit-Derse governing bodies soon to become the Metropolis Central government take over the place, which is expected and somewhat welcomed, but Scofflaw is ousted from any kind of leadership position and isn't allowed to be a civil servant because of his Heretical status, so he turns to the followers who are still loyal to him and turns to crime. Innovator is getting sick of blind adoration at this point and joins him, eventually making himself indispensable, and Scofflaw inevitably believes that he cannot complete his own goal of an undying legacy without Innovator, and that he is nothing without him on his side. Also: Innovator takes a horrorterror patron after finding a book in Alternian ruins, an ancient deer of life, putrefaction and decay. During the analogous events to the Problem Sleuth comic, Rather than simply become god, an imaginary version of Pernicious Innovator replaces his own deity, consuming the foul deer, and becoming: Demonhead Pernicious Innovator, The Loathsome Ooze, The Soul of Conceit, The Patron of One. It isn't GPI in nature- rather DPI. Ironically, as GPI is meant to be the master of all universes and not simply the one the comic takes place in normally- GPI already exists in this alternate universe, but has no personal connection to Innovator, creating a near paradox that makes them (DPI and PI) sick to think about. He can also do nearly anything within reason with his horrorterror magic because he is his own patron- so as long as DPI agrees, he can pull a LOT of power from him, considering he's in a committed 1 on 1 patronage and all that power can only go to him- DPI wouldn't take another disciple under just about any circumstance.

He's smart and capable enough of running the Twilight Scoundrels himself but he doesn't want to, he wants to run his funny magic shows and do whatever he wants, not make deals and contracts and worry about paperwork and legalities and trade negotiations! That's awful boring pointdexter shit. Which is why Scofflaw does it (he doesn't trust anyone but himself to do it because what if he gets betrayed and cheated, or someone else fucks it up). So he just has a really good time doing big crazy magic, and takes specific pride that his magic is REAL and NOT A TRICK and he's NOT a fake at all.

Unlike PI he's at this point, intentionally and consistently medicated for his schizophrenia, has a lower alcohol tolerance, and no top surgery. He does still stutter and have some anxiety issues, but they're much easier for him to push through and he lives for the stage. His posture is also really good in comparison. His health improvements counterbalance with his horrorterror patronage however- so he's about the same weight as PI. scoff and innovator have an absolutely nightmarish codependent-adjacent little relationship and drive each other nuts and i like them soooo much. Also Innovator is REALLY on that Hannibal shit with Deadeye and tries to convince him that his regular intrusive thoughts about graphic violence are his secret real desires and that he's fucked up inside and he should embrace it and be cool like him and they should get married and kiss and stuff. God they're all so awful and compelling

hope this was a substantial chunk to chew on :]

[quinloki]

Family Ties

Fem Reader x Donquixote Doflamingo

CW: Language, violence, blood, moral ambiguity, murder, sexual themes and situations 18+ only

Chapter 1 - Table of Consent -

Chapter 16: Sincerity

People exploded out of the cars and all hell broke loose. You couldn't clock what was going on, you were trying your best just to stay conscious. At one-point Decken must've felt the pressure, because he yanks you up and pulls you against him. It wasn't a smart move, your legs weren't supporting you, the bat hit might've fractured your leg, and you had become deadweight. Not that you would've done anything to assist him in the first place.

The pressure on your leg makes you scream, and you feel the cold, hard jab of a gun barrel against your check. You consider trying to grab it from him, since he was stupid enough to press it right up against you like that, but your head is still fuzzy, and your damned arm was dislocated. It was more likely that you'd get yourself shot if you tried anything. Especially with so many potential rescuers around. You didn't want your sudden, sloppy moves to ruin someone else's careful plan.

It also became obvious to all your rescuers, just how injured you were, now that you were no longer being bodily shielded by two of Decken's men. You heard Pops and his boys' furious yelling reach an impressive pitch. You hear something about Decken needing to lower a gun, but your world is swimming.

Pops' booming voice fills the air over all the other noise. You knew he was bellowing, but you couldn't comprehend his words. Pop is intimidating when he bellows, you'd seen grown men wet themselves when he was just mildly displeased, and right now he is furious. And that loud fury was distracting, but Decken shouldn't have let himself be distracted by Pops.

Edward Newgate wasn't the most terrifying person here tonight.

You feel a warm wet splash against the back of your neck before you hear the sound of the bullet as it hits Decken, and after that you hear the sound of the shot that had been fired. It was funny how your mind processed stuff like that in the heat of things.

Everything seems to freeze, but it all happens in a split second. From the shot to the splash of hot blood on your skin. You only the barest knowledge that the blood wasn't yours. You are caught between relief and frustration; after what Decken had done to you, you had wanted to settle things directly.

You lacked the strength to do so right now, as Decken's body fell to the ground, so does yours. His weakened grasp was still enough to pull you onto him as he crumples, and as soon as you could, you twist to roll off him. You don't know if he's a corpse or not, you just didn't want to be in contact with him anymore.

The shot that took out Decken was like the start of a race. Pop and his boys devoured the members of Decken's crew, and they weren't polite enough to use guns. There was rage on their faces, and skilled fury behind their assault. It was a bloody mess, but the boys would be fine – they had the reach and mass and extra practice.

And their own metal pipes.

The people unlucky enough to be around you didn't see any mercy, but they had less of a fighting chance. Doflamingo and his crew did use guns, but they weren't finishing anyone off quick anymore. Bullets tore through people with cold accuracy – hands, feet, and knees exploded to bullets that refused to hit vitals or allow retreat. All you could manage was getting to your knees, but once you saw Doflamingo, it was like no one else was there.

Men fell around him like puppets getting their strings cut. His shades were on, but you knew he was looking at you as his family mercilessly executed his orders around him. When he was close enough, you smiled up at him weakly.

"You like dat suit?" You question as he kneels by you.

"Not sentimentally." He answers. There was a fury flowing off him, but it wasn't directed at you, and that made it comforting.

You chuckle weakly. The exchange was grounding in the midst of all the chaos. You cough, a mist of congestion and blood spattering onto the street before you point over to Decken.

"Still alive?"

"Not for much longer." Doflamingo answers, and you hear a sputter. Turning with Doffy's assistance, you realize that Decken was bleeding out from a neck wound. He hadn't gotten a clean death either, the hit was shallow enough he could've made it, if he was already on the way to the hospital, but deep enough that he wasn't going to staunch it with his hand.

There was a strange fury on Decken's face, hand over the wound, knelt on the ground. His eyes weren't focused on you, he was looking at Doflamingo.

You look around and see the gun in Doffy's hand. "Please." You request, reaching out for it.

He hands it over to you and you use his size and strength to stand up, leveling the gun at Decken. The street was silent, and the two gangs were watching you. You'd been on the outskirts of this kind of life ever since you were six. You had taken a life before in self-defense, some nameless nobody who thought he was going to get lucky, and Pops had covered the whole thing up.

There had been fury in your bones during that. Your fear had turned to rage, and no one had been there to stop you. You had stress fractures in your hands and all up your arms from how recklessly you had bludgeoned the man to death. Law had bellowed at you the whole time he was patching you up, you hadn't heard him so furious before or since.

Right now, there was no fury. You could stand here and watch him die, but you wanted to rip him apart. Not just for what he had done to you, but for his words. You lacked the strength to tear him limb from limb yourself, so this was the next best thing.

"You will never call someone kitten in that disgusting voice again," Your voice is heavy with the wounds of your body, and yet you're sure everyone heard you clearly. Decken starts to say something, his face taking on a look of surprise as he looks from Doflamingo to you. You think he truly believes you had loved him.

The hammer falls. The chain reaction from click to boom soars through the air and ends Decken's words and life by your will. You lower the gun, and try to keep your feet, but you don't have anything left in you anymore.

Dropping the gun, you sink into Doflamingo's arms. "Doc's gon' be mad." You murmur.

"Stay awake, (Y/N)." Doflamingo states. When you struggle to comply, this bastard grabs your dislocated arm and moves it. You grunt in pain, but it puts life back in your gaze. "Good girl. Keep talking, tell us what happened."

Doflamingo picks you up as you talk, recounting the entire series of events starting from your front door. Sabo rides with him in his SUV, so he can get the story firsthand for Pop's side of things, and you take the short drive to Law's clinic.

To keep yourself awake, you tell everything, even the thoughts you had while running. When you mention the casino, Doflamingo asks who you were talking about, Sabo answers him when you start fumbling with the name.

"Gild Tesoro."

"Winning big at the Gran isn't easy." Doflamingo states flatly.

"S'easier... when ya cheat." You admit.

"(Y/N)!" Sabo exclaims. You hadn't ever admitted to being anything but lucky for the last two years.

You wave him off, muttering. "The Gran turns over somethin' like 30 million in a day. I walked out with sixty measly grand. If anythin' he'd be more mad about the assault."

Sabo pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. He already knew the story from that point, but it always made him tense. Gild Tesoro wasn't above board in his dealings, and while he wasn't multi-national, his casino was on his own island. He was practically king there.

Doflamingo laughs. "You assaulted Gild, on his own island?" His laugh was pleasant, seeming to evaporate most of his earlier rage. You nod, and Doflamingo chuckles. "He's a business associate of mine, please refrain from assaulting him in the future, my dear."

"He insisted on dinner together and wouldn't take no for an answer." You explain, a little irritated. "He's lucky all I did was kick him in the bells."

"Mm." Doflamingo makes a sound, and a frown skips across his features again. "Keep talking, (Y/N), more about what happened tonight."

You got through most of the night, when you reached the clinic, you were talking about how Decken had said Tsumi had seen you receive a gift at Binks' carnival. You said you missed him cause you'd seen Smoker. Sabo knew what that meant, but you didn't have the mind to explain it further.

Law was outside the clinic waiting with a gurney. Robin, Zoro, Killer and Eustass were there too. Doflamingo laid you out on the gurney and Law started barking orders at everyone – and not just the four volunteers that came to help. He ordered Sabo, Doflamingo and Doffy's family around as well. He was impressive when he was in doctor mode.

Getting patched up without any painkillers was rough, but you needed to stay conscious because of the head wound. You started to tell dirty jokes to Law, but he threatened to start telling Doflamingo about the origin of every scar you had if you kept it up. Some were embarrassing enough that the threat worked. Instead, you just started telling terrible knock-knock jokes to whoever would react to them. They were really bad, but in your defense, you'd been hit over the head with a bat.

After everything was patched up, you were left to rest – still without sleeping – with just Doflamingo. Law had chased everyone else off and was in another part of the clinic, probably doing post-surgery stuff.

"Your intuition continues to amaze me," he says, sitting near enough to hold your hand. His shades were on top of his head and the expression on his face is gentle.

"Feels like it was a bit lacking tonight." You admit, looking down at your battered and bandaged body.

"It kept you alive." His eyes wander over the damage, and you could see something weighing on him, enough that you pull a sheet over yourself. The wounds didn't bother you, but the idea that he would feel responsible for them did.

"You might as well ask whatever's on your mind while you have me here." you say giving him a small smile. "I promise I won't lie."

"What's on my mind isn't a matter of requesting honesty from you, my dear." He begins. He lifts your hand up to his lips and kisses along your knuckles lightly, sighing into your hand before looking at you. His gaze was like being caught, and you were held by the weight of whatever was to come.

"This may feel rushed, but I want you near me. I want you safe within my estate, not in some duplex over 20 minutes away from me. At risk of compromising myself, I've wanted you to stay since I saw how naturally you interacted with the rest of my family."

Your heart skips. Suddenly all the concerns you had before felt exceptionally silly.

"... Are you asking me to date you, Donquixote Doflamingo?" You can feel the heat rising in your face, but you don't know how obvious it is under the wounds from earlier.

There was an edge to his gaze and his words, and you feel properly admonished by his next statement. "I was under the impression that we were already dating." He sighs, and his words bore into you as you realize he was nervous you would reject him, "I'm asking you to move in."

Your jaw goes slack as your face goes red and you pull the sheet up over yourself entirely. Your mind is running as fast as it's able and you let out a little whine. "I... am incredibly embarrassed. So, but, you mean... No, it makes sense. We, uh, certainly did do enough to be dating. I think I need to apologize."

You lower the blanket enough to be able to meet his eyes. "I had assumed you to be a player, Mr. Donquixote, and thought I would need to, uh, put forth additional effort before I could request exclusive rights to your time."

"I have never had more than one dalliance at a time," He states, and you could hear he was at least a little hurt to know you had assumed otherwise. His word choice also made you feel like Violet had filled him in on your conversation after the fact. "I have never asked any of them to stay and have allowed them all to leave as they pleased, whenever things weren't progressing by their standards." He stands up and leans over you, placing a hand on the far side of the pillow under your head to steady himself.

"I find that I do not want to let you slip out of my grasp." The emotion in his voice and eyes causes you to pull the bed sheet back up until all that was visible were your own eyes. "Your brusque nature and blunt manner of speech make it easy to know what's on your mind, and yet you can speak and dine with high society as though you'd spent your whole life within it. Impressive skills on their own, but hardly the tip of the iceberg with you."

He puts his hand over yours and gently pulls the sheets down. "You leaned on me without apology or reservation, and then carried the weight of resolving your predicament with your own hand. Even though you could've let him die by my actions and simply watched." Your full attention was held by his gaze and the sound of his voice.

"It is in love, and murder, that we are sincere." He states, breath tickling your lips as he leans closer. "And I adore your sincerity, (Y/N)."

The door swings open, and Law's grumpy voice fills the room. "If you go any further, you're going to compromise my patient's health." He states flatly. Doflamingo sat back in his chair as Law came over to the other side of the bed. He starts a checkup without warning, holding your eyes open and shinning a light a couple times until he's satisfied.

"How do you feel (Y/N)-ya?"

"Like someone who got their ass beat a couple hours ago." You quip.

"Aside from that."

"I haven't sat up, but I don't feel dizzy. Everything is in focus and clear, and while I'm sore as sin, nothing hurts so bad that I have concerns." You say, no longer being a brat with your response, and running down the list of things you'd heard Law ask patients before.

"Then sit up for me," he says looking over at Doflamingo. "Don't help her but catch her if she sways."

You do as he requests, and even though your body aches, your head remained un-dizzy.

"Christ-mas," you grunt, straightening up. "Did that asshole fracture my femur?"

"Hairline." Law says. "If I give you crutches, will you actually use them?"

"Yes." "Maybe." 

Doflamingo and you speak at the same time, and your face goes red. Law's relationship with Doffy seems to rise several levels in response.

"Crutches it is. If you can't be bothered, at least try to stay off it. Ice will help any swelling. Aside from the hairline fracture, have someone keep an eye on the gash on the back of your head. If it turns red or looks like anything it shouldn't, come back here. The stitches don't need removed, and I didn't need to use any staples."

He looks more at Doflamingo than you, "My bare minimum requirement is that you take two weeks off work to heal up, and four weeks off of Zoro's delivery job, but double on both would be best." Law looks at you and his gold eyes were almost angry. "You work sooner than two weeks, (Y/N)-ya and I'll remove your arms and legs myself."

You put your hands up in defeat. "Aye, aye, Captain. Two wee-" you hear Doflamingo clear his throat and you sigh. "Fine, three weeks, no work."

Law's eyes widen for a moment, and he looks between Doffy and you. "Huh." Was all he said before turning back to business at hand.

"You're well enough to get out of my clinic and sleep somewhere else." He taps a pen against Doffy's arm. "No work means no working out, either."

Doflamingo only put his hands up in a gesture of surrender but didn't say anything. The grin on his face left you with the impression that he was already thinking up loopholes.

You grin, "Since he'll be keeping me from working, I'll keep him in line doc." You assure him. You started to stretch but pain zinges through your body. You swear under your breath, having every movement ache was aggravating and it was going to be weeks before nothing hurt again.

Law tosses a bottle to Doflamingo as he's leaving the room. "They're not addictive, but more than two a day and she might start speaking in tongues."

You reach for the bottle, but Doffy moves it out of your reach before putting it in his pocket. Standing up, he picks you up carefully. It hurts to be moved, but it hurt less than trying to move yourself, so you don't argue about it.

"Food first, you can take one before you sleep." His voice rumbles against you as he carries you out of the clinic.

You were a little surprised to see Doffy's entire family waiting outside for you, minus Sugar, Violet and Monet. They didn't say anything, but you felt emotions welling up in your chest, threatening to spill out of your eyes. It reminded you of when Pops had brought you into his home and introduced you to his sons, though this vibe was a little different. With Pops and his boys you felt like you had been rescued, with Doflamingo and his family you felt like you'd been adopted.

You ended up in the back of an SUV, still in Doffy's arms, listening to the people who'd ended up in the same vehicle along with you. Vergo was driving, Trebol, Diamante and Pica were in other seats. They were updating Doflamingo on how things had gone afterward.

The two families had banded together to clean the proof of the slaughter off the streets, inside the business-turned-storage building, and even out into the alley where you'd had your first little scuffle. No one from Decken's crew that had been there had survived the night, and between Pop and Doffy's families, no one from Decken's crew was going to survive the weekend either.

Snuggled into his chest you drifted off to sleep, there were no worries left to keep you awake on the drive.

[shadowwolflady]

Jomae

Warning: depictions of violence

Summary: what happened to the village of the Lock afterwards?

Character death, Kakashi X OC, hurt, comfort

Kakashi X Rai

A small army of 12 of Konoha's most elite raced through the shadows towards their border. They had all been summoned and told about a small village that had intel on Konoha and needed to be dealt with. Permanently.

According to records, several spies infiltrated Konoha's walls disguised as civilians, one of them captured and brought in. All had eyes kept on them as they went about the village. But the most infuriating thing was, the one who was brought in under arrest, was let go.

Rai was among the lethal killers darting through the shadows, as was her Captain of Team Ro, Tenzo. She recalled the five photos of the individuals that were seen within the walls.

Such a daunting task ahead of them. An annihilation of an entire village.

Nobody left alive.

Not even the children.

Not much was known about the village, other than it was small and remote. The population was estimated between 100 to 200 people.

Now, Rai mostly worked with Tenzo. They were familiar with each other. However, she hadn't worked with the others. She had heard of them and their skills, researched them prior to leaving to brief her on their skills and capabilities. All of them had high body counts.

Of the 12, three were women. The others were all men. However, 11 of them were human. While one was a demon. The Wolf, as Rai was called, was notorious among the ANBU as a demon. Many steered clear of her. All of these individuals were hand picked specifically for this kind of mission. They specialized in mass execution.

Among them were water users, earth users, a wood user, miasma user, lightning user, air users, and a fire user. All knew to not bring attention to their targets and their mission, so bright, loud, and flashy jutsus of any sort were banned for them, unless absolutely necessary. But that wasn't a problem for this group.

Rai had to keep herself under control. She could feel her power threatening to break her composure as the team slipped through the shadows of the forest.

Upon crossing a border, they took more careful routes to avoid any well traveled areas.

Finally, they crested a small mountain range, halting in the dense foliage as they assessed the village below.

They already had a plan of attack. To strike in the middle of the night.

The village wasn't too spread out. It was true the tricky part was the outlying buildings, but the trickier part was internal ones.

There was a shift in the air. Rai took several whiffs. A storm was approaching. Perfect.

As the night started the storm struck. The river raged, ‘taking’ out the main bridge into the country. With the threat of commoners stumbling upon them minimized, they slipped into position.

Rai, Tenzo, and one other male waited on the eastern edge of the territory.

Lightning struck the top of a mountain.

They were off.

Shadows swallowed unsuspecting individuals with teeth and claws. A fog like miasma lulled many into an eternal sleep. The sounds of grunts, cries, and bodies falling were drowned out by the storm. House by house, room by room, person by person was swiftly taken.

Shadow clones of the others darted in and out of the darkness. Lights steadily went out throughout the village.

As quickly as it started, it ended. Several hours it took to thoroughly go through the village and annihilate every single person.

Meeting up in the middle, Rai and several others pulled out scrolls. These were to take bodies of specific individuals back to Konoha.

Rai had come across the female target. The dark haired woman wasn't expecting anything or anyone. Her attack was quick and through her heart. The woman dropped where she was walking. Upon returning to the small home of the woman, Rai opened the scroll. Double checking the info, she IDed the woman. This was the woman that stole intel.

Draping the scroll upside down over the body, a poof sounded as the body was absorbed into the seal. The scroll retracted and sealed on itself. Nothing was left of the woman but the blood stain she left on the floor.

Rai picked up the scroll and placed it in her back pouch.

It had to be after 3 am when the elites gathered quickly in the lightening storm.

The earth users created a massive crevice to bury the whole village. The water users helped to create mud and wash the buildings and bodies into the large gaps before the earth users closed the crevice.

Tenzo was up next. He used his wood style to create a forest around them of varying tree maturity. Saplings to mature trees sprung up around them.

The group retreated, taking one last look at where Jomae used to be. Now, it looked like there was never a village there.

Lightning danced across the sky as they turned and headed for home.

Kakashi thought it was a little unusual for Ibiki to be out and about. Even more so that Ibiki was knocking on his door early in the morning. “Kakashi, we need you down at the morgue.”

The morgue? They needed identification of a body.

Getting up, he dragged himself out of bed and got dressed before heading down to the interrogation unit's morgue. A thick heavy metal door down a dark hallway blocked his way into the interrogation unit. Rapping lightly on the metal, a small panel opened to reveal Ibiki's eyes before closing. The door opened with an eerie squeak, allowing Kakashi inside.

The whole way down here, Kakashi didn't have a good feeling. He followed Ibiki to the morgue. Inoichi was there as well, at one of the five blanket covered bodies on the tables. It looked like he was trying to get information from the mind of the person beneath the cloth.

Ibiki made his way to the fourth table by a medical nin. The medical nin looked at Ibiki and Kakashi before rolling back the cloth to reveal a face.

The face of a woman.

Of Hanare.

Kakashi gritted his teeth as his heart dropped. He felt sick.

“Does this woman look familiar?” Ibiki asked him. It took Kakashi a bit to compose himself and not let his anger get the best of him before he nodded. “Can you give us a name?”

“The name she had given me was Hanare.” Kakashi felt as if his mouth wasn't his own. The words felt weird.

“Thank you,” Ibiki said before the medical nin pulled the cover back over the woman's head to conceal her identity.

No. This wasn't true. This wasn't happening. Kakashi was in a fog as his feet carried him through the village. He wasn't paying attention to where he was going.

He found himself in the park. A bench called for him to sit. So he did, with his elbows on his knees. He just needed a bit to think, to accept all that just happened. The sight of the woman on the table, beneath the white blanket. It startled him.

Sitting there for several minutes, he took in a deep breath and sat up, looking up to the sky. There was no way he could deal with his genin today. Perhaps Rai would make him feel better. Hauling himself up off the stone bench, he turned and stuffed his hands into his pockets as he made his way to Rai's apartment.

The door opened. He greeted her with a small sad smile.

“Kakashi?” Rai asked in a soft voice. She was stunned to see him at her door. But what stunned her the most was the sad look he held in his eye. What happened? She wondered as she stepped aside to let him in. Something was bothering him.

Kakashi slipped off his shoes without a sound. Then, he stepped deeper into her place, slipping off his head band and unzipping his vest.

Okay, something was really wrong. Rai watched as he sat himself down on her couch. Rai kept an eye on him as she walked around her couch and sat on his left. The moment she settled, Kakashi leaned over and placed his head on her shoulder. How her heart hurt for him. Something was bothering him. Turning herself, she placed a hand on his head and placed a kiss in his hair. Shifting herself back a bit more, she wrapped her other arm around him, coaxing him to lay on top of her. Kakashi didn't fuss. He accepted her actions. Tucking his head beneath her chin, he made himself comfortable. He wasn't planning on going anywhere for a bit.

How Rai wanted to ask what happened. To allow him to talk and voice his sadness or concern. But with him being this quiet, she thought to just let him be. She placed another kiss on his head as she let her fingers run through his silver mane.

[grantgoddard]

Some men see things as they are and ask "Why … change?" : 2003 : Neil Stock, Ofcom

 A colleague would arrive at my workplace some Mondays with evident cuts and bruises. A tragic case of domestic violence? No. He was a loyal fan of Millwall Football Club, a team characterised by its “historic association with football hooliganism” (Wikipedia). Did I overhear anyone comment that it might be considered inappropriate to work in a government quango when resembling the runner-up from five rounds with Mick McManus? No. Colleagues alleged that this young buck was untouchable because he held finance qualifications that his boss lacked, despite their requirement to legally sign off public accounts. That same boss was then promoted to personnel director, despite having demonstrated to me a similar skills deficit, and then to deputy chief executive of our organisation. Ho hum.

Relevant qualifications and experience appeared to be non-essential for appointment to the management class at The Radio Authority. If you possessed ‘the right stuff’, prior employment in a Norfolk chicken processing factory could prove appropriate for a job regulating Britain’s commercial radio industry. One woman in my small crowded office talked incessantly, inserting expletives into every other sentence. Did any colleague suggest this to be inappropriate behaviour, particularly when some of us were interrogating radio station managers by phone and recording our conversations? No. Once, an interviewee enquired if I was calling from home, having overheard swearing in our office. Er, no, I just work in a madhouse.

Arriving daily to cross the threshold of our office, I felt like one of those unsuspecting visitors knocking on the front door of ‘The Munsters’ home, only to be invited into a scary otherworld that was bafflingly grotesque. Why did I choose to stay there? Because it was the only job I had been offered after countless rejected applications during months of unemployment. And I knew that my private hell would end soon. In several months’ time, the government would be merging several small regulators, including ours, into one new huge one to which staff would be transferred en masse. Well, with the exception of our only two visible minority colleagues, one of whom was dumped in the new regulator’s basement call centre, the other who was told she would have to apply for advertised vacancies despite her lengthy loyal service to our organisation. Which decisionmaker in our midst did we suspect of having never torn up their dogeared ‘NF’ membership card?

In order to prepare us for employment in a modern state-of-the-art regulator, The Radio Authority’s workforce was sent to a government conference centre to watch our new leader, Stephen Carter, talk us through PowerPoint presentations promising us a bright new future. I left these events finally feeling ‘hope’, though some colleagues seemed to sense ‘tyranny’, preferring the security blanket of a dysfunctional abusive ‘family’ already tainted by a corruption scandal exposed on national television. Preferring paperwork to floppy discs, I suspect nobody in The Radio Authority had even needed to press the ‘PowerPoint’ function on their archaic desktop computers. Why should they bother?

Though I had never witnessed our department required to function as any kind of team, we were all sent on a ‘teambuilding’ awayday organised by one of those faceless global management consultancies. We were told to pull together to solve theoretical problems, to play childish games and express our feelings in ‘breakout’ groups. I was paired with a colleague from my office who admitted her early career objective was to work on ‘BBC Radio Four’s ‘Women’s Hour’ programme, though she had never sought training in radio production. My own ‘learning experience’ from that session was something I had observed before – our privately educated elite expect to succeed in their chosen shiny career without needing to put in any graft as practitioners.

I lacked acting abilities, having always volunteered to organise the sound for school plays, but at our awayday I was picked to roleplay a radio licence hopeful whose latest application had been refused, in dialogue with the officer who had turned me down. Having endured enough of that day’s preposterous exercises, I threw myself into this role, choosing to feign a nasal Northern accent and imitate a persistent applicant from Stoke who felt the Radio Authority was discriminating against him. My colleagues laughed loudly at my desperate attempts to win the argument against my posh counterpart. In fact, my performance was art imitating life. I had heard work colleagues often lampoon the speech of a licence applicant from Stoke, despite his experience in radio broadcasting. Naturally, my play-acting did not dent their snobbishness one iota.

I had not understood how convincing my role had been that day until, during The Radio Authority chairman’s monthly walkabouts round our office, he would greet me using the ‘Wayne’ name of the Stoke persona I had adopted … and neither was he being ironic or witty. I had been renamed. I corrected him each month, but he insisted on addressing me on the next occasion as ‘Wayne’. Though he transferred to the new regulator, the majority of our senior management either were not offered jobs there or decided to accept redundancy, I know not which. Given that some had never used a work computer, preferring to order underlings do the grunt work for them, it was difficult to imagine them integrating within a modern office environment.

Everyone in our department received an email requesting our thoughts on how the radio licence application process could be improved. It had been sent by our team deputy Neil Stock, who had surprisingly been promoted by somebody somewhere to lead the radio division within the new regulator a few months hence. I had lots of ‘thoughts’ on the subject so started banging them out on my desktop computer. I was 875 words into my spiel before suddenly halting, asking myself what the hell I was doing providing free insights from hard-bitten experience. Earlier in my working life, I had spent months writing a radio licence application. Stock had never. That application had won up against 39 competitors. I had started working in commercial radio two decades ago. Stock had never. I had launched a London commercial radio station that had attracted a million listeners per week within its first six months. Stock had never. Might he not be harvesting ideas from his ‘team’ to convince his new paymasters that he possessed some kind of grand plan?

This suspicion was confirmed when, not having initially responded to his request, Stock reminded me repeatedly that he still required my contribution. He knew I considered the present application system deficient in almost every aspect because I had told him as much in previous conversations. However, I had nothing to gain from assisting his meteoric rise through the regulatory ranks without commercial radio experience. As is evident from the raw stream of consciousness I wrote then and reproduce (uncorrected) here, my verdict on my employer’s licensing system was damning as a result of having watched it contribute to an increasingly disastrous commercial radio sector in Britain. But criticising The Radio Authority meant criticising my new boss, so I never replied.

Months later, we had moved to the modern office environment of Ofcom. At last, it felt as if I was living in the present century. However, I sat at my desk day after day doing nothing, sidelined by Stock. Eventually he invited me to join his sub-committee tasked with updating the paper licence application form, which seemed like continued attrition to divine my insights. We met a couple of times, during which I retained my counsel about the disastrous system, since it was evident that Stock contemplated only minor amendments rather than a full-blown overhaul. At the end of our final meeting, Stock concluded our discussions by announcing that the application form would remain exactly as it already was, with only the old logo on the front page to be replaced by ‘Ofcom’. I was still working in a madhouse!

One day, everyone in the radio section received an email from Stock requiring their presence at a team meeting, a novelty as no such meetings had occurred at The Radio Authority. We all filed into the glass-walled room in the middle of our floor, waiting to be addressed. I wrote a header in my notebook and expected to jot some bullet points, but what followed left me open-mouthed and unable to note a single word. The sole topic of discussion was these former Radio Authority employees’ refusal to update their working methods to support Ofcom’s modernisation plan. Everyone in the room who spoke supported this strategy. I said nothing as my jaw had already hit the ground. My colleagues were a rabble of anti-revolutionaries. They wanted nothing to change. They were working in Ofcom’s office, drawing salaries from Ofcom, using Ofcom’s resources to hold this meeting … but they wanted to pretend they were still working at The Radio Authority. It was bizarre!

I was reminded of the ‘Luddites’ I had studied for economic history: textile workers in Nottingham who, between 1811 and 1817, had opposed factory owners replacing their labour with machinery. The government had sent 12,000 troops to quell their destruction of new equipment and violence against mill owners, after passing ‘The Frame Breaking Act’ that had made “machine breaking” a capital crime. Two centuries later, I was in the midst of a middle-class penpusher uprising where their disobedience was probably limited to not clearing their desks of papers before sneaking out to catch an early train home. Instead of armed troops, the most violent official response might be a polite e-mail etiquette reminder.

I returned to my desk in a state of disbelief. I must have attended hundreds of meetings during my working life, but that was the first where the consensus was to refuse to adapt to twenty-first century working methods. It felt like ‘Back to The Flintstones’. They would have been happier NOT to have computer terminals on their desks and a fast internet connection. I seemed to be in a minority of one, surrounded in our open-plan office by a couple of dozen paid-up members of the ‘Popular Front for the Liberation of Radio Regulation Reactionaries’. I was half-expecting a singsong of ‘Power to The People’ during our afternoon tea break.

I was SO disappointed. I had endured a miserable eighteen months’ employment at The Radio Authority, during which I had been shouted at repeatedly, told not to talk about ‘radio’, denied my yearend bonus and had failed my annual review on every criterion. Despite my successful track record in radio, I had been treated like a troublesome child. The only thing that had kept me arriving daily for work in Holborn was the hope that the situation at the merged regulator would prove different. Yet, within weeks of Ofcom’s launch, I was witnessing the same crazy behaviours that my colleagues had carried across the Thames with them to recreate their own private Transylvania. Like Harker, I needed to escape the clutches of these vampires if I were to retain my sanity. Could I tie together enough bedsheets?

[fredcasden]

Good afternoon everyone,

Last night's stream of Bayonetta certainly drove home the point that the plot of the game makes no sense what so ever. Between apparent time travel shenanigans, the resurrection of a 'god' to destroy and remake the universe, lost memories and more plot holes than an Ed Wood film, it makes my head hurt trying to have it all make sense. Also didn't help with the number of long cut scenes in Chapters 14, 15 & 16 that tried to justify everything.

Still, it was a lot of fun, the boss battles got more over the top, and the reuse of earlier bosses made for a great call back, even if that is a bit cliche. The music in the later half of the game certainly was awesome to listen to, and this certainly was a game that justified my usual 'watch through the credits' because of the 'extra fights' that take place during it, and the dance video at the very end.

Now will I play Bayonetta again? More than likely yes, as there is the Xbox One version, so if and when I play this game again, it'll be that version, just to play it with superior visuals! Real question is, do I feel like I could handle the game on normal difficulty.... I'm not sure, I got dodging down pretty good, but combos could be a pain to pull off.

Question is, what will be the next Monday-Tuesday game, at this time I'm not completely sure as of yet, as I do have plenty of options!

For the raid we dropped in on PowerThumbZ while they were playing Prey over on twitch.tv/PowerThumbz!  

Bayonetta (Xbox 360) Achievements

Commander Of Magic: Purchase all techniques.

Treasure Collector: Discover half of all the Umbra Witches' final resting places.

Iustitia, Giver Of Life: Defeat Iustitia on any difficulty.

Feels Good, Doesn't It?: Execute 50 Torture Attacks.

Sapientia, Controller Of Seas: Defeat Sapientia on any difficulty.

Double, Double, Toil And Trouble: Create 20 Concoctions.

Master Of The Heavens: Defeat Father Balder on any difficulty.

Taste Of The Witching Hour: Complete all Chapters on any difficulty.

Stream Clip Links

Stylishly Cool!

So sorry!

We just punched it in the face!

Mom had an okay first day at the nursing / rehab facility, she is getting along with her room mate. She had her first session of physical therapy, they had her walking a little bit, which is good. If anyone would like to donate to her gofundme dedicated to covering medical related costs, please visit: https://gofund.me/6adf8354

Had a 45-minute telephone conference that could probably help resolve a few worries I've had since mid-December, fingers crossed!

I've been really working on knocking out these series of Mass Effect short story commissions, and now gradually working to where things can reach the Mass Effect 3 era of the franchise, but there are some lingering tales the client wants based on Mass Effect 2.

Today's Fitness Boxing 2 daily workout featured Advanced Combo #1, Beginner Combo #2 and Uppercut Combo #1 for 34 minutes.

What did the drummer call his two twin daughters? Anna one, Anna two.

Song of the Day: Malibu by Miley Cyrus

For tonight's stream, we're playing Fall Guys and Fallout 76, if Iceman joins in, we'll be wrapping up his run of the Brotherhood of Steel story arc!

So on that note we'll see you later over on twitch.tv/fredcasden!

[here2bbtstrash]

birthday drabble 10 - myg

@chaoticabstractism asked: 1, 79, 82, 95. You already know whom I want, but I’m still gonna say it: Min fucking yoongi

pairing: yoongi x reader, ft. literally one second of hoseok lol contains: smut!! dom husband yoongi need i say more 🥵🥵, reader is a brat and had too much tequila (not drunk just horny), minor dirty talk/teasing/ass grabbing, suggested infidelity as teasing, semi-public indecency (at the office party/in a car in the parking lot), spanking as punishment, thigh riding, a smidge of crying, squirting-ish? idk she's ~juicy summary: when you misbehave at his office party, your husband has no choice but to punish you.

want more? check out all my birthday drabbles here! requests for these are now closed 💜

Your husband should have known better than to leave you unattended at a party with an open bar. He’s being professional about it tonight, nursing a single glass of whiskey while he schmoozes with all the fancy record label people who want a piece of him. You can hardly blame them.

But you are under no such obligation. This is not your place of work, you barely know anyone here– and frankly, you’re bored. Yoongi promised it would only be an hour at most, but it’s been nearly two.

So you’ve done a few tequila shots. There was really nothing else to do. Leaning up against the bar, you take another sip from your glass of water in an attempt to pace yourself. You don’t want to be the drunkest one in the room, but there are a gaggle of men that Yoongi sarcastically dubbed the “finance bros” who seem to have that title on lock for the night. Which, in your estimation, means you have room to get a little silly.

Just as his name enters your mind, the mass of people in the center of the room parts, and your husband steps through, eyes clearly scanning for you. Speak of the devil. As much as you love the casual version of him in t-shirts and joggers that you encounter daily, there’s something about him in a suit that really does it for you.

God, you could jump him right now. Maybe tequila was a bad choice.

Yoongi’s eyes alight on you, and you see some emotion on his face that looks like a mixture of concern and intrigue. He’s probably piecing together the fact that he just disappeared to mingle for a solid thirty minutes, and that he left you alone at the bar– and that you’re now making aggressive bedroom eyes in his direction.

When you shoot him a wink, you swear he crosses the room in three seconds.

“What are you doing?”

You look up at him innocently, trying to hide your smile. “Standing. Waiting for you. Drinking tequila.” His eyes widen at the last one. Your husband is well aware of the liquor’s effect on you– there’s a reason he chose Mexico for your honeymoon.

“How much have you had?”

“I’m fine, Yoongi.” You giggle a little despite yourself as you bring your hand up to gently cup his face. “You just look really good, that’s all.”

He sighs, giving you a few seconds to squish his cheek undisturbed before he brings his hand up to cover yours and pulls you off of him. You intertwine your fingers with his as he smooths his other hand over your hair and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I’m sorry this is taking so long. There are a bunch of executives from overseas here that I didn’t account for. I promise I’m almost done.”

“Wanna do a shot with me?” You waggle your eyebrows at him, tugging on your joined hands, and you see a muscle in his jaw work.

“Nope, I’m cutting you off. I need all of your clothes to stay on in front of my coworkers, please.”

“Yoongi!” You stomp your foot like a literal child. “I’m not drunk!”

He surveys you for a moment, then nods. “You’re not. You’re horny, which is arguably worse.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he releases your hand, sliding his palm to press against the small of your back instead. You swear you can feel the heat of his touch radiate up your spine, and it feels so good you have to let your eyes flutter closed for a moment. Maybe he has a point.

“Come on,” Yoongi prompts you, and when you open your eyes again, you can see him fighting to keep a smile off his face. “Let’s do one more round so I can show off my hot wife to everyone, and then I’ll take you home.”

You beam at his compliment, finding his tie with one hand and giving the end of it a gentle tug. “And then what are you gonna do to me?”

He only quirks an eyebrow in answer, but it’s an answer you know well: Everything.

Yoongi shakes his head a little, but his smile is even more apparent now as he once again extracts himself from your grip. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear. “Now, behave.”

You allow him to guide you through various groups of his coworkers, and you do your best to smile and exchange pleasantries like you aren’t overwhelmingly turned on.

When conversations spin off into tangents full of music industry jargon, your thoughts wander to inappropriate places before you can stop them. Not that you want to. There are multiple occasions where someone says your name, clearly having just asked a question, and you have to snap back to reality and ask them to repeat it, because you were absolutely not paying attention; you were too busy thinking about getting railed by your husband. You don’t say the last part out loud.

Yoongi keeps sneaking glances at you, and whenever he notices that glazed-over look in your eyes, he keeps you in check with a gentle shoulder nudge or hip bump. You scrunch your nose up at him in frustration when he does– you don’t want to be kept in check. 

Well, you do, but not in that way.

As you stand there, trying not to go cross-eyed over an excruciating sidebar between the director of something and the head of who-gives-a-shit, you do your best to be subtle about it. You turn your head away from the group, lips floating right by Yoongi’s ear, and keep your voice low enough that only he can hear.

“I’m too wet to stand here and listen to this.”

His eyebrows nearly jump off his forehead, and you watch his gaze flit over every other person in the circle, clearly checking to make sure no one heard you. There’s a moment’s pause where you think that reaction might be all you get, and then he ducks his head and murmurs his response.

“What did you just say?”

You try to keep the evil out of your smile, beaming at him pleasantly, like you’re talking about grocery shopping or your next vacation. “You heard me.”

The hand pressed to your lower back moves in a gentle circle, but his next words are anything but. “Don’t think I’m letting you get away with that, darling.”

The pet name is almost enough to make you laugh out loud, and you can’t help but press your luck. It might get you out of here faster, you reason.

“I hope you don’t, cutie.” Lightning-quick to avoid detection, you bring your hand to his ass for a firm squeeze.

Yoongi full-body flinches, enough that the important businessperson standing to his right glances over to make sure he’s okay. Your husband has fast reflexes, thankfully, because he quickly presses his mouth into his elbow, feigning a cough to cover your bad behavior.

“Excuse me,” he says politely, and it seems to be enough to avoid suspicion. The mind-numbing conversation continues without you.

“You’re going to regret that, sweetheart.” His voice is deadly serious in your ear, and you run your tongue along your back teeth as you smile up at him.

“You keep threatening me with a good time, Yoongs. Not the best tactic if you’re trying to get me to stop.”

Yoongi’s jaw twitches, but he says nothing, trying to be an obedient little worker and keep up with the discussion that you couldn’t care less about. With a frustrated sigh, you continue to glance over his shoulder, your gaze finding the gaggle of finance bros again.

They’re hovering closest to the speakers that are blasting terribly bland pop music– you’d think a music industry party would have better taste– and have clearly challenged each other to some kind of dance battle. Your head tilts slightly as you watch them, grateful for any form of entertainment, and you realize that you actually do remember one of their names.

Jung Hoseok. He and Yoongi have known each other for ages, and he’s always been sweet to you. And, damn, you did not know he could move like that.

You dip your head towards Yoongi’s ear again, more determined than ever to rile him up. “Maybe I should ask Hoseok to fuck me instead. He certainly looks like he knows what he’s doing, just look at those hips.”

You’ve never seen your husband fight harder to suppress rage in his life. Before he can come up with any sort of reply, one of the boring conversationalists pipes up. “I think I need another round. Anyone else?” You wave to indicate your disinterest while Yoongi stays stock-still, and the circle dissipates to head for the bar, leaving the two of you alone together.

You slide both of your hands up your husband’s chest, trying to act sweet, like you didn’t just discuss fucking his coworker. “Can we please leave now?”

When you look up at him through your lashes, he has a familiar dark glint in his eyes– you know what that look means, and it’s enough to have every muscle in your body tensing with the knowledge that he will absolutely be wrecking you when you get home.

“Come on,” he grunts, and the hand pressing into your back is insistent now, pushing you forward. Yoongi doesn’t relent until you’re out of the building entirely and standing in front of his car in the parking lot.

But the next words out of his mouth surprise you. “Back seat. Now.”

You open the car door and slide in obediently, watching through the window as he circles around to get in on the other side. When he turns to look at you, you don’t think you’ve ever seen his eyes burn with such intensity.

He smacks a hand over his knee, loud enough that you jump a little. “Get up here. Bend over. I’m not kidding.”

Oh, fuck. It’s all you can do not to smile in a mix of delight and terrified anticipation as you crawl across the seat and lay over his knee.

Yoongi wastes no time, instantly hiking your dress up to expose your ass, and you outright moan when his hand roughly cups your sex over your panties. They're soaked through with your arousal that’s been building up all night, enough that your inner thighs stick together. The fact that any of his coworkers could walk out into the parking lot and see you like this just sends a fresh wave straight to your cunt.

“I told you to behave,” Yoongi says starkly, and you grit your teeth to bite back a whimper.

His hand cracks down so hard over your exposed ass that you shoot forward a little, some primal instinct to get away from the pain kicking in. The motion makes your cunt grind over his leg, and your thighs tremble at the sudden stimulation after such a long night of waiting for it, the insane mix of pain and pleasure.

“Oh, shit,” you hiss, but Yoongi speaks over you.

“That is for talking dirty in front of my coworkers. Ready for another?” The fact that he asks, that he’s taking care of you even now, isn’t lost on you. God, you love this man.

Your clit throbs in desperation, and you slowly nod your head. The second spank lands even harder than the first, giving you enough momentum that you rock against his thigh a few times, and you’re edged so hard now that you’re nearly delirious.

“That,” Yoongi continues, “is for grabbing my ass in public.”

“F-fuck, Yoongi,” you choke out, realizing belatedly that a tear is streaming down your face. You don’t think you’re going to make it.

“What is it, love?” His voice is instantly gentler, and he brings his hand up to run tenderly over the skin he’s just abused. “Just one more, and then we’re done.”

“I-I,” you gasp, trying to think straight enough to form words, your forehead pressing hard into the leather of the backseat. “I n-need it. Please, please. Don’t hold back.”

“Wasn’t planning on it, because this one’s for suggesting that you’d like to fuck Hoseok.”

His hand comes down so hard across your backside that you swear you see stars. Your whole body was shaking even before he made contact, and the way this third smack forces your cunt to slide over his leg a final time is too much.

You cry out, not giving a fuck if anyone else in the parking lot might be able to hear, as an unexpected yet simultaneously edged-all-night orgasm rips through you, your cunt clenching hard around nothing.

You continue to rut against Yoongi’s thigh as your walls pulse, and you can feel fluid leaking out of you, fully running down your leg and probably soaking into his dress pants.

“Oh my god.” The angry, dominating persona has suddenly evaporated from Yoongi’s voice. “Did you seriously just come?”

“Yes,” you groan into the seat, still recovering.

You feel his hands move to cup your shoulders, and you allow him to sit you up, feeling like a weightless rag-doll. He wipes away one of the tears that are still running down your face.

“Jesus fucking christ, you’re a mess,” Yoongi laughs, but you know he says it with love because he chases it with a gentle kiss. “Let’s get you home, hmm?”

You can only nod dumbly in agreement.

“I have a bruised ego to tend to,” he continues dryly. “Guess I’ll just have to remind you that Jung fucking Hoseok won’t go down on you for an hour.”

[turtletotem]

Want ten chapters of my novel?

I have now updated my Patreon novel with its tenth chapter, along with a PDF that includes all the chapters posted so far. Which means that if you sign up as my patron, which is $2, you can get all ten chapters at once, to keep!

I still haven't come up with a title for the darn thing, but this is the story where the prince and princess get married to force an end to the war between their kingdoms, after she semi-accidentally takes him prisoner in battle. :D The first chapter is free for anyone to read on Patreon, and here's a sneak peek!

.

"Come down from there, my lord Prince." The bodyguard's voice drifted up the considerable distance from the ground to the top of the supply wagon, almost lost in the sound of Alti's own breath and drumming heart. "Please, my lord Prince."

Alti executed one last turn-and-flip so as to land at the very edge of the wagon, and grinned down at his guard. "Shield, I am in no more danger here than on stage."

"It's a moving wagon. Indulge me, my lord Prince."

Alti wiped sweat from his forehead and began drawing one foot up as far behind him as it would reach. "You know I would, old friend, but it's far too warm a day to practice inside a wagon, and if I do it on the ground, the wagons will leave me behind!"

"Perhaps practice can wait, then." Shield's stout figure jostled inside his armor as he trotted alongside the wagon, sweat giving an extra sheen to his silvery skin.

"I suppose I could practice this part of the act instead," Alti said, pulling three throwing knives free of his waistband and doing a butterfly kick as he juggled them.

Shield made a choked noise. "Lad, do you know what your parents would do to me if any harm came to you on this foolhardy jaunt—"

"My parents have plenty more sons where I came from." Still, Alti sighed and flipped the knives back into their sheaths. It was unfair to tease Shield too much; as a magically-created vassal, his core purpose of guarding Alti's safety could never be relaxed or ignored. All the same, Alti did need to practice—they'd be arriving at the front in a day or two, and he wasn't happy with his performance at the last camp, for all that it seemed to go over well enough.

"Maybe the supply train could stop for a rest," Alti wheedled. "Then I could practice on the ground and everyone, I'm sure, would be much happier for a rest!"

Shield hissed between his teeth. "There'll be no stopping along this stretch, my lord Prince. We shouldn't have come this way at all."

"Don't get so worked up about it, Shield," Alti said, and really, it must be awful to be a vassal, always so anxious about everything. "We hadn't any choice about it, for one thing, with the road washed out, so it's no use worrying. But anyway this area's been under Sedilan control for weeks!"

"Aye, and Drohaini control for weeks before that, and then us again before that, and then them again—it's the way the land lays, it's impossible to keep good hold of it. I won't draw an easy breath until we're out of these hills entirely."

Alti sighed, dropping down to swing one foot off the edge of the wagon, and magicked an apple out of nothing to peel with one of his knives. It wouldn't do anything for hunger, but he wasn't really hungry anyway, he just wanted to taste it.

"I still say it's improper, anyway," Shield grumbled, "for a Prince of Sedila to be running about dressed like a temple dancer."

"I could only wish to be as beautiful and talented a dancer as those Called by the goddess of love—unless you are impugning Mahana's chosen?"

Shield rolled his eyes. "They have their honored place, my lord Prince, and you have yours, which ought never to have included performing for the eyes of the masses, much less risking your neck to do so—"

That was when they first heard the screaming.

Alti had put little stock in tales of the inhuman battle cry of the Drohaini, but it was everything he'd been told and more—an eerie, echoing wail, almost beautiful, that froze his breath and lifted every hair on his skin.

The wagon jolted to a stop, knocking Alti half-off the edge, as everyone in the supply train spent a precious second listening in dawning terror.

Then the Drohaini came into view, dark horses and white armor spilling over the crest of the hill, with a wave of arrows flying before them like a cloud.

Hanging half-off the wagon, some panicked instinct drove Alti back up onto the roof—a mad chance that likely saved his life, as arrows studded the ground where he would have landed.

Shield fell with a choked cry, an arrow jutting from the unarmored joint at his throat.

People were screaming, shouting, running, drawing weapons and dragging wounded friends, and for long incomprehensible seconds all Alti could do was stare down at the body of what had been his guard and protector all his life.

The commander of the supply train was shouting orders, trying to direct the noncombatant performers into and under the wagons, while the soldiers gathered to meet the enemy.

I should do something, Alti thought. I'm the prince, I should do something—at the very least I should hide so I don't get killed—but his body refused to move, plastered flat against the roof of the wagon even as another volley of arrows landed around him.

Then the wave of Drohaini slammed into the haphazard wall that was the supply train's defenders, and what was already chaos became nightmare.

Some Drohaini were caught by the line of Sedilan defends, but others cut right through, thundering into the midst of the wagons. One kicked in the door of the wagon nearest Alti, where a few dancers were hiding, and Alti found himself on his feet before he knew it, a throwing knife already flying from his hand. It lodged in the soldier's back, toppling him from his horse with a cry.

More soldiers, hot on their comrade's heels, looked round in alarm, and pointed up at Alti. One flicked a hand, sending a magicked ball of nothing-good speeding his way.

Alti flattened against the roof again, and rolled, dropping off the opposite edge—straight onto another soldier.

"Hey!"

Alti still had a knife in his hand. He twisted in the startled soldier's grasp, leaving a line of scarlet across arms and chest until the man released him with a howl of pain. By then the others had rounded the wagon—he ducked one, kicked another, and blinded them all (perhaps permanently) with a blast of white light that gave him time to scramble back up to the roof of the wagon. From there he leapt to the next roof, and the next, and up the flagpole that waved Sedila's colors from the top of the tallest wagon, where he clung tightly, unsure if the tremor throughout his body was his own terror or the imminent collapse of the thin pole.

Spread out below him was a massacre.

The Sedilan soldiers were reduced to a pocket here and there, surrounded and fighting back to back, while Drohaini pulled dancers, cooks and pageboys out of their hiding places and gathered them at swords' point against the wagons. A muledriver who tried to fight back was slashed viciously across the face and left bleeding on the ground. Alti caught sight of the train commander, just as his pocket of soldiers collapsed, disappearing under flashing swords.

I can stop this. The thought held its own deep and particular terror, yet it stilled the fluttering panic in his gut. I am a prince of Sedila and I can stop this.

"We surrender!" he shouted, as loud as his lungs would shout. He tore at the flimsy turquoise bolero that was almost all he wore at present, aside from beads and ribbons—it made for a lousy flag of surrender, but it would have to do—and waved it above his head. "Put up your arms! We surrender!"

The Drohaini who heard him stopped, reached to stay their comrades' hands, spread the word—and the Sedilans collapsed in relief and despair, screams dying down into ragged weeping.

A rider in blood-spattered white armor, declared as commander by a helm with a gleaming white horsehair tail, approached the flagpole and called up to him.

"And who are you, boy, to declare surrender?"

The pole was creaking and splintering under his hands; rather than fall, Alti dropped, landing hard but in a controlled crouch before the commander's horse. Neither commander nor horse shied from the movement, he noticed, though several surrounding soldiers tensed and readied their steel. The commander put out a hand to keep them back.

Alti drew himself up to his full, unimpressive height. "I am Alti Reizanda of Sedila," he said. "Fourth son of the Royal House."

"Well." The commander pulled off his—no, her—helmet, exposing mussed and frazzled red-gold braids, and a face no older than Alti's own. "Isn't that interesting."

[cupidsintern]

i think the first time billy wouldn't tie his hair up, would just wanna get to the good stuff but like his hair is in his eyes and he keeps having to push it behind his ears and steve can see that it's bugging him so he threads his hands through billys hair and just holds it out of his face and billy loves that until its suddenly harder for him to be in charge so he pulls off of steves dick with a huff and bats steves hands away and ties his hair up grumpily while steve laughs a little then billy gives steves inner thigh a sharp bite for the laughter before getting back to it

MERLINNNNN IM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG SFGDHJHKJL

Okay this needs to be shared with the masses.

Im working on a fic rn where they start hooking up just bc they both know the other is queer, very little emotional attachment at the beginning. but id like to think they're friends.

---

Steve has hooked up with people he was just friends with before, no stranger to keeping a secret- he'd eaten Shelly C out in the bathroom at his junior year Spring Fling dance because her boyfriend wouldn't do it and she'd asked if Steve he'd do it if she gave him head and also please never ever tell anyone- which he hadn't. Except for Robin in their ongoing debate on 'which of our former classmates were gay.'

But this wasn't junior year. This was a year and a half out from high school. Steve liked to think he had moved past the era in his life in which he'd be getting head in a bathroom.

But here he was. At least it was a nice bathroom.

about fifteen minutes into a deep conversation about life after inter-dimensional fuckery, Steve had been smoking a cigarette out of the Family Video break room window when Steve had been complaining about not getting laid in over a year, trying to get billy to commiserate when-

"You don't still think I fucked chicks, do you Harrington?"

That gave Steve pause. He looked up.

"C'mon man, thought we were getting to know each other."

Steve doesn't know how he stumbled through the reduced version of his awkward coming out that had first been executed on Robin in December when he found himself crowded into the surprisingly nice bathroom, far away from the open window as they could get.

Billy was warm, thats something Steve remembered about him from even when they first met. His hands, his arms, Steve's fingertips warming up just at the touch. But his mouth was hot. Hot on Steve's lips, hot on his neck- and oh fuck this was happening, billy was undoing his belt like he was personally familiar with the brand of buckle, getting on his knees like his joints didn't ache every minute of every hour, and Steve could officially say he a) was for sure as queer as he suspected himself of being and b) wasn't sexually frustrated anymore.

But halfway through the shock and awe Steve couldn't help but look down, noticed one of Billy's curls- newly grown back- falling over his eyes and pushed his fingers through Billy's hair to push it away.

He could have sworn he saw Billy's eyes roll back in his head.

Probably that was what pushed Steve over the edge.

-

Sat on the floor of the staff bathroom, barely having caught his breathe, Steve leaned in to kiss Billy. Common blowjob etiquette he figured, but Billy pulled away after a couple seconds.

"What'd you touch my hair for?" Billy asked, pretty defensively for someone who'd just sucked him off, Steve reckoned.

"It- It was in your face."

"I can push my hair back myself, thanks."

"Okay, whatever." Steve leaned in for another kiss, but Billy dodged him.

"Don't worry about it." Billy was already standing up. "Just. Return the favor sometime."

Steve probably stayed sitting on the floor for another twelve minutes, processing what had just happened.

[curlynerd]

What He Wants

Happy gift posting day for @starrynightdeancas gift exchange! My gift recipient is @bipridedean! She requested a Destiel, canon-adjacent fic, so here it is! I hope you like it! <3

Word Count: 2.6K Rating: G Summary: 5 times Dean said "I do" and 1 time he didn’t. Notes: Post canon, fix-it fic, oneshot, love confessions, Destiel wedding

Also read it on AO3!

1.

The first time it happens Sam is the only one to hear it. They’re alone in the bunker, surrounded by months and months of tireless research. But finally, finally, Dean thinks they’ve discovered how to get into the Empty.

Dean wants to push through the night and get a portal up and running as soon as possible. Sam insists they both go to bed, pleading with Dean that he won’t be able to concentrate on the spellwork to maintain it without at least a few hours of sleep.

Dean spends most of the night staring at the ceiling, thoughts racing through his head at a hundred miles an hour. This time tomorrow, he could have Cas back. This time tomorrow he can--Dean is almost afraid to think it, afraid that giving form to what he wants will somehow curse it and stop it from ever coming true. After all, the thing he wanted most before this was for Cas to love him back, and that didn’t exactly end rosy.

Still, as Dean finally closes his eyes, he allows himself a small, private wish. He hopes this will be the last time he falls asleep alone.

The next morning, they’re both expecting some sort of bump in the road, some rare ingredient or some missing incantation that will set them back even longer, keep Dean from seeing Cas again for God knows how long. But fortune is on their side, and Sam executes the spell flawlessly.

Dean is armed to the teeth with every weapon and protection spell they could collect on short notice. His plan for finding Cas and dragging him back home sits clearly at the front of his mind. His heart pounds in his ears, fast but steady and strong.

“You know, if this doesn’t work, you could get stuck there. I might not be able to open a new portal.” Sam looks at the pulsating mass of black that serves as the portal to the Empty. Worry is etched deeply into his forehead. “Do you really want to do this?”

Dean thinks of Cas’ face, the way he had smiled as he said he loved him. He thinks of how he was so close to having the one thing he really wanted. How Cas had wanted the same.

There’s no peace in loneliness.

Dean tightens his grip on his angel blade, his jaw set, his eyes determined. He’s ready to get his angel back. “Yeah. I do.”

2.

The second time it happens, it takes Cas by surprise. It’s been a week since Dean heroically pulled the love of his life from the Empty...and also since Dean lost all remaining courage. He choked. His unspoken response to Cas’ confession is a taut tension wire between them, keeping them inches apart, words suffocating in their tightly sealed mouths, both terrified to say anything and risk breaking something that can’t be mended.

Dean hates himself for it. It’s cowardice is what it is. It’s a lifetime of desperately fighting against the things that make him vulnerable. Against wanting things. Against believing anyone could love him. Even with Cas’ confession still crystal clear in his memories, Dean doubts.

He is deep into those self-deprecating thoughts when he finds Cas in the garage, struggling to figure out how to change a flat tire on his truck from a Youtube video.

“Cas? What’re you doing?”

Cas startles and immediately hunches his shoulders in guilt. He wasn’t expecting to be caught. “Dean.” He looks down at the lug wrench in his hand, and Dean can see the wheels spinning in his head, trying to concoct a cover story before he shrugs and gives up the truth. “I was trying to fix the truck.”

“You need to go somewhere? Cuz I can just drive you.” Dean’s heart pounds, his mouth going dry. Cas wouldn’t need to sneak around for a little errand.

Cas shakes his head and confirms Dean’s fears. “I wanted to have it ready. In case I needed to leave.”

“Leave?” Dean repeats, and his blood goes cold.

Cas deflates a little, resigned and sad. “I assume I’ll need to soon.”

“You can’t leave!” ‘Tell him!’ screams in Dean’s mind, but he can’t. He can’t. What if he’s wrong? What if Cas doesn’t love him like that? What if Cas doesn’t love him at all anymore? What if Dean screwed it up by staying silent and Cas realized he deserves to be with someone who can provide a simple answer to “I love you?” What if--

“I don’t want to,” Cas says softly. The pain is evident in his eyes as they flicker to his truck, like he expects to need to book it out of here at any moment. “But I wasn’t sure if you wanted me here after--” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” he amends.

“Cas, this is your home, same as me and Sam.” Cas doesn’t look so convinced. “C’mon man, you really think we don’t want you around?” Dean leans against the side of Cas’ truck to ground himself. “Cas, I want you here.” ‘I want more than that,’ he thinks, and it would be so easy to say what he really needs to say, but he can’t. He fights viciously with his own self-esteem, ripping at it, begging it to let him say more. “Please don’t leave,” he says, small and helpless, and it’s like moving a mountain to say that much.

Cas’ expression softens into longing. His hand clenches at his side, like he’s fighting the urge to reach out to Dean, but he smiles a soft, incredulous smile. “I can stay? You really mean it?”

Dean swallows thickly. A hundred words crowd his throat, fighting to get out, but his own fears win this round and keep them down. Instead all he can manage is a choked, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

3.

The third time it happens, it takes them both by surprise. They’d gone on a hunt, just the two of them while Sam was visiting Eileen, and everything had gone sideways. What they thought was just a troublemaking demon turned out to be an extremely powerful witch, one with more than enough experience in Enochian magic to put Cas in serious danger. And of course Cas was reckless in his desire to protect Dean, and only managed to avoid getting killed by quick thinking and, to be honest, a helluva lot of luck.

The fight left Cas injured, and Dean pissed. “What the hell were you thinking!” he scolds at the end of a cold, silent drive back to the bunker.

“I did what I needed,” Cas shoots back with a steely glare.

“No, you didn’t need to go rushing in like that!” Dean’s worry leeches out as anger, the fear of losing Cas yet again clouding his reasoning that Dean himself would have died without Cas’ quick action. “You could have gotten a lot more hurt!”

“Why does it even matter to you?” Cas yells back, and it’s the note of hysterical bitterness darkening his words that makes Dean snap and say what he’s been hiding for far too long.

“Because I love you, you stubborn ass!”

The words freeze in the air between them, sharp and strong, wedging themself right where Dean’s anger was just a moment ago.

“You...love me?” Cas asks, his voice small, his eyes big.

And like that, Dean’s fears seem so foolish. Cas loves him. Cas died because just admitting he loves him was the happiest moment of his life. Cas has already done the hardest, scariest part for him. Dean doesn’t even have to fear Cas not feeling the same.

Silently, Dean takes a single step forward. Cas is frozen on the spot, staring at him like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He takes another step, and another, until he’s close enough to reach out and tug Cas into an embrace.

“Of course,” Dean breathes. He holds Cas close, tucking his chin over his shoulder and squeezing tight, like he never wants to let go. He doesn’t ever want to let go. Cas is slower to react, but when his arms finally wind around Dean, he breathes out a soft, sobbing gasp and clings to Dean. Dean turns his head to bury his nose in Cas’ hair. “Of course I do.”

4.

The fourth time it happens, Cas doesn’t even hear it. Cas found out about a nearby crafts fair, and all it took was one particularly soulful look from those big blue eyes of his, and Dean was driving them a full hour and a half away to look at homemade pottery and local honey and overpriced tacky mesh wreaths and pretending that the entire atmosphere of the place wasn’t giving him hives.

Cas is having a blast. Dean is carrying bags and lurking in the shadiest spots he can find away from the summer heat while Cas browses. Cas is having an animated conversation about beekeeping with a honey merchant when Dean ducks into a large tent filled with the kind of flowy, bedazzled, polyester shirts he thinks of as “PTA Chic” because they also happen to have a large fan blowing.

“Lookin’ for something in particular, sugar?” The tent owner saunters over to Dean, her Southern accent thick and her top scandalously low. She’s stunningly pretty, and Dean’s eyes and smile light up out of a lifetime of habit. She responds in kind, dragging her eyes down, then back up Dean’s body. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were lookin’ for more than clothes.”

Dean chuckles and flashes her his best charming, but chagrined smile. He feels a little guilty for leading her on, and he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Oh sweetheart, if I were single, I’d gladly take you up on that offer, but I’ve already got my special someone.” Dean nods to the honey booth next door.

Her eyes trail over to where Dean gestured, and for a split second her brow furrows in confusion before she laughs just a little, more incredulous than cruel. “You really want someone like that over me?”

Dean looks over at Cas. And, yeah, Dean gets the question. He’s a grown-ass man wearing cargo shorts, carrying a canvas bag with the most obnoxious sunglasses-wearing beach ball Dean has ever seen, and his hair looks like it's been electrocuted. Dean grins, feeling a rush of fondness for his dorky, criminally unfashionable angel.

“Yeah,” he says softly, without an ounce of hesitation. There’s no one else in the world for him but Cas. “Yeah, I do.”

5.

The fifth time Dean says it, Cas is the only other person around for miles. He drags Cas out of bed bright and early one Saturday, forcing him into the car before he’s even fully finished his coffee. Cas allows it, only because he can tell Dean is positively vibrating with nervous energy. Dean brushes off all of his prying questions during the long drive until they finally arrive at a small, peaceful meadow in the middle of nowhere.

He’s packed a lunch, because ostensibly this outing is meant to be a picnic, even though Cas is suspicious on that fact alone. Dean never picnics. It doesn’t really matter though, because Dean is too nervous to even consider eating.

“So why are we really here?” Cas asks after a few minutes of nibbling at his chips. Dean’s sandwich lays untouched on the blanket.

Dean steels his nerve and takes a deep breath. “Do you know where this is?” he asks, fighting the jittery bouncing of his heartbeat to keep his voice steady.

Cas nods. “This is where I returned when Jack resurrected me.” He looks around, smiling down at the flowers surrounding the two of them. The windmill behind him creaks softly in the wind.

“And where I spread your ashes.” Dean’s fidgeting fingers find a frayed edge on the blanket, and he starts picking at it.

Cas nods again and remains silent, patiently waiting for Dean to find the rest of his words.

“And it’s…” Dean pulls a thread out of the blanket and lets it fly away in the wind. “This is where I realized I love you. I’m an idiot who didn’t even realize how much I loved you until after you were gone.”

Cas leans forward and rests his hand on Dean’s knee, warm and reassuring. Dean continues, “At the time I’d thought, ‘I can’t do this. I don’t want to live without him.’ Which was stupid because you were already dead. It didn’t matter what I wanted.”

Cas squeezes his knee. His eyes are gentle. “We’re both okay now.”

Dean’s heart warms. “Yeah. We are. But you know I...That feeling’s never gone away. You and me? I want us to be forever.” Dean reaches into his pocket. There’s no small velvet box, no shimmering diamonds, just a thick band of practical silver he found at a pawn shop. He looks down at the ring with a tender smile. “Man, never in a million years did I think I’d ever be doing this,” he marvels, and when he looks up, Cas’ eyes are wide with surprise.

“Dean?” His normally steady voice wavers.

Dean reaches for Cas’ face, his thumb gently stroking across his cheek. He holds up the ring. “What do you say, Cas? Wanna go legit about this?”

Cas’ expression is impossibly soft, eyes overflowing with love and devotion. He swallows thickly around a lump in his throat and takes the ring from Dean. He slides it onto his finger and stares at it like it’s his own personal miracle.

“You’re serious, Dean? You really want to get married?”

Dean smiles as he leans in close. Just before he kisses his new fiance, he whispers, “Of course I do.”

6.

The sun is setting, casting long shadows down the sand. The shifting winds coming from the sea carry a chill, making the little crowd gathered around them draw their jackets close and huddle together, but the smiles on their faces are nothing but warm. There’s no altar. No stage. No decorations. Just Cas and Dean, standing in front of the ocean, wearing their favorite flannels and jeans, two bright yellow black-eyed susans pinned to their shirts--stolen right out of someone’s garden on their way to the beach.

They didn’t even bother trying to put out chairs for the ceremony, not knowing how many of their friends and family would be able to make the long drive to see Dean get hitched to his angel, but in the end it’s a good thing, because damn near everyone came, and they need to crowd in close to hear them over the wind.

It’s completely and utterly perfect.

Dean grins, unable to take his eyes off Cas while Donna, the only member of his overly-emotional family he trusts not to bawl her eyes out through the ceremony, finishes the last of their vows.

“Do you, Castiel, take Dean Winchester to be your, well, not so lawfully wedded husband?”

There’s a twitter of laughter from the crowd. Cas smiles a sweet, crooked smile and squeezes Dean’s hand. “I do.” His voice is soft, meant for Dean’s ears only, because Dean is the only one his promise matters to.

“And do you, Dean Winchester, FBI’s Most Wanted, thrice dead criminal, and the terribly generous gentleman who will surely be covering our drinks on this celebratory evening, take Castiel to be your husband?”

Dean looks at Cas. Even in the dim light of the setting sun, his eyes are impossibly blue. His smile is so warm Dean knows he’ll never feel cold again, so long as he can see it every day. Dean beams back and proclaims loud enough for everyone on the beach to hear, “Oh hell yes!”

[halo-jpeg]

Pyramid Head meeting an innocent, guiltless lady s/o?

I love him so much, it feels so nice to write for him again. I missed all of these slashers. Pyramid Head is so great.

Pyramid Head x Reader Oneshot

Innocent

He could always sense these things. Ever since the day he began to exist. That day is lost in time for him now, but he is certain that this has been true. Wandering the streets of Silent Hill, the eternal weight of judgement on his shoulders, he had grown use to it- he had grown used to the writhing, hissing masses of the impure, the venom in their words, the stink of their sins following them around like a plague. When he spotted- no, sensed, the corruption, the wickedness, he knew what his job was, and he did it seamlessly every time. A single slash was all it took to rid these beings of their wrongdoings, freeing them to a higher realm of existence. After an execution, he always felt a warm glow of pride. 

Now, it was different. For some amount of time, though he isn’t exactly sure just how large that amount was, Silent Hill was empty other than him and the rest of the innocent. He had roamed alongside the angels of the pure trapped in the bodies of beasts, the world fading into a blur as time dripped by. He knew these senses, he knew this feeling of cleanliness, until he didn’t. He could tell every sense apart, he knew what everything was, who everyone was, simply by the feeling they gave off, the lack of guilt within their hearts, until he didn’t. This one was new. The feeling was distant, an almost overwhelming warmth, something nearly bringing light to the darkness of the tomb on his face. It was innocence in it’s purest form. For the first time in his existence, he felt a different need- the need to protect. To protect that guiltlessness before it was tainted, as most new things were. 

The glow, the sense of warmth would move, it would grow further and then closer as he travelled in it’s direction. He was cunning, and already he knew that this sense was that of an outsider. This realization just made it all the more enthralling. Outsiders were wretched, they were evil. Outsiders were the ones that he had to free, but this time, maybe this outsider would free him. He crossed the entirety of Silent Hill. Nothing dared cross his path, nothing wished for an untimely death. It seemed that they sensed, just as he did, that there was someone new, someone perfect. Anyone here who dared to harm that knew they would be slaughtered. At last, the sense of warmth had gone still. Outsiders needed rest. Outsiders were forced to indulge in a thing called ‘sleep’, a thing that sounded almost wonderful in a way. With the outsider now still, it was easier to track them down, and before he knew it, he was there. 

The building sheltering you, the outsider, was worn, old, letting in the harsh, snowy winds that never quite seemed to let up. You, the outsider, were curled into a frightened ball, riddled with goosebumps and the scent of terror. He wanted to reach out and pull you close, promise you that nothing would harm you so long as he was here. You were the upper power reborn, a God if he had ever sensed one. For the first time in his existence, he willingly set his great knife down, and felt the world around him grow lighter. The feeling of calm rooting itself into his bones was something he had never experienced before. He sunk to his knees, peace flowing through his veins, and for the first time ever he felt safe. 

You startled at the sound of scraping metal. For a moment, your exhaustion held your eyes firmly closed, but then the shuffling continued and you felt the looming presence of something nearby. Your skin felt scorched, as if you were being watched, looked at, and your terror made your eyes split open wide. You had thought this place was terrifying enough, but now, blocking off your only escape route, was a tower of a creature with a head of iron. He- It was gargantuan, man-shaped in figure but too tall, too broad to be anything mortal. You want to scream, but, like a deer in headlights, you are frozen. It stares at you from hidden eyes, if the thing even has eyes, and you stare right back at it. A full 10 seconds passes of absolute stillness, absolute silence, and the thing is the first to move. 

It outstretches a hand, slow, careful, as if coaxing to a wild animal when it is the wild animal. You flinch away, shrinking into yourself, a hand raising to clamp down over your mouth as tears fill your eyes, threatening to spill over. You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for death or pain or anything negative. You hear shifting, light, slow, the beast coming closer- and then, fingertips, calloused with years of abuse and hard work and hunting brush your cheek. They’re so gentle, so careful, wiping away the tear that had spilled and the shifting to rest on your face. The hand simply sits there, comforting, as if this beast is cherishing you for some reason. You force one eye open and your heart shudders, pain rippling through you with the strength of your fear. The beast is closer, that sheer, rusted metal moving closer still. Still gentle, the helmet bumps into your cheek as if it were a cat nuzzling you affectionately, or a lover pressing their forehead against yours. For the oddest, oddest reason it is almost comforting. Your terror begins to ease, as if influenced by the presence of this monster. 

“I won’t hurt you.” You don’t hear the words as much as you sense, them, ghosts of syllables in the back of your mind, faint but so clear all at once. Immediately, you know they belong to it, and they sound so normal, so human. “You’re pure. You’re innocent. I won’t hurt you.” The words sound tortured, telling silent tales of time slipping by like shards of glass, chipping away at it’s, at his mind, his sanity for ages and ages long gone. A solemnity settles over your heart, a strange feeling to be experiencing when you have no idea where you are. This creature was once a man, you are certain of that all at once, and you feel the pity you always seem to feel for anything injured, no matter how frightening or evil it may seem. Your own hand lifts, gently resting on his own, and you let the tears flow freely. 

For the strangest reason, you begin to feel okay, safer now, in this odd place laden with snow and beasts and distant screams. This man in front of you, this poor tortured soul, he had chosen you for a reason you weren’t certain and he wasn’t going to let you be harmed. The odd gentleness was uncharacteristic, and you knew that this hand on your face had taken lives but right now you were sure that he was going to protect yours. You needed to escape this place and you couldn’t possibly do it alone. Maybe he would help you. Left with no other choice, you force your heart to slow, and allow a sense of security to wash over you in a soothing wave. You would be protected. You would be saved. 

[toointofiction]

How The Queen of Elfhame Learned to Deal with Insufferable Idiots

Hey, cuties!! I have been thinking of writing this little one-shot for a while now and I finally did. Check it out on the link below or keep reading and let me know what you think.

Pairing: Jurdan; Cardan x Jude

Genre: Romance

Rating: Explicit/Mature

Summary: Jude is pissed off and with no other way to let off steam, Cardan comes up with a creative and very effective idea.

Jude is pissed. She’s about two seconds away from running someone through with her sword. Or maybe severing their head from their shoulders. Or arranging a public mass execution. Anything sounds good at the moment. How is it that the entirety of her Living Council consists of idiots recklessly testing her patience? She can practically feel her sword-hand itching and twitching in anticipation. Is it too much to ask for a little competence? Sometimes it’s as if their sole purpose is to enrage her to the point where the only coherent thoughts she has, are homicidal ones.

Fuming, Jude stalks back to her bedchambers, Cardan effortlessly matching her pace. He has an amused look on his handsome face, stealing glances at her every now and then. As if none of what just happened had any sort of effect on him. He should not be having this much fun at her expense. Especially, right now. He is putting his life in danger. Her King seems to think that just because she loves him, he is somehow safe from her wrath. Which may or may not be true, Jude thinks.

She cannot count the times Cardan angered her. More often than those idiots. She seems to recall the time he thought to confront a vicious troll all on his own, with no proper training, protection, or backup. In the middle of the night. She also remembers finding him on the ground, bleeding, and dizzy from iron poisoning. She had been absolutely furious then. She told herself that as soon as he healed, he would get an earful. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to yell at him. She scolded him, of course. What he did was completely idiotic, but her anger faded quickly. All she felt was relief that he was okay. That the injuries he sustained weren’t serious or life-threatening. Still, it needed about a whole week for the iron to leave his system. The same cannot be said for her Living Council, however. She still wants to kill them, and she doubts her anger will fade any time soon.

Normally, when Jude is this angry, she takes it out on training with the Court of Shadows. To her misfortune, however, she sent them all on a mission two days ago. Just my luck. Jude signs audibly and raises her hand to her temple which feels just about ready to crack open from unrelenting pressure. She must start making some serious personnel changes, otherwise, they’ll soon have to rename it the Dead Council. She also needs to find a way to let go of her anger somehow, before she does something drastic and irreversible. Her King isn’t too keen on the way she likes to solve problems. Even if that way is more than called for sometimes. It’s at that moment that she feels Cardan’s slender arm wrap around her waist, and his lips graze the top of her head.

“Come on, I can help you relax.”

“Nothing can help me relax, now.”

“Don’t start making assumptions just yet,” he responds. His eyes shine in amusement, a small, mischievous smile grazes his lips.

With one arm still around her waist, he uses the other to open the door to their bedchamber and guide her through. As she walks ahead of him and slumps on the bed, she hears him whisper to the guards outside not to allow anyone to disturb them. What is he up to? Jude didn’t have to wonder for long. Cardan appears in front of her, that mischievous smile still on his lips, places his hands on her shoulders, and pushes her back on the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you, I’ll help you relax.”

With that, he leans down and gives her a deep, long kiss. Just way he knows she likes it. She feels his hands on her knees, dragging the material of her dress up. Higher and higher until he has to stop and pull the whole thing off her. As soon as the dress is off, he is back to kissing her lips, her neck, right between her breasts. She can feel his hand moving from her ribs to her breast, squeezing lightly, playing with her nipple. The other, he guides right between her legs, squeezing her once before he gently, torturously stroking her, making her legs twitch. Jude lets out an involuntary moan. She can feel him grinning against her skin. Smug bastard. Before she can even muster a word, he pushed a finger inside of her, making her thoughts scatter away from her, another moan, a very loud one, escapes her lips.

“Okay, fine,” she breaths out. “This is relaxing.”

“I told you.”

His mouth moves to one breast as he pushes another finger inside her. She arches her back, squeezing his hand between her thighs. She tangles her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, feeling his groan deep into her core. She’s not going to last long. He seems to realise this. His hand moves frantically between her thighs, his thumb pressing on her clit. He abandons her breast and gives her another deep kiss as she falls over the edge. Her climax hits her hard. Cardan keeps on kissing her, swallowing her scream. He enjoys making her lose all control. She knows this and it should probably annoy her a little bit. But how could it, when losing control feels so damn good.

She tries to catch her breath after the last of her orgasm fades away. Cardan doesn’t let her, though. He never does. He guides his lips between her breasts again, over her belly, until she feels him between her thighs, still sensitive from the last orgasm. He gives her a gentle kiss that sends shocks through her body, before he starts to feast on her, aggressive and wild. Jude feels another climax coming. Her muscles tense, her eyes locked on her husband, her King as he drives her over the edge again. She wraps her legs around Cardan’s head like an unbreakable collar, pushes both hands into his hair, gripping him in place. If he stops right now, she’s going to be angry again. A few short moments pass, and she falls over the edge again. She moans loudly, knows that the guards outside can definitely hear her, but she doesn’t care. Not when Cardan’s mouth is still on her, helping her ride out her orgasm.

A few moments pass by, as Jude tries to catch her breath. Cardan lets her this time. He rises up the length of her body, that smug expression still on his face. He kisses her once more and she tastes herself in his mouth. He lays next to her, wraps an arm around her limp body, and pulls her to him.

“I guess I don’t have to train my anger away, anymore.”

“Glad to hear it,” Cardan says, dropping a kiss at the top of her head.

A thought pops up inside Jude’s head, and she can feel her mouth stretching into a wicked smile. She turns to face Cardan, “I should probably reciprocate now, right?”

Cardan grins like a Cheshire cat and with a slap on her ass he responds, “I guess you should.”

[whentheynameyoujoy]

Yup, Sure Was a Finale

I had an epiphany. The reason why I never re-watched the final two parts of Sozin’s Comet even though I’ve popped in episodes at random many times over the years isn’t that I can’t bear the sadness of seeing one of the best, most engaging narratives out there come to an end.

It’s simply that the finale isn’t all that good.

Some honorable mentions of what was enjoyable.

(+) This

Just this.

(+) The Church of Zutara has another convert

“Are you sure they don’t get together?” Hubster, 2020

(+) The tragedy of Azula

And the fact that it’s acknowledged as such. I hope Zuko will do his best to get her help and have a relationship with her…

(+) Sokka being a big bro

And the whole airship sequence in general. It’s wonderfully paced and plotted, with moments of humor, real stakes, Toph being both badass and a scared crying kid, Sokka strategizing and protecting, Suki saving the day, and non-benders being instrumental in thwarting the bad guy firebender’s plans. Would be shame if Bryke never portrayed them this capable ever again…

And now for the main course.

(-) Blink and its over

The wrap-up feels too quick (hashtag Needs More ROtK-style False Endings). A part of this is due to how fast the story goes from the thick of the action to hastily tying up a bunch of loose ends, but the larger issue is how Book 3’s uneven pacing comes home to roost. After spending half a season on filler episodes that at best subtly flesh out established characters while dancing around a huge lionturtle-shaped hole, and at worst contradict the theme of “no one is born bad” with “you’re a hot mess because your great-grandfathers didn’t get along too well”, the frantic “go go go” rush of the second half screeches to a halt with “they won and everyone was happy because now the right people have power and it will be all good from now on yup nothing more to deal with baiiiii”.

Yes, I know, it’s a kids’ show. But goddamn, this particular kids’ show has proven so many times it can do better than the expected tropiness. Showing the characters in their roles as builders of a new world was the least that could have been done.

Oh well!

(-) Ursa

We’ll never know. There will never be a story that delves into this. Yup. Shall forever remain but an intriguing mystery. Is good, though. Mystery is better than a story where Ursa shares her son’s penchant for forgetfulness. Imagine how embarrassing that would be. Speaking of which…

(-) What does Mai see in this jerkbender?

Look, I like to harp a lot on the mess of inconsistent writing that’s Mai but let’s unpack this scene from her perspective, shall we?

Zuko forgot about her! It totally slipped his mind that the one person who prioritized the safety of his dumb ass was rotting in the worst prison in the Fire Nation—because of him! And she was rotting there long enough after the final Agni Kai for the news of Zuko’s upcoming coronation to spread and her uncle to feel sufficiently secure to release her. But then the coronation scene is attended by every single member of Gaang & Friends that was imprisoned?

So what this tells me is that either a) the invasion force had the ability to break themselves out the whole time and for some reason decided not to exercise it until after the war was over, b) Zuko forgot about them as well and no one thought to remind him there were prisons full of POWs until Mai arrived, or, and that’s even better, c) Zuko took care to free every single resistance fighter while making sure Mai would be the one to stay behind bars.

Never thought I’d say this but Mai? Honey? You deserve so much better.

(-) “What does Katara want?”

Asked no one in the writers’ room ever, apparently.

This is not so much anti Cataang as anti romance stories that pay attention to the needs, opinions, and wants of only one partner in general. Over the previous 60 episodes, Katara actively expressed romantic interest in Aang exactly, wait for it,

Once.

And it got retconned out of relevance by the following two interactions where the possibility of a romantic relationship came up, making the Headband dance pretty easy to reclassify as just one of those examples where Aang “teaches” Katara to have fun (as if one of the main obstacles to her having fun wasn’t him constantly fooling around and offloading his duties). And because the writers not only didn’t succeed in portraying Katara’s internal state of mind, but also failed to root her reluctance to pursue a relationship in outside circumstances that could change, her sudden state of unconfused once Aang steps into the spotlight has a single canonical explanation that as much as approaches coherency.

The fact is, though, that trying to interpret canon Cataang from a Watsonian perspective is an exercise in foolishness. Because there is no Watsonian justification for the ship and never has been. Bryke simply conceived of Katara as nothing but a tropey prize for Aang, never saw her as anything beyond that, and were perfectly happy to go on and immortalize her as a passive broodmare for the rest of her life.

And I fully intend to die mad about it.

(-) Iroh dips

OK, it’s been long apparent that the show doesn’t intend to do anything about Iroh’s complicity in AzulOzai’s regime in any meaningful way, and that his sole motivation for doing anything whatsoever is Zuko whom he views as a replacement son which is supposed to be good for some reason. But the finale has him abandon even that, and instead turns him full-on YOLO, idgaf anymore. It really throws Iroh’s supposed love for Zuko into doubt when his last act in the entire show is to take a half-educated 16-year old with no political savvy or an heir to secure a dynastic continuity and plomp him on the throne of a war-mongering imperialist regime where the entirety of the militarist and ruling class is guaranteed to fight him tooth and nail for power.

(I sure hope Mai’s ready to start popping out babies by tea-time otherwise the whole country is fukd in about a week)

Christ, how hard would it be to have Iroh keep the throne warm for a few years while Zuko is getting ready to succeed him? Not only would it make the whole FN reformation bit quite likelier to occur, it would require Iroh’s hedonistic ass to actually sacrifice something for once. And not having Zuko ascend to power, instead spending some time bettering and educating himself first, would be a wonderful message that no matter what you endured and overcame, you never stop growing. A kids’ show, remember?

(-) The conquering of Ba Sing Se

Gee, I feel so blessed to have my attention diverted from battlefields which actually matter to an old dude vanity project I would have been perfectly happy to assume resolved itself off-screen.

The White Lotus in general just bugs me. I was fine with the individual characters and their overall passivity when they were portrayed as lone dissenters living under circumstances where it wasn’t really possible for any single person to mount a meaningful resistance. But as members of a far-reaching shadowy organization that’s left the real fight to a bunch of kids for 59 episodes straight and didn’t turn up until a perfect opportunity presented itself to take control of the largest city in the world and bask in the spotlight?

Yeah, no.

Similarly to the lionturtle-ex-machina, the White Lotus represents a huge missed opportunity for a season-long storytelling. Here’s just a brief list of what they could have been doing throughout Book 3:

orchestrating a Fire Nation uprising;

gathering those directly persecuted by AzulOzai’s regime to help Zuko keep his hold on power once he’s crowned;

establishing themselves as a viable alternative to Ozai;

sabotaging Fire Nation’s war efforts from the inside;

countering Fire Nation propaganda (Asha Greyjoy’s pinecones, anyone?);

running a supply network to alleviate the suffering of Earth Kingdom citizens.

Instead, they sit on their asses until the time comes to claim personal glory.

You know what, good on Bryke for making me conclude that in comparison, the Freedom Fighters were perfectly unproblematic, actually.

(-) Fire Lord Dead-by-Dawn

Yes, a kids’ show, I know! But ffs, this is the same kids’ show that came up with Long Feng and portrayed courtly intrigue, kingly puppets, secret police, spy networks, and information wars. Was it really too much of me to expect something other than “enlightened despot solves everything”? Especially if said enlightened despot has persisting anger issues, no personal support system, no base of followers, and no political experience whatsoever?

If Zuko’s actually serious about regaining the Fire Nation’s honor (i.e. by dismantling the country’s military machine, decolonizing the Earth Kingdom, paying reparations to everyone and their lemur, and funding any and all cultural restoration projects Aang and the SWT come up with), then there is no way, no way in the universe that he doesn’t face a civil war, deposing, and execution within a month.

One reason why his future as a Fire Lord seems rather bleak is that little’s been shown about the actual subjects of AzulOzai’s regime. While we get a vague reassurance that “no Toph, they’re not born bad” (le shockings), they largely remain a voiceless uniform mass of brainwashed clapping seals. What is their view on the Fire Nation’s crimes? Do they associate their condition with their country’s war-mongering? How will they react when Zuko starts dismantling the country piece by piece to rebuild it, bringing it to economic ruin? What will they do when noble Ozai loyalists come out of the woodwork and begin rounding them up under the banner of “Make the Fire Nation Great Again?”

I have no idea, and Zuko doesn’t either because he’s unironically more qualified to rule the Earth Kingdom than his own people.

You know what would have been better? Fire Lord Iroh, White Lotus pulling the strings to maintain the regime, and Crown Prince/People’s Champion Zuko travelling the Fire Nation with Aang and an army of tutors to promote the new boss, only to realize that absolute monarchy is kinda crap for the people he’s one day supposed to rule and gaining their support by ceding some power to them.

I’d laser holes into my TV due to how much I’d enjoy watching that.

(-) All hail Avatar Rock

Literally and metaphorically. Aang doesn’t sacrifice anything, gets everything, and the clever solution of going about getting said everything is handed to him on a silver platter, requiring no active participation on his part whatsoever.

He doesn’t work to unblock his chakras, spiritually or physically.

He only speaks to his past lives to get a pat on the back and a bow-tied solution he could mindlessly follow.

Energy-bending doesn’t require any sacrifice from him, leaves no lasting marks, and only serves for the narrative to praise him as the rare individual that’s unbendable and thus so very very special.

The most infuriating thing is, however, that Aang is clearly shown as being able to beat Ozai without either the Avatar state, or energy-bending.

And he chooses not to. From this moment on, Aang no longer fights to save the world. He fights to preserve his beliefs, going directly against the instructions of his past lives and effectively reneging on his duties as the Avatar.

Again.

It’s not like you can’t portray Aang’s faithfulness to his spiritual beliefs as the key to beating Ozai and saving the world. But that’s not what the show did. There is no link between Aang sparing Ozai and securing a better future, quite to the contrary—Ozai’s survival ends up being a massive problem for the continuation of Zuko’s rule, and consequently a threat to the world at large. His survival benefits Aang and no one else.

Aang’s spiritual purity and his status as a savior of the world are allowed to coexist only due to a deliberate stroke of a writer’s pen.

And I hate it.

Welp, nothing to do about it now except to bury myself up to my tits in fix-it fics I guess.