#the masses likes to live blindly

[allofuswantgwinam]

idk how we’ll ever have peace in this world when everyone just wants to retaliate with violence for everything. ‘It happened to me so I want revenge and idc if any innocent people get hurt/murdered in the process” I want fucking out lol of this world I am so serious

[esyra]

Killing 1300+ Jews in barbaric ways does not make you the good guys. Israel retaliating is Hamas’ fault. Hamas surrendering would mean peace. Israel surrendering would have more dead Jews. But i guess that’s the end goal.

No, we're always the barbaric terrorists. Israel is the good guy for killing 9,000+ Gazans the past 25 days, and trapping 1,000+ under the rubble which will definitely turn out dead if they ever get the proper equipment to lift it off them. Israel is the good guy for killing Shireen Abu Akleh. Israel is the good guy for killing Ahmed Erekat. Israel is the good guy for killing Nadim Nuwarah and Mohammed Salameh. Israel is the good guy for opening fire on 2,400 protesters and killing 52. Israel is the good guy for holding over 1,000 Palestinians as "administrative detainees," meaning they are held indefinitely without charges.

In fact, Israel has been the good guy ever since they got the British to help them colonize Palestine and get rid of the Arabs, as they admitted to wanting it themselves. After all, as Winston Churchill said himself, the colonization of Palestine was righteous because as the Red Indians of America, and the black people of Australia, "a stronger race, a higher grade race, or, at any rate, a more worldly-wise race, to put it that way, has come in and taken their place."

Palestinians, be it on Gaza or the West Bank, can never retaliate or defend themselves. We're to either die and be violated quietly or we are terrorists which will be gleefully eradicated with the help of every colony-based State in the world. Otherwise, we'll disturb the comfortable privilege your racism and religious intolerance ensures.

When Hamas didn't existed the occupation began and the British violently suppressed anyone who opposed. When Hamas didn't exist the Nakba happened. When Hamas didn't exist the Deir Yassin massacre happened. But, you know, that one's fine because it happened after Israel had made Palestine agree to a peace pact, and they would never act unfairly so the brutal murder of over 100 Palestinians is obviously being misunderstood. Hamas doesn't operate in the West Bank, but they're still expelled from their homes, brutalized and murdered. Since October 7, West Bank had 115 killed, more than 2,000 injured and nearly 1,000 others forcibly displaced from their homes because of violence and intimidation by Israeli forces and settlers. They'll bomb mosques with exit points created to save people from settlers' violence, then claim they were used for terrorism. Proof? They don't need it. They'll bomb first then ask questions later.

Do people who blindly defend Israel do anything other than victimize yourselves? Do you even read any actual Israeli news that said the IDF "shell[ed] houses on their occupants," because they're too incompetent to do anything other than bombing everything? Do you ever wonder why the people Israel swears were burned and beheaded always came from reports from houses absolutely destroyed by what could only be shelling? Do you ever hear testimonies from survivors of the massacre saying IDF shoot at their own civilians? Do you ever read about past al-Qassam attacks and noticed they've never had mass casualties because IDF never responded like this? Do you even know what al-Qassam is or do you live to regurgitate whatever you're fed and being spoon-fed your information?

If Hamas' militia surrenders, Gaza will be wiped out and Gazans — those who are not murdered — will be exiled into Egypt's Sinai. That's the end goal since 1948, and that's what you're defending. But who cares? Arab blood is cheaper and racism is always fashionable.

[mead-iocre]

Furnace Girlfriend | Leah Williamson x Reader

synopsis: it's too bloody hot for a cuddle

warnings: slightly suggestive at the end

wc: 1.2 k words

You wake up– again. 

Clammy and far from pleased, you shuffle so you are laying somewhat on your back. Heat and perspiration pollute the air making it almost hard to breath comfortably. Despite being dressed in a thin tank top and shorts, your skin still prickled with sweat. You feel an uncomfortable dampness beneath your knees, probably a result of your body sweating through the night and seeping into the cotton that now clings to your skin. You’ve been slipping in and out of sleep, unable to fall into slumber, and it doesn’t help that your girlfriend loves to cuddle. Leah is pressed against your back, every inch of exposed skin sticky against yours. At first you thought buying a king sized bed would be enough to give you both ample space, especially in sweltering summer nights like this, but you should have known better than to underestimate your Leah. 

You love her but when the temperature is at boiling point, and her generous body heat was making things worst, you are left to suffer on your own at– a quick peek at your phone screen that nearly blinds you– 2 am in the morning. Your hair is tacky against the back of your neck, only adding to your growing fickle mood. You could try to wiggle away, to create some room between the two of you, but you were on the edge of the bed and the next wiggle will send you face-first on the hard wooden floors. 

Craning your head slightly, you try to make out your girlfriend’s form in the dark and sure enough she was fast asleep, uncaring for the heat wave emitting from within these four walls. When you squint even harder, you see that not only was she perfectly content to slumber in her own sweat, her lower half was covered under the 100% solid Egyptian cotton blanket that was sourced from Italy. You were sure you had kicked the blanket off of the bed before you both went to bed— so what it was doing back on the bed, blanketing your girlfriend in this heat, is a question you did not care to find an answer to right now.

You had had enough. 

Swinging your legs off to the side, wincing at the stickiness of your skin as it leaves the cotton, you grab a pillow and slip on your shearling slippers. You blindly make your way around the room, careful not to bump into anything that might wake your girlfriend from her cosy sleep, the lucky fucker. If you were in a better mood you might’ve left your girlfriend with a peck or two, but you were hot and irritated right now, so no kisses for her. When you feel for the doorknob, you twist it open, making sure to shut it gently behind you. You make the journey downstairs to the living room, still groggy and still annoyed. Turning on the lamp by the side table, you start to arrange your bed for the rest of the night. 

You practically collapse onto the sofa, audibly sighing at the coolness in the living room compared to the sweltering heat in the bedroom. The air is slightly cooler here, a faint breeze from a slightly open window. You sprawl out as much as you can, welcoming the space and lack of a furnace in the form of your girlfriend. Though still warm, the cooler air and the softness of the sofa are enough to lull you into falling back asleep. Your body finally begins to cool down as you drift off, hoping for an undisturbed sleep and a more bearable morning. 

But all good things do come to an end at some point. 

You shift, adjusting uncomfortably at the weight on your front.

Why did it feel like you were being weighed down by something?

Opening your eyes, you blink away the sleep and look around. Streams of light peeked through the sliver of space in between the curtains. The air feels fresh, and there's a gentle quietness that hints at the world just waking up. When you look down, all you see is a mass of blonde hair. 

Leah. 

Your girlfriend, that you had left sleeping in bed upstairs, is now sprawled on top of you on the living room sofa. Her head was tucked into the crook of your neck, and you could feel warm puffs of breath against your skin. It was hard to tell if she was sleeping, or how long she had been laying on top of you like this. You reach up, sneaking a hand under her tank top and run it across the small of her back. Tidy nails lightly scratching her bare skin, you nudge her awake. “Lee…”

“You lef’me in bed” 

So she is awake.

“Leah” You grumble louder, the heat once again creeping up to you again now that you’ve got your personal furnace back on top of you. “Love, it was boiling up there–”

“Don’t give a fuck. You don’t leave me alone in bed” 

You sigh, squeezing your eyes shut again. There was absolutely no way you were going to sleep alone, especially now that Leah knew where you were sneaking off to cool off without her. Her iron grip around your waist and her legs tangled around yours was proof of that. 

“But it’s so hot, and you’re a human furnace”

“yeah well I ain’t having it when its cold and you need this human furnace to warm you up”

Suddenly, the blonde sits up so she was straddling your waist. Your eyes open, and you squint up at her, confused as to what she was up to.

“Sit up” 

“What? Lee, I’m tired and barely got any sleep–“ 

“Come on. Up you get” She tugs at the material of your tank top. “It’ll be quick and it’ll help with your overheating problem”

You sit up abruptly, gasping exaggeratedly at her teasing. “I do NOT have an overheating problem– you're the human heating system”

“C'mon. Arms up” Leah grabs the bottom of your tank top in her hands. You could already guess what she was planning to do, and made no move to stop her. 

She pulls your tank top over your head, leaving you in your black cotton bra. “Cheeky. You just want a look at my tits”

“I’m doing this to help, baby” She laughs, but doesn’t deny your accusations. 

“Shorts too?” She cares to ask but in fact she’s already shuffling off and standing to the side so she can shimmy your shorts down your legs for you. Once you are left in only your bra and panties, Leah grins at you— and there too goes her own t-shirt. 

Now left only in her plaid boxers and sports bra, your girlfriend gestures for you to shuffle over across the sofa. You raise an eyebrow at her, but do as she says. “Why do I have to move? I was here first”

“Because…” Leah starts, producing her own pillow seemingly out of thin air. She must’ve brought one down from the bedroom and you only just noticed now. She throws her pillow down beside yours, fluffs it up, and then settles beside you. “I don’t want you falling off the sofa, baby”

She snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you to her as close as possible. You lay on your sides, face to face, and this time you gladly welcome her touch. Her hand stroked up and down your back, lightly massaging away the tension in your muscles from the hours you were deprived of Egyptian cotton sheets. Her touch far too intimate, too suggestive, for early morning shenanigans. You giggle when her massaging seizes, her hand stopping just above your panties, and her pinky finger slips just underneath the lace. “Cheeky” You whisper, all conspiringly.

“shhh” She hushes you, pecking your nose, but makes no move to remove her hand. In fact, her entire hand has now slipped under the lace, greedy and groping for skin.

It’s not as hot anymore thanks to the lack of layers, and you wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you were having trouble sleeping without your girlfriend beside you. If she had waited another hour in bed, you probably would’ve slipped back into bed with her. 

“gimme a kiss” Is said with a pat to your ass. You chuckle breathily when you can just about make out her lips pursed into a pout, the dim lights catching the wetness of her bottom lip. You do as she says and kiss her, savouring the feel of her soft lips against yours. Placing a few more sweet pecks against her pouty lips when she chases yours for more, you will yourself to end the kiss before you both end up losing more sleep doing other things.

“now sleep, love”

Inspired by the heatwave around the UK lately.

it's so bloody hot I've been living off of cornetto ice cream, an electric fan, and lemonades all week.

-- kisses, butter

*This work is my original creation. Please don’t copy, share, or translate it without asking for my permission first. Thanks for respecting that!

[eyelambspider]

𝟎𝟏. 𝐒𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧 & 𝐀𝐩𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐜 || 𝐊𝐲𝐥𝐞 "𝐆𝐚𝐳" 𝐆𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤

Day One of Kink/Creeptober! Here are the prompts & my event terms!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : tigershark!mer!Gaz x gn!reader 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : ♪ The sailor tumbles into the icy depths, not to be heard again, not by the gods or the father Posiden and his trident, but a saved by the son of the sea. ♪ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 1.8 k 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 : mentions of drowning/freezing/near death, kissing, saliva as aphrodisiac, gaz 'accidentally' uses it

𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐘, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐄𝐏𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐒. The night was black as ink, screams and orders dying under the roar of the waves and wind. The ocean spitting in the faces of men as they hoisted the ropes and tried to tie down the main sail.

The storm had descended from nowhere, leaving the crew in a blind panic to rip the canvas from its mast in a matter of minutes.

The wind howled with a force that carried the rain sideways. It didn't matter that the icy hands of the waves licked at your back or clawed down your tear ducts. All that mattered, was trying to tie down the unruly sail.

The stormy night had snuffed out all the lights on deck, the only source of comfort had come from the white lightning that crashed like cymbals in the churning sky. The following darkness creating a fleeting moment of hysteria for everyone on board that valued their lives.

"GRAB THE HALYARD!!!"

Men swarmed by the dozens to grab the drenched rope, each grabbing on, grappling out into the darkness until they had it in their collective grasps and pulled. The ship rocked like an iceberg about to tip. No guide or god to lead it through the storm. The bow moaning with every crashing wave and spluttering punch the Atlantic had to give.

Once ordered to, you rushed to help the men grab the rope, the thick cord snapping around your wrist like a writhing serpent. Pulling taught as the sail struggled to close, too full of wind and rain to give way to the men that pleaded for it to shut.

"PULL!!!"

At once, the mass of men heaved, leaning back with a ton of weight, playing tug of war against the sea herself.

But she would not yield to the likes of men.

Another bolt of lightning vaulted across the dark clouds, lighting up the ocean in a searing flash of white.

A wave, at least ten men tall, stood up and jumped overboard in a rush of salt and bubbles.

In an instant, it swallowed you whole. The current slamming you from one side of the ship to the other. The rope, now your lifeline, uncoiled cruelly from your wrist. Simply letting go and tossing you headfirst into the depths.

Time slowed, and with the next crash and boom of lightning... all you could see were the churning clouds. No mast or other bodies. No orders or distant screams. Not even your own as you tumbled headfirst into the Atlantic soundlessly. Your flesh embraced with the icy bite of the sea in a loud splash of water.

You swallowed bits of the sea, lips finally moving all too late, opening and closing like a fish out of water. The surface of the ocean slipped from your grasp faster and faster. The waves pummeling you under the current, punching all the fight from your lungs in one fell crash.

The convulsions started quickly, muscles contracting painfully without any air. Breathing in only salt water. It was all too late that you remembered to swim through the shock. Body moving on its own accord in a fight for the surface. A fight for your life.

You broke the surface with a violent splutter, salt water vomited from your lungs, choking for air that was in your grasp. Just as cold and violent as the sea was.

Another flash of lightning cracked the sky in half, the waves forcing your head back under the water. Blindly drowning you and sucking the life out of your lungs.

Nothing made sense.

The dark void around you, the distant rumble of thunder, and a sky that mocked you with one last flash of lightning to show you just how far you had slipped under the sea.

The body that once fought for you, went lax and still.

Nothing made sense.

Until you felt a weight brush against your calf as it swam by. Then, something coiled around your waist, squeezing with a sickening softness. The body around this creature was warm and blubbery, even against your icy skin.

You blearily wondered if it was a school of fish trying to eat you. Already feasting on a sailor thrown overboard.

The world went dark once more, nothing to be felt or seen.

Until the sounds of choking filled your ears.

For a few minutes, that's all that existed. Breathless wheezing and gagging. The sounds of water sloshing onto a hard surface.

Then your eyesight returned, the dark world coming back onto focus as you rolled onto your side. A rush of sea water expelling itself from your lips with a violent heave.

A hand brushed against your back, patting firmly to help your struggle. The thick rains from just a moment ago had turned into a fine mist... still falling from the sky.

The hands, not your own, rolled you onto your back again. A shadowy face appearing before a pair of warm lips met yours. Flooding your lungs with a rush of sweet air.

Through the shock, your eyes widened, finally giving you the full picture.

Your savior pulled away, still cradling your head so that it didn't smash against the black rocks you now laid on.

Sweet honeyed eyes melted against yours, searching for a sure sign that you were okay. Alive. Dark, rich skin and tousled hair that reached just above his shoulders in thick waves. Droplets of clear rain dripping tantalizingly from his brows and lashes in a way that made him look like a god.

His lips crashed into yours again and your body shook from the pain that wracked your body. The near death experience leaving a tremor in your skin and a sickening rawness in your lungs. As if pebbled coral had scrubbed against the sensitive tissues around your heart.

You tried to cry from the pain, unable to feel the tips of your fingers from the frozen Atlantic you had just been pulled from, but the strangers lips persisted. Moving against yours, pulling you into him. His warm chest pressed against yours, igniting every sensitive nerve beneath him. So close you could feel his heartbeat like your own as he shared his breath with yours.

Steady and warm... and irresistibly sweet on your tongue, like the man had just drank the sweetest cherry wine. His exhale was soft like cotton candy, and twice as addictive. A sudden buzz flowing through your icy blood, granting it a pulsing warmth you had only felt under the morning sun.

The stranger finally pulled away and inspected your face. A concern scrawled all over his features. "Are you alright?" he asked over the roar of the tide, the water still crawling over the rocks to lick at your fingertips.

His voice. It was as rich as gold, and suddenly fiery tears stung the edge of your vision. It was the most beautiful sound you'd ever heard. As if an angel was speaking directly to you.

He was beautiful, you realized.

He wore no shirt, no jacket, no sigil... he was a face you didn't recognize. That was for sure. If he was on your ship, you'd have remembered it. And the thought sent a cold jolt through your rapidly warming body.

You sat up too quickly, gasping for air with a hoarse wheeze.

The stranger let you, his hand staying on your back in a soothing manner. "It's alright, get all the water out," he assured you.

Your head dipped down, on the verge of coughing up salt until...

You saw it.

"Wha-?" The words couldn't come out of your mouth. The scream you had intended had only come out as a sharp inhale.

Right at his hips, it was like he had been eaten by a shark- No. He- he was one.

The blubbery body below his waist, the sharp fin and tail, was unmistakable. Akin to the creatures you had watched swarm around the ship, waiting for fallen food or eating the schools of fish that flocked beneath the boat.

That familiar grey-brown striped pattern on his-god!- on his tail-

A shark.

He even had gills below his ribcage, the creature not even wearing a shred of clothing that hinted at a humanity you knew.

"Yuh-You're-You're a-a" You huffed breathlessly, as if your body was trying to warn you. Trying to crawl back, away from the half-man in a frenzy of fear, but the pain ebbing in your bones was too much. The fright and fear to paralyzing. And the man held you close.

The same concern on his face still lingering for you.

"Don't move too fast!" He scolded with round eyes, holding you firmly next to him.

The struggle was feeble. Your body had given out before the struggle could even begin. Going limp in his hands as he supported you, the man suddenly jumping in worry that you had died.

"Hey! Hey! Wake up!" He patted your cheek anxiously before he leaned in and kissed you again. His breath mingling with yours, trying to force you to stay awake with a rush of air.

It was then, that the cold fear suddenly flushed out of your body. Replaced by a searing heat that shot straight into your blood. Fingertips tingling, feeling his arms and the intense heat of his skin despite the lingering rain. The acute way his body pressed against yours. The sweetness of his mouth.

It made your pulse flutter. Goosebumps crawling up your neck as he molded his body to yours. Pulling away to check again if you were okay.

The moment he did, your arm shot up and stopped him just centimeters from your face. Lips brushing his. You couldn't explain it, the need for this man ebbing below your skin like a sweet flame. You wanted him more than the last breath you had prayed for. Needed his lips, his skin, those warm eyes.

You pulled him back into your lips fiercely, tongue delving into his mouth to taste him again. Everything else forgotten and thrown to the winds. You only wanted his kiss. Again and again. Over and over until he drank the rest of the air from your lungs.

A soft groan slipped from your lips as he kissed you back. His body pressing insistently against yours, laying you beneath him on the rocks, his fin curled around your boots. Gasping for air against your lips just to crash into them all over again. With every kiss the heat intensified in your body, humming against his as his lips traced your jaw and neck.

[apas-95]

This might sound stupid, but how popular is communism in China ? I know the CCP is the dominant political faction there, but how much of the Chinese population ascribes to socialism out of personal belief and education rather than just going along with the government?

I ask this because, in my country, most people's allegiance to the dominant political ideology, liberalism, is mostly due to their blindly following the dominant class, rather than any true belief in its merit

There is a key difference between communism and liberalism, here - communism is an organic ideology of the working class, which represents the genuine wants and needs of the broad masses of society. Under socialism, the people are themselves the dominant class.

Perhaps a more appropriate comparison, to a capitalist country, would be the question of whether a given bourgeois ascribes to capitalism out of genuine belief and education? They are raised in a society structured around their interests and with an ideology that promotes their interests, to what degree are they simply 'going along with' their own interests? It's a nebulous question - self-derived belief in ones own interests is a lot easier to identify when it goes against society at large; trying to discern why members of the dominant class believe in their own interests is like trying to separate streams in a river.

The dominant ideas in society are always the ideas of the dominant class. Under socialism, the dominant class is the broad mass of society, and the proletariat 'blindly following' themselves and their own interests is something of an oxymoron.

Are the people in general politically educated? Yes, Marxist thought is taught as part of the standard curriculum. Are the people in general politically conscious? To varying degrees, and this is, of course, the purpose of the vanguard party - naturally, there are more advanced elements and more backwards elements in society.

It has always been the case that the broad masses of the population do not need to understand communism as deeply as their vanguard party does, because they are shown in practice that communism is what carries out their own interests and what achieves their own goals.

This are definitely similar discussion in China, but with different understanding. The question of whether the '00s generation, who hadn't lived through the hardships of earlier eras of building socialism, would respect the need for the socialist project, was resolved by their immense communal spirit and drive shown during the COVID pandemic.

In essence, the question is malformed, because it is precisely the government that is going along with the people.

[lancabbage]

Okay... I'm really beginning to suspect a hell of a lot of the fandom simply can't understand the novel and its messages.

I've just seen someone comment on how important it is to them that people understand LWJ would "forgive" WWX no matter how he acted, no matter his "wrong doings". Apparently they think WWX treated LWJ badly 🤔 Yes, there were misunderstandings, but he never treated him badly! I really got the impression they didn't understand WWX's actions and were insinuating he had done things he required forgiveness for in the first place! Which, he does not... So...

Also, they totally have the characterisation of LWJ completely wrong. LWJ loves WWX BECAUSE he's morally good! He does not love him blindly, nor would he love him if he had done such atrocious acts some in the fandom (and the cultivation world) believe he did, because they simply can't read properly.

The thing that made me most shocked was that some people actually believe that WWX doesn't deserve LWJ... Some even love fanfic where LWJ dies or is seriously injured and WWX has to suffer. Wow. Like seriously? Wtf 👀

Those people are projecting so bad, they need therapy! WWX deserves a happy ending and to be with the boy he (unconsciously) had a crush on his whole fn life! WWX was a good person, who did the right thing even if it wasn't the easiest option. That's the whole point of the story! WWX gets a second chance at the life he should have had BECAUSE he deserves it. WWX was always putting others first, whether out of obligation and debt or simply because he was kind and caring. No one deserves such a beautifully happy ending more than WWX. He's finally putting himself first, free of the shackles of his first life, and taking the only thing he's ever wanted for himself... LWJ ❤️

Anyone thinking WWX needs to suffer any further than the mass amount of unimaginable trauma he already lived through and did not deserve to experience in the first place, is an absolute moron.

[morverenmaybewrites]

His Father's Son

Chapter 1: A Home Half in Ruins

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

CW: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence

Tags: Alternative Universe: Dark Fantasy Gotham City, Hanahaki Disease, Childhood Friends to Lovers

Synopsis:

Gotham City: the world’s last and greatest bastion of magic. A city made out of spells and twisting steel.

And the only place where the dead can be brought back to life.

After Jason Todd had been forcibly resurrected by his father, he left Gotham City in search of a new life. One where he did not have to be constantly reminded that he now sits on the border between the monstrous and the miraculous. One where he could forget that no longer quite belongs in the world of the living.

But when a strange new curse surfaces, one that causes plants to take root inside of living people and leaving flowering corpses in its wake, Jason finds that he must come back and help solve the case before it devours the city whole.

Read on AO3

Preview:

Jason Todd hated taking the bus. 

He hated the fact that there was only one exit–one escape route, and that he was almost always seated too far from it. He hated the constant contact with strangers, any one of whom could be carrying a gun or a bomb or a knife, never mind the fact that Jason himself had all three on his person at any given time. 

He hated where this particular bus had been taking him, right before it had come to a screeching halt in the middle of the road.

The thing that had somehow snuck aboard, ripped off the driver’s left arm, and curled up above the glass doors did not help improve this sentiment. 

It had a man’s head, its once-blue pupils now milky with death, sitting on top of a writhing mass of arms. Some of its hands scrabbled at the glass windows, fingernails tapping out a meaningless rhythm that made Jason’s s head ache. Others were grasping blindly at the steering wheel.

Its mouth opened, once, twice, as if trying to speak. But no sound came out. A quarter-sized hole, neatly slotted in the center of its forehead, sluggishly oozed out blood. 

Jason’s gun was still smoking. 

Someone behind him spoke in a shaking voice. Jason could smell the stink of urine. 

“Is it dead?”

The head twitched, when it heard the woman’s voice.  

Then it smiled, showing far too many teeth, yellowed and cracked like old tombstones. Its arms stilled their distracted movements, muscles cording underneath gray skin. 

Though its eyes didn’t move, Jason knew that the thing’s attention was focused solely on him. 

He reached for his other gun. 

“No.” 

[spectral-snippets-and-drabbles]

Death Warrant!Au

When the rejuvenating, life-extending effects of ectoplasm to the dead and dying was discovered by planets across the stars, it triggered mass conflicts that left several systems obliterated beyond repair. Hundreds of Billions had migrated to the Realms in numbers that were never seen before by the residence of the dead. They had various forms of damage and disfigurement on their new forms as a result of the ectoplasm being weaponized and used on them. Their very beings were corrupted beyond repair with their minds significantly altered with highly specified obsessions.

• Peoples from the destroyed worlds being so afraid that they lashed out, ripping anything that saw them to pieces out of fear of being attacked.

A serpentine creature of the Realms eagerly stalking them and fed upon their cores to grow stronger.

• Soldiers of these races were hell-bent on continuing to fight and proceeded to attempt subjugate this dimension that was new to them. Their rage guiding them blindly as they left paths of destruction throughout the realm.

A beast, wrongly slaughtered in the early madness of an delicate fledgling world that happened to be rich with ectoplasm followed the warpath and basked in the rage.

Eventually, more creatures like them came to prominence as a result of these strange new victims. Being aspects of emotion that were born from the masses in the war.

The Ghost King during this time period could not sit idly by and watch these newly born ghosts run rampant and terrorize his kingdom. With a heavy heart and a weapon in hand, a call to arms was called and the purge of these beings began. It tooks thousands of years, but when the last corrupted ghost was destroyed, the King took to the realm of living and wiped away all traces of the Realms from the minds of the survivors with all recollections of this terrible war for ectoplasm erased from history.

As his rested his eyes one final time, before the Tyrant would cowardly claim his life, made a major, sacred declaration that all citizens was made:

• If any hostile, mutant ghosts were to be found, they were to captured and examined by the king's council to await judgement. If they are too dangerous to restrain and seek bloody violence, they are to be destroyed.

• Any scientists trying to use ectoplasm for endangering life were to be have their memories erased and put to the sword for their crimes.

• Anyone foolish enough to Defy Death using ectoplasm, the greatest violation of the laws in the infinite Realms, they were to be put to death as and immediately given their Second End.

~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~

When Pariah Dark, the Cowardly Tyrant King, is defeated and Danny fianlly takes the throne after a few centuries of training, the Observers hand him a compiled a list of names who violated these sacred laws.

They have him start with Earth and Danny's jaw hits the floor with what the charges he was seeing. He can already hear the chaos in the meeting room.

• Amanda Waller, Vandal Savage, Darkseid, Granny Goodness, a court of owls(?)...the list is long, and that's just Earth alone!

• Jack "The Goddamn Joker" Napier and a few of the more violent Rouges of Gotham are charged with Veil Destabilization.

Even Jason Peter Todd Wayne...the Red Hood!? Danny can probably work something with Jason, force him into therapy sessions (along with the whole damn family) with Jazz and a couple cleansing sessions and supplements from Frostbite...the others had to go...

The continued slaughter of the innocent, combined with the suffering they endured and the misery felt by Shades who couldn't move on was making the veil deteriorate at dangerous speeds. New pits would form across the city eventually as a result.

Lady Gotham has done everything she can to keep the madness from happening but she can't hold it back any longer. Her core is ready to shatter under the stress and is constantly in agony, but she won't abandon her knights, despite Danny's pleas to save herself.

There's a certain brigade of furry's who may or may not like this news but said brigade had no choice but to take it on the chin. They have children who Defied Death in their ranks and the Realms are not afraid to destroy anyone foolish enough to stop them.

• Lex Luther is charged with crimes against humanity. And several other violations in regards to unethical experimentation.

One sticks out to Danny.

Lex used Danny's stolen DNA from a stray core shard from the Guys in White, who he was was funding in secret, even after they were disbanded, to create a clone comprised of the Earth's resident Kryptonian, the bald bastard, and himself to kill and replace said Kryptonian...the guy who literally helps save the earth time and time again from doom.

...Yeah, Lex is undoubtedly, fucked beyond total comprehension. Anyone defending him was risking all-out war with the Infinite Realms.

But hey, at least Danny was finally having child of his own! The little tyke is only a few years old in the tube, Ellie's visits are far and in-between and Danny's status as a Halfa made him sterile and develop an embarrassingly strong case of baby fever.

He's sure the ghosts from Krypton would love to help out in raising Conner in case Kal-El wasn't really planning on being around the boy. After all, being cloned himself, Danny knows the emotional baggage that comes with being violated to this degree by your enemy.

He just hopes the guy can come around and accept the little guy...

[itsonlydana]

"passenger princess" | chapter eight

the hobbit | a modern!AU by itsonlydana

❱ pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader

❱ wordcount: 4,6k

❱ summary: the stormy side of summer; falling down a rabbit hole of doubts

❱ warnings: mature language, descriptions of weed & alcohol, description of a panic attack

❱ an: forgive me? This is the second to last chapter and I'm not me without a bit of drama

general m.list + series m.list

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot - especially with longer projects <3

CHAPTER EIGHT: PANIC

The music around you was loud, the air sweltering hot. Heavy bass pulsed in your veins, mixing with the cold beer that you lifted to your lips trying to cool down just the slightest; it helped only a little and only for a brief moment, a hint of moisture in your throat before the stale and stuffy air caught up with you again.

No matter how many frat parties you had been to, the number of guests fitting in the much too small and mostly couch-filled houses always surprised you.

And here, in the living room you got dragged into, were obviously far too many. A mass of sweaty bodies pressed tightly together and swaying back and forth to the songs blaring from the speakers.

You leaned against the wall where you'd spent most of the evening, staring over the rim of your cup at your roommate.

'Oh, you really need to come to this party,' you repeated her tearful words from this morning in your head. She had blindsided you as you were about to head off to Aragorns, had begged you to accompany her because 'Oh I don't want to go there alone and we haven't been out in so long'.

Apparently, there was a tiny bit of guilt in you. In the weeks before university had started, you knew no one and had blindly followed her to these parties until you had met your boys, and yes, she was right about you then going with them rather than her.

Plagued by your good heart and the promise of 'We'll do it like we used to, just the two of us!' you had forced yourself out of your comfy clothes and Thranduil's sweater and thrown on one of your party outfits instead.

Nothing came of the "just the two of us".

Within minutes of your arrival, she'd been pulled onto the dance floor by one of the (in your opinion, look-alike) blonde residents of the house.

The only thing you had done together was pre-drink some shots in the car of an acquaintance who had given you a ride.

It didn't sound nice, and to most others, your roommate's behavior would probably be 'unfriendly' and 'selfish,' but while she preferred to dance with strangers, you had previously used these parties to, well, make acquaintances elsewhere.

With the promise of a real date from Thranduil and the text messages you'd been sending back and forth to each other all day and even for the past weeks, the thought of repeating your earlier party experiences left a bitter taste in your mouth.

And it was almost more disgusting than the beer here- however that was possible. The beer was disgusting. Really fucking disgusting.

Life had taken a turn on you, growing rosy and soft at the sharp edges.

The giddy feeling of bridging that space between you and Thranduil accompanied you throughout the days and nights, you saw no need in the hook-up culture that came along with these kinds of parties.

As if on cue and as if he had read your mind, your phone vibrated in your other hand.

Thran: Darling, I hope you arrived safely! xx Thranduil

The smile that spread on your face when you read his message was unavoidable.

Thranduil had a habit of signing every message with his name, even though you (and Legolas) had explained to him several times that it was not necessary.

With every day that passed, you discovered more very kind and terribly sweet quirks about Thranduil, and every day you fell more in love with him.

You: we did. four shots into the night and i want to leave again

Thran: Oh no! Did anything happen? xx Thranduil

You: nothing that should surprise me, its a frat party lmao

Thran: You seem to enjoy them when you go out with Legolas. xx Thranduil

Thran: A lot, if I remember the many nights where I had to pick you guys up from some house correctly xx Thranduil

There was a truth behind it that you couldn't deny.

Frat parties with Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli were clearly preferable to you, because your boys wouldn't just leave you alone.

Well, at least not for an entire evening.

Legolas had a knack for wandering off at these parties, though he never got far until he was surrounded by swarming girls and boys.

Another advantage of going to parties with them was that Aragorn knew everyone and you never had trouble getting in anywhere, no matter what kind of party it was.

The pick-ups by Thranduil increased again, now that summer break called for more parties and more outings.

With you last on the route and Legolas asleep and unresponsive in the back seat, Thranduil drove the rest of the way always with his hand in yours or on your legs and every time he accompanied you to the front door you hoped.

Hoped his lips didn't land on your forehead or your cheek. Hoping that he would finally kiss you like the look on his face showed. It was frustrating to stand in the dark alcove with him, looking up at him and feeling only his thumb on your lips as he put his hand on the back of your neck.

It was tempting to call him, just ask him to pick you up from this party and then you could drive around in the night, hands intertwined and without a care in the world.

To be honest, you were already dialing his number in your mind when you lifted your cup and looked back at your roommate as you drank.

Your clear conscience gnawed at you as you grimaced slightly biting into the plastic without breaking it. What you could use besides your less-than-ideal mood was a beer-soaked dress.

You: yes, with the boys!

You: roomie ditched me to make out with some Beta Chi Theta guy

You: i got crypto explained to me three fucking times

You: and i swear either i will die of boredom or blackout from the bowl they are serving here. its like 90 perc vodka

Thran: Typical for boys. Thinking a woman has nothing in her head because she is gorgeous. xx Thranduil

You: You think i am gorgeous? ;)

Thran: You are really cheeky for someone that got ditched xx Thranduil

You: wow. shouldn't you be reading a book or play golf, old man?

Thran: Shouldn't you be dancing and not texting with a still young and handsome man? xx Thranduil

Thran: Why are you going to these parties with your roommate if you suffer this much? xx Thranduil

You: most times you get free entry and drinks just bcs you got your tits out :)

Thran: That is definitely not the sentence that I have expected xx Thranduil

You: you want proof?

Thran: ...

Three dots ...

Nothing

Then again the three dots …

You had to bite your lip, and yet the grin spread all over your face as Thranduil visibly tapped away at an answer for a long time.

As much as it frustrated you to see the dots disappear again, the flirting had clearly improved your mood.

"Oh my god, girly–"

With both hands in front of her face, trying to catch her breath, your roommate fell against the wall next to you, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wide open.

Without words, you held your cup out to her and grinned as she put her head back and drank the beer in a few gulps, after which she puckered her mouth.

"This shit tastes like ass," she said, wiping a hand across the corner of her mouth.

"Are you surprised?" you asked, letting your gaze wander over the crowd. "Where did you leave your boy-toy? The way he had his hands on you, I'm surprised to see you here beside me and not on some bed upstairs."

Snorting, your roommate held her hair to the side "Fuck me, it's so hot in here," she cursed and you longed for some fresh air as well, there was only one window open in here and a group of smokers were leaning out of it. "Kíli just went to get his brother," She turned her head, grinning broadly and started giggling "We were at a party at their place the other night and Girly— Fíli is such a hottie!"

"Brothers?" you asked, one eyebrow raised skeptically "Don't you think one is enough?"

At that, the giggling died down and a surprised and slightly reproachful look landed on you. "Babe, you of all people shouldn't be judging, don't you think?"

Slightly startled at the tone in her voice, you leaned away from her, seeking eye contact, but she rolled her eyes and then there was that smirk on her face again.

"As much as I would appreciate a trip to Paris," she was the only one laughing at this innuendo, "Fíli isn't coming for me. Well, at least not today." She paused to fan herself again and you thought you had to shake her to make her continue speaking. When she did, however, you wished you had never started the conversation.

"Fíli is coming for you, babe! Look at you, standing around all alone at this party, it's so lame," She smiled at you and put a warm hand on your bare arm. "In the old days, I would have had to hold your hair now or found you in one of the bedrooms."

"Coming for me?" you asked in horror, your thoughts a single merry-go-round at the sudden change in mood. "Why would you invite a boy I don't know over because of me? Just because I made the mistake of sleeping with some fratboy once in the very beginning?"

"You've changed sweetie and I just want to help you have fun again."

"I'm having fun," you replied bitterly, "Believe me, it's not on me why I'm standing around here alone. You wanted to come here together!"

"Yeah, because I thought that would make you finally stop thirsting after old men!" your roommate cried, and a slap would probably have been more pleasant than her words.

They came crashing down on you like a bucket of cold water while you got even hotter. You could feel your breathing first stop and then become faster, more irregular, and it slipped slightly into the uncontrollable.

She wasn't done, though. Cheeks flushed, she pressed a long fingernail against your chest and pushed you against the sticky wall.

"Do you know how disgusting it is to see you being driven home at night by a man as old as my father? Not to mention it's your best friend's father, Girl. You're constantly on the road, sleeping in his sweater and even here you prefer to write with this old fuck instead of finally finding someone your age. At first, I really believed you were sleeping with Legolas since you were always with him and god I would have understood that."

Anger burned in your belly, bubbling and hissing, fighting its way up with every word thrown at your feet, and by the last sentence, you were ready to forget all your notions of moral rightness.

The temptation to show her what you could do with your anger was as present in a twitch of your hands as the taste of blood in your mouth. You hadn't even realized you'd bitten your lip until metal spread across your tongue.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," you snapped at her in a tone that couldn't have been more bitter.

"Oh no?" She challenged you, her red-painted lips twisted into a sardonic grin. "Tell me," she moved closer, leaning far too close into your personal space for your liking right now, and you tasted alcohol and the acrid smell of weed on her breath.

"Is he paying you for sex? Or what does he want from you of all people?"

The music around you was loud and you felt hot and cold at the same time. The bass boomed in your ears and yet you thought you perceived nothing louder than the suspension of your heart at that moment.

It happened very quickly, the poisoned words had barely bitten you, you already felt a touch of dizziness, a spinning of the room and with it disintegrated the image that you had had so far of your roommate.

You couldn't find words to express what you wanted to say. You wanted to scream at her, push her, insult her, tug and tear at her and beat her with similarly poisonous claws until she felt even a hint of the pain spreading through your body.

There was so little air in that house.

Sweat and alcohol, weed and smoke stung your lungs with every attempt to take a deep breath.

Your legs moved on their own as you fought your way through the crowd, past blurry faces.

Out, you had to get out.

You needed air.

You fled the house, the words anchored deep in your chest, where they dug deeper with each breath until your chest threatened to explode.

Not knowing where to go, the main thing your brain screamed was away, you stumbled across the porch, hearing someone calling your name, but you didn't stop.

You kept running, lapsing after a while from running to walking more slowly until even that became far too much for your feet.

Looking around you didn't recognize the houses around you, and the thought of going back the same way you pushed away as quickly as it had come.

The silence coming from the sleeping family homes around you was almost as bad as the music of the house. Your heart beat loud enough that it throbbed dully in your ears and no matter how athletic you might be, your breath rattled and burned in the freezing night air that crept around your free legs and arms.

Shivering, from anger, cold or pure exhaustion from it all, you couldn't tell, you pulled at the hem of your dress and lowered yourself to the curb.

Legs pulled to your chest you ran your hands over your face, over glowing cheeks and as you tried to take a deep breath you felt your jaw tighten and only a sniffle could be heard in the silence.

A "fuck", slipped over your lips, quietly and rather an exhalation of air instead of letters. Your mind was in chaos, driven by a big 'what the fuck just happened?' thoughts piled up in an unassailable crowd. It felt surreal, and as much as you pleaded it was a figment of alcohol, the events burned inside you.

You stared at the ground in front of you, your roommate's last words echoing in your ears, and the image of your friendship tore before you like a rubber band stretched too long. It had been inevitable in the end, that was clear to you, because you had never really fit together.

Only the hostility had been a surprising guest.

She had been so driven to hurt you and her weapons had found their target.

What had seemed to you before like a solid foundation of trust and respect crumbled beneath you and your throat tightened at the thought of going back to your dorm.

Sniffling, you unlocked your phone, which you thank god hadn't dropped as you'd run. Immediately you stared at the last opened chat with Thranduil and the wave of emotions crashed over you again.

Before the bitter words could bite into your insecurity, however, you had already dialed his number and held the phone to your ear.

Only a few seconds later the dialing sound disappeared and was replaced by a coarse, "First you leave me on a sweet promise and then you call when I want to sleep? Tze tze, darling" A single, miserably failed attempt to suppress a sob was enough to change the tone in his voice from a drawled tease to concern.

He spoke your name with such concern that a second sob followed the first, "Is everything alright... what happened? Darling, the background is so quiet, where are you?"

You didn't have it in you to repeat the argument, didn't want to say hateful things to him over a phone even if they hadn't been your words.

Instead, you hugged your legs with your free hand, pulling them closer to you. "I don't know where I am"

On the other end of the line you heard him inhale sharply, a commotion of rustled blankets, then bare feet on floor.

"Nothing happened to me," you quickly forestalled his question, and then immediately felt the pain in your chest again, and tears gathered in your eyes on your next breath. "Thranduil, I–" you began, but your voice broke. Hearing him had been enough to open the floodgates of your held-back despair, the battle with yourself for your composure was lost.

Alone on the side of the road, in a neighborhood that was foreign to you and with nothing on you but what you were wearing and your cell phone, you felt so cut off from all warmth that you couldn't help but cry.

Thranduil said your name again, this time with more urgency, "Send me your location and I'll come to get you."

"You don't have to," you protested weakly "You wanted to sleep"

"The only way I'm going to be able to relax and close even one damn eye today is if I know you're safe, and nothing is going to stop me from making sure of that myself."

While sending him your location you also put him on speaker phone, your phone cradled in your hands.

"Okay, I can be there in fifteen minutes. Are you safe where you are?" asked Thranduil and you heard his front door slam.

You looked around, but except for a dog in the distance, no one seemed to be near you. "Yes," you managed to say before the tears took over again and shook you.

A car door was pulled open and closed again, the familiar click of its key and purr of the engine followed, and despite your crying, the familiar sounds filled you with a slight warmth.

As much as you wanted to make yourself smaller, to put your head between your legs to hide from the world, you didn't dare to turn your back completely to your surroundings.

It tore you apart piece by piece.

The evening had not gone at all as you had wished. It didn't have to be much, a few free drinks, conversations about courses of study and how awful some professors were, then maybe a couple of dances with girlfriends and before you knew it you would have been back in your bed, snuggled up in Thranduil's sweater.

But no.

How could you have been so wrong?

Your hands clawed into your upper arms as your body shook from your sobs. Nails pressed into your skin in a way that would surely leave marks, but you didn't fight back. Didn't stop.

Why had you opened up?

A bitter voice haunted your thoughts, whispering to you that it had been inevitable. Of course, you couldn't even enjoy a relationship; if you could call that with Thranduil a relationship.

He wouldn't even kiss you. They were ghosts, insecurities hidden under white sheets with grimaces cut into them, who knew how to use their tricks so that within a few minutes you were a complete mess.

What had started as anger toward your roommate took a quick downward path into your fears.

Your roommate had given the ghosts an opening, had purposefully punched a hole in your walls, and now your head was trapped in a stream, ever downward.

Doubt ate at you, made you question Thranduil's feelings.

You clung to whispered words at movie nights, the feather-light touch of his hand on your back wherever you were, and the smile, very different from his grin, much more genuine, gentle, and given only to you.

Tears fell too fast to wipe them away and sucked the last bit of strength that had kept you upright until now out of you like it was never there at all.

In another state, it would never have occurred to you to give in to doubts.

In another state, you were aware of how much progress you'd made in conversing and growing comfortable being the person the other could rely on, how heavy his touches were in their meaning.

A fleeting brush of his fingers over your shoulder or back as he passed you, a hand in your side as he walked you to the guest room after long parties, as Legolas fell asleep on the couch, or when he grabbed your hand to help you out of the car, because no matter what the weather, he was always at your door to open it.

It was easy to lose yourself when you were hurting, to question what was real.

You must have switched off completely, because suddenly you were bathed in the bright light of headlights and a dark car shot towards you much too fast.

What would have otherwise been guaranteed to send you running was a welcome sight to you, and you were on your feet even before the car stopped in front of you.

The next sob that went through you and shook your whole body was accompanied by a simultaneously relieved but also longing wail.

Thranduil jumped out of the car, the door open behind him and the engine continuing to purr, and you didn't wait a second longer before throwing yourself at him.

For a moment the ghosts disappeared, driven away by the oh-so-familiar face whose eyes anxiously scanned you for injuries.

His arms immediately embraced you, pulling you to his chest and wrapping around your torso like a shield. One of his hands grasped your waist, stabilizing you as he realized you were falling fully against him, his other stroking your back first in even motions until they brushed up your shoulder blades and then wrapped around your neck.

Your hands clawed at his sweater, crumpling the fabric between your fingertips as you clung to him. Turning your head so that your ear rested against his chest, the place your cheek pressed against was quickly drenched with tears and there was no doubt you would apologize when you could speak more again without being interrupted by sobs and whimpers from your throat.

"Shh, I'm here," Thranduil murmured, lowering his head to yours. Soft lips traveled a familiar route from your forehead, to your temple, down to your ear, leaving kisses so gentle that your heart contracted in shame at ever having doubted them.

"I'm here," Thranduil repeated, and you could feel the movement of his lips against your skin, feel the vibration of his deep voice in his chest. "Follow my breath, in and out, okay? In, you're doing so well my love, and out slowly, very good."

A few minutes of deep, concentrated breathing passed to force yourself back into a stable state.

Eased through it by Thranduils low voice in your ear, reverberating through your entire body just like the breaths he took for you to mimic him.

Guided by the slow rise and fall of his chest, your lungs filled themselves with his scent instead of the harsh and cold wind, clouding you in the faint smell of lingering perfume that had worn off this late of an hour.

"I'm sorry," When you spoke, your voice was raspy. The words were scratching in your throat, it would most likely be sore later, and half of them are muffled by his sweater, but you felt that he heard you in the way that his muscles tensed. "I'm so sorry."

Your eyelashes were sticky with tears, pealing open to tilt your head just the slightest bit for you to look up at Thranduil.

His eyes were on you already, and with a soar of your heart you discovered the puffiness under them, the redness coloring his cheeks.

Had he been crying? For you? Because of you?

Slowly you raised on arm, stroking over the slight discoloration of his ivory skin.

He caught your hand in his, breathing another kiss on the inside of your palm.

"I was so fucking scared," he started, holding your gaze through half-lidded eyes "I was trying to talk to you on the phone but you stopped talking and all I could hear were your cries and god, I was so fucking scared that I wouldn't be here in time. The scenarios in my head–" his whole body shuddered trying to fight those thoughts visibly coming up again, the breath he lets out hot against your hand. "I would have never forgiven myself."

"I'm so so sorry," you whispered "I wasn't sure who to call."

"You have no need to apologize for this. Okay? Never apologize for calling me, whenever and whatever it is about. I rather drive through the country to pick you up than have you call a cab." Thranduils nose nudged against your forehead.

His gaze was slowly softening, the initial worry not disappearing but dwindling to be replaced by a relief that you at least seem to be physically alright.

"Come, let's get you out of this dreadful cold. It looks like it will rain soon and you, my darling, deserve to be warm and comfortable."

'I am warm', you thought loosening your grip on his sweater, 'you make me feel warm.'

You didn't say it, instead, you let him guide you to his car, his arm still around your waist and when he opened the door for you you had to hold back another sob.

There, laying on the black leather, was the green sweater you loved so much on him.

The one he wore when he had you pressed against the painting in his hallway, the one he had worn the first morning you came over after that evening, still giddy and blushing all over, as he had sat next to you at the breakfast table and his legs had ever so slightly brushed against yours, while Legolas and Gimli were discussing your weekend plans.

He had worn that sweater the first time he had held your hand in the darkness of his living room, a movie playing on the TV and Legolas asleep on the other end of the couch, and you had held your breath, as he slowly reached between you, intertwining your fingers in each other and smiling at you.

Pulling it over your head you felt your hands trembling.

There were so many words on your tongue, forming sentences out of the feelings bubbling inside you like a hot pot of water that surely would boil over sooner or later and you could pinpoint the exact moment it did because as soon as Thranduil sat down in the driver seat he reached over and gently placed his hand on your leg.

"You don't need to tell me what happened but know that I'll listen to you when you want to."

You were fighting the tears once again, this time it was from the overwhelming warmth that spread through you. Thranduil was here, with you, and his voice carried to you like a comforting embrace and you no longer were alone.

Oh, how wonderful it felt. The kindness in his words was a flame inside you, lightning all the places that were left raw and hollow and cold with haunting ghost touches and it soothed away the pain that the venomous words had left you with.

There was not a chance that you could get anything out of your mouth without breaking down into a crying mess. so you just nodded, resting your hand over his and squeezed it.

It wasn't much.

But it was enough for the moment

taglist [still open]: @mushroomemeralds, @mssuguru, @solartoge, @12134z03, @fruitymoonbeams-blog, @lady-of-imladris @finallyforgotten , @123forgottherest @tomhockstetter7-111 @marshymallo @emily-roberts @howlerwolfmax @tigereyesf

[tumblingxelian]

He Does not "Fit the Setting Better" than the MCs

There's a fundamentally idiotic claim that the "Only reason" Ironwood was a villain is because he's the only one who acts like he lives in a death world & in a gritter, more "Realistic" series he'd be a hero. To anyone with even a grasp of world building this is patently absurd.

Ironwood does not grasp the world of Remnant better than others, frankly he grasps how it works far less than almost anyone! Negative emotions lure Grimm and yet he perpetually does things that piss off, alienate, scare, or depress large quantities of people.

He's hilariously ill-equipped for the setting that he's in not because its a hope-punk setting, but because he ignores anything that doesn't align with his personal biases. He keeps trying to rely on his army, which even with a bloated runaway budget, is not actually that effective at fighting the Grimm.

Not for tonal reasons, but because Grimm are really fucking strong.

As in, his mechanical soldiers and regular troops can barely kill the lowest tier Grimm when they have them outnumbered & the Grimm pretty much always have the numerical advantage. We see stuff like missiles launched at an approaching horde just get shrugged off thanks to their incredible durability and once the Grimm are inside the city most of Atlas's battleships are useless.

His overarching plan before his total decline into fascism involved sending his already ill-equipped army to three other nations to "restore order" after he causes mass panic by announcing "Hey guys, turns out the horrible death monsters that infest our world have a millennia old boss whose magic and like, super smart, but don't worry we got you!".

Then expecting that not not end in disaster when most other countries don't like or trust Atlas that much. Especially after he bailed on Mistral in Volume 4/5 the moment he suspected there might be an attack, leaving them to wither on the vine, and thus showing how fickle his supposed loyalty to his allies really is.

Oh, he also needs to be reminded scouts exist for a reason, as his default response to a perceived or potential threat is to send his army stomping into the region blindly and just assuming they can muscle their way to victory. & keep in mind, the wilds he wanted to send said army to is where Grimm are and they outnumber his army vastly.

So their numbers would not avail them as they sometimes did in smaller arenas, where said army was backed up by actual Huntsmen and Huntresses, & can thus be useful by playing support. Rather than getting shredded by things way too big, fast and durable for them to easily kill in notable number before being overwhelmed.

Ironwood's not behaving appropriately for the world he lives in, nor is he a man in the wrong genre. He's a man obsessed with military bravado who got drunk on his nations propagandized idea of itself as a place held to a higher standard that helps out the lesser kingdoms and utterly vital to the world. When its usually just blundering around guns blazing and causing problems.

He's not a "General Ripper" type stuck in a sparkly, twee, the power of love setting. He's a self proclaimed four star general who never fought in war, let alone led an army through a war. Who holds an an fannish affection for technology he consistently fails to understand given his shitty grasp of tings like cyber-security.

If he was in a "Grittier" setting, Ironwood would still be a fuck up.

Because Ironwood's issues things like his ego, hypocrisy and a genuine lack of certain skills, with a penchant for paranoid, overly sensitive, over the top reactions that are extremely easy to provoke. Flaws that would not serve him well in any setting, genre or world!

[lavenderhhaze]

An I.N. oneshot with a lot of angst (I just want to cry pls)

got you babe

[05:03] RADIAL — Y. JEONGIN (0.5k words)

It's well past midnight when Jeongin feels concious again, the burn of his last three tequila shots still stinging at the back of his throat. The armrest of the couch presses into his spine uncomfortably, his legs compressed under something — someone heavy. The eerie red glow of his deskclock stares back at him from few feet away : 05:03.

He grumbles under his breath, a faint ‘fuck’ leaving his mouth as he attempts to straighten himself. He can't believe he actually enjoyed drinking at some point of his life.

Jeongin's living room is a mess — remnants of every college frat party he remembers going to. There's Changbin passed out at the foot of his couch, his head angled uncomfortably on one of the throw pillows. There's a couple he can't quite remember exiting his bathroom, her lipstick smudged beyond comprehension. The guy flashes him a knowing smirk, ‘Thanks for inviting us, Innie.’

God, he fucking hated New Years Parties.

And yet, he'd sent out invitations blindly. To his friends, to the friends of his friends and their girlfriends and his entire fucking college. In hopes of meeting you again.

He pushes his way to the bathroom, scowling at the condom wrappers littered by the sink. How the fuck was he going to clean this up. He's biting back a smile remembering what you'd said: ‘just call it the horizon, then you'll never reach it.’

The lazy thrum of the bass still pulsates in the back of his head, so he's rummaging through his medicine cabinet and dry swallowing two advil. The porcelain of the sink is cold against his palm and he sees his distorted reflection staring back at him as the water drains down the filter. He wonders who he's looking for because you don't go to parties anymore.

There's still a few people wandering around the porch, he hears them giggle and whisper and then there is that little bit of hope — an ugly thing with teeth and claws that scratches at his heart some more.

And hope makes him walk out again, picking up empty solo-cups and beer cans with his exasperated sighs, his hoodie smelling of the same cheap supermarket beer. Jeongin peers outside, the liminal space of his lawn mostly empty, save for the one couple sitting cross-legged, laughing at something the girl said.

There's Hyunjin, walking the driveway with his phone to his ear. He seems to be talking animatedly, his hands moving wildly as he describes a hydrangea bush he saw on the way to the party. No,no, it wasn't powder blue. It was, like, almost purple, y'know? To his girlfriend, Jeongin supposed.

“I like your lawn."

Jeongin shivers, he hasn't heard that voice in a while. There was you, same hair, only longer and the same stare in your eyes, lined by lashes that cast a shadow under his neon lights. They remind him of spider silk, he notes.

“Happy New Year," you say, smiling into your beer can. It's not strained, it's not malicious. And that makes him feel slightly more miserable.

"You're still drinking?"

"Can't be hungover if you're still drinking, huh."

He chuckles, despite himself. He wonders of he owes you an explanation or an apology. There is a mass of white noise lingering between you and him.

"Happy New Year."

He finally responds to your greeting, mostly apprehensive. What he really means is that he's missed you, despite seeing you everyday for the last six months. The last time you spoke is far ahead on the road, so much so that it's already behind him. He'd be lying if he says he hasn't hoped to stumble across you in a supermarket, reaching for the same box of pasta. Then he'd smile awkwardly, apologize and let you take that box home, along with a piece of him that never seems to subside.

"I missed the fireworks this time," you sigh, sitting on the ledge and folding your legs underneath. Your hoodie hangs off of your shoulders like a shadow. And he feels a funny feeling in his chest when he takes a seat next to you. It's a funny thing, how his heart feels at rest when you're shoulders touch — it's an innate need to be felt, he thinks.

He closes his fingers around yours, too tight to hold a strangers. And you hold back and squeeze tight. The sting from the tequila is long gone. Jeongin finds it in himself to grin, dimples popping in his cheeks and his eyes almost closed, when he looks at you. He'd almost mistake it for regret if you didn't grin right back.

If he relaxes his body, he'd fall apart, crumble into pieces he doubts he can hold together anymore. He'd scream your name into the city and wait for it to echo back too him; but it's too soon to force intimacy like that, not when you've not spoken for months. So he swallows the guilt the size of a cherry pit that doesn't quite budge from his throat. He didn't miss the fireworks. He missed you — radiant as ever.

"I didn't."

[cozage]

The Daughter's Return: Part 10

Secrets in the Files

Part 1 | Part 11 | Table of Contents | Read this on A03

Word Count: 5.7k Characters: female reader x Portgas D. Ace CW: they’re just being cute and flirty ;)

You silently led the way, blindly crashing through the woods. You had to put as much distance between you all and the mansion. 

“Where are we going?” Ace asked, quick on your heels. 

“I dunno,” you breathed back. “Just keep running.”

You and Ace had each lit a soft glow of fire to illuminate the area around you, but you weren’t entirely sure where you were or where you were headed. Just away from the scene of the crime. Away from the hundreds of high-ranking officials. 

You finally made it to the outskirts of the town with a few isolated houses, and Ace pulled your arm back, forcing you to slow down. You couldn’t blame him, you were breathing heavily from the amount of sprinting you had done. Ace had ditched his Marine shirt a long time ago, but you weren’t granted the luxury of stripping your clothes. 

He pointed to a darkened house. “We should go in and lay low,” he whispered. 

It made you nervous being cornered like that. If anyone saw you go in, or if Marines were able to follow you, the two of you would be stuck. Neither of you fought well in close quarters. But you did need a place to hide, and it was unlikely that the Navy would be going door to door to look for two pirates. That kind of news would cause mass panic and bad publicity on their part.

You closed your eyes and extended your observation haki into the house, checking for any presence there. It was empty.

“Okay, let's go.” 

The back door was locked, but you found the key under a nearby stone. The two of you silently slipped into the house and relocked the door. Ace moved around the house, checking every other entrance point to ensure they were locked as well. 

Whoever had lived here hadn’t been back in a while. There was a thin layer of dust across the surfaces, which was a good sign. You wouldn’t have to worry about someone coming home. But someone had lived here. Based on the house layout and the photos on the fireplace mantle, it was a family of four. They looked happy. You wondered where they had gone to leave a house in such perfect condition. 

“All clear,” Ace said as he came back into the room. “You wanna change?”

You were still in a dress and heels. As much as you wanted to change, you didn’t even have anything to change into. You had left all of those things at the rendezvous point, and you couldn’t risk going back to a place where the signal had been let off. 

“There are some clothes in the master bedroom,” Ace said. “I figured we could camp out there for the night. It’s on the second story and isolated from the rest of the house, so we’ll know if someone is trying to get in.”

You nodded and followed Ace up to the room. He was right, strategically this would be the best place to hide. The curtains were already drawn, so you could keep a small light burning without anyone realizing you were in there. He had already lit a few candles and had placed them strategically around the room. 

You dug through the drawers for a comfortable set of clothes that would fit. The mother of the family seemed to be the same size as you, and you found a baggy t-shirt and pajama bottoms to wear for the night. Tomorrow you would change into something more practical, but you wanted to be comfortable for a while after wearing such a tight outfit. 

You went to untie your dress, but the string was caught on something. You tugged more forcefully, but it still wouldn’t budge. 

“Ace!” you called.

The door immediately swung open and Ace looked around the room, slightly panicked.

“Can you help me?” You turned around, holding your hair out of the way for him to see your predicament. 

“Uhm..” Ace’s hands hovered over your back as if he were afraid to touch you. “How can I help?”

“Just untie the knot,” you offered. “I should be able to wiggle out of it once the tension is loose.”

“Right.” Ace’s voice was tight and nervous. His fingers clumsily pulled at the bow, trying to free it. 

“Didn’t expect to be undressing me this early in the night, huh?” You were trying to ease the awkward atmosphere, but it just seemed to fuel it even more. 

Ace gave a shaky laugh, his fingers desperately pulling at the threads now. After a few tries, he muttered a string of curses, pulling so hard at the strings that you started to be tugged backward yourself. 

“I could just burn it off,” he offered. You could feel a soft heat behind you as he spoke. 

“Ace, calm down,” you said, giving a light laugh. “I’ll never forgive you if you burn this dress. I love it.”

“You do look…” Ace hesitated for a moment. “You look really nice in it.”

“So don’t burn it!” you chided. “Just slowly untangle the knot. I’m not in a rush.”

Ace’s fingers began pulling at the threads again, but this time he was much more purposeful and methodical in his actions. After a few minutes, you felt the top loosen, and Ace let out a sigh of relief. 

“Thank you,” you said, giving him a quick smile over your shoulder. “Now get out so I can change.”

He left the room, and you could hear him pacing the hallway as you quickly pulled off your dress and slipped on the clothes you had picked out. You finally opened the door once you were finished, and he walked back into the room, shutting and locking the door behind him. 

He walked around the room, trying to keep himself busy as you sat down to remove your jewelry and face makeup at the vanity.

“My old man,” Ace said. “Is the strategy for facing him really just ‘run’? That’s it?”

“Yeah.” You wiped at your face and neck, eager to get the contour off. “If you’re trapped, you’re supposed to talk to him, make him like you. Run when you can. He doesn’t tend to chase after pirates, especially when he likes them.”

“Did he like you?”

You smirked even though Ace couldn’t see you. “Do you care?”

“No. What are these files?” Ace picked up the envelopes off the nightstand and held them out to you. He was trying to change the subject, but you could see a blush spreading across his cheeks as you watched him in the mirror. 

“Oh, those.” You had forgotten about them already. “I grabbed them to make it look like we were gathering information and throw them off the scent of the real mission. I don’t know what’s in them.”

Ace turned them over in his hands, examining the front of them. “They all look the same.”

You shrugged, giving up on your makeup removal, and joined Ace. “Should we check them out?”

Ace gave you an eager smile. “Gotta pass the time somehow.”

You took the files from him and spread them out on the floor. There were four in total. The two of you sat across from each other, the files between you.

“Pick one,” you said, giving Ace a nudge. 

Ace bit his lip and then pointed to the third one in the lineup. You picked it up and opened the contents. 

“Boring,” you groaned, already handing the file to him. “It’s just about Roger.”

Ace tensed, but he took the file. “Like the King of the Pirates?”

“Yeah.” Your fingers hovered over the files, trying to decide which one to pick for yourself. 

“You think that’s boring?” There was a hint of curiosity in his voice, even though he tried his best to keep it neutral.

“Yep.” You picked the first folder in the lineup. “I don’t think he was all that great, that’s all.”

“Why?” 

“I dunno.” You opened the packet, scanning through it. It was about a desert island back in Paradise. “He was King of the Pirates, that’s supposed to be neat I guess.” 

You gave a dramatic sigh and continued. “People hype Roger up because he started the Great Pirate Era, which is cool and all. But what else? What did he do before that? What legacy did he leave behind besides the One Piece?”

“It says here he may have a son,” Ace said evenly, eyes on the paper in front of him. 

You laughed at that. “That’s just a wild rumor and the Navy knows it. I don’t even know why they still include it in their reports.”

“He’d be about our age,” Ace commented. “You think you’d get along with him?”

“No way!” You scoffed at the mere idea of it. “Roger’s son and Whitebeard’s daughter? Can you imagine?”

Ace gave a nervous laugh, but you weren’t done. 

“There’s no way! Besides, if Roger’s son is real, I bet that kid is a total snob. He’s probably always using his father’s name to get away with stuff.”

Ace scowled at your comment. “I don’t think he would-”

“My daddy was the King of the Pirates!” you spoke in a high, mocking voice. “I can do whatever I want! I’m going to be just like him!” You broke into a fit of laughter just thinking about it. 

“No.” Ace’s voice was sharp, and your laughter was cut off from surprise. His tone was sharp, almost bitter.  “I don’t think he’d be like that. I bet he hates Roger.”

You hadn’t thought about it like that. 

“Well, then he’s a leg up in my book. It’s probably the only way I would like him,” you said, giving another light chuckle. The whole idea was absurd. You returned back to your papers about the small island that hadn’t received rain in two years. 

“Do you think he deserved to be born?” Ace asked. 

You looked up at him in surprise, but his eyes were glued to the file in front of him.

“Roger?” 

“His son,” Ace clarified.

That was certainly an unexpected question. You thought about it for a moment, trying to decide the best way to answer. 

“Yeah. If he’s out there, I think Roger’s son deserved to be born. But I don’t think Roger deserved to have a son. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah.” Ace’s voice was hoarse when he spoke, and he flipped the file shut and set it on the ground. “Kind of.”

“I’m just saying Roger may have been King, but I’m not sure he was a good person,” you tried to explain. “He and Pops were rivals, but I think Pops did way more for the oppressed people than Roger. Nobody even knows what Roger did during his time as a pirate besides making it to Laugh Tale. If he wasn’t a good person, then he didn’t deserve a child as his legacy.”

“I know what you’re trying to say,” Ace said, but you could hear dejection in his voice.

“If Roger’s son is out there, I hope he got out of his father’s shadow,” you said, a softness in your voice as you suddenly sympathized with this unknown man. “It’s hard living in a shadow that size. Wouldn’t blame him if he hated his old man, just like you said.”

“Yeah,” Ace said, looking at you closely. “The pressure of living in the shadow of a legend is-”

“The kid’s probably long dead though.” You wanted to change the topic away from being too personal. “The Navy went on a mission trying to find any heirs the moment Roger died. I remember Pops being really worried and bringing me back on board. After that, I rarely left the ship until two years ago.”

Ace perked up at the topic opportunity. “When you went to Wano?”

“When I went to an undisclosed area,” you corrected. 

“Did you meet Yamato?” Ace asked. He had his spark back, which gave you some relief.

“Yamato?”

“Kaido’s son.”

You laughed out loud. “No, Ace! I didn’t sail to Onigaishima and meet Kaido’s son. What kind of question is that?!”

Ace puckered out his lips, pouting at your ridicule. “I did.”

“You did what?”

“Sailed to Onigaishima and met Yamato.”

You snorted in disbelief. “I know it’s hard to believe that I went to Wano, but you don’t have to make fun of me.”

“I’m not!” Ace defended. “I really did that!”

“Really?” You laid your sarcasm on thick. “I’m guessing Kaido didn’t mind the intruder?”

“You never believe my stories,” Ace huffed. 

“Because they’re unbelievable!” you cried. “I’m sorry, but I find it hard to believe that Kaido let you come hang out with his son, and you came away from both of them unscathed.”

“Yamato hates his father,” Ace said, his brows knitted together in irritation. “And Kaido wasn’t there when I went.”

“And you just sailed into Onigaishima by accident?”

“Well…” Ace scratched the back of his head, clearly embarrassed. “I went to kill Kaido.”

“What is with you and killing emperors!?” you scoffed. “I bet Yamato and I would have a lot to bond over, with you trying to kill our fathers!”

“I hope you get to meet him one day,” Ace said, his voice dreamy and far off as he thought of the possibility. “I want to help free Wano from Kaido’s reign. And so does Yamato.”

“Count me in too, then,” you said. “Let’s tell Pops when we get back. We’ll get together a team and-”

“No,” Ace said firmly. “I already talked to Pops. He said we have to wait for the right moment.”

“But if we-”

“It’ll come,” Ace said. “I don’t know when, but it will come. And we’ll be there.”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “We will.”

“What’s your file about?” Ace asked, looking at your hand. 

“Kinda boring,” you admitted. “Missing princess. Small country being manipulated by a warlord. Navy report speaks like they know what’s happening, they just are observing for another year and a half before they make a decision on if they should revoke his warlord status or not.”

“The World Government is really an agency of the people, huh?” Ace’s voice was filled with anger. 

“Give me another file,” you said, putting your current one down. “This one is making me depressed.”

Ace handed you a file and picked up his own. 

Yours was on a recent attack from the Revolutionary Army. It wasn’t anything special. You could see that the report had obviously been falsified in some areas. The Revolutionary Army didn’t just attack people in small villages for fun. 

Reading between the lines, it looked like the Revolutionary Army had stopped illegal weapon trades in a small port town, and had gotten blamed for the aftermath that came with taking down the weapons dealers. 

The Navy had “intervened”, placed the blame of weapons on the Revolutionaries, and had taken credit for solving the problem overnight. The whole thing made your blood boil. There had been multiple Revolutionary leaders present for the battle, but thankfully all of them had escaped from the Navy’s clutches. While you didn’t know any of the Revolutionaries personally, you kept tabs on them in case you needed to reach out. The enemy of an enemy was usually a friend. And your mutual enemy had sullied their name for self-preservation.

“Tell me about yours,” Ace said. He could tell you were upset. You never hid it well. Especially with him.

“I’d rather not,” you said, slamming your file down. The Navy was always taking credit for things they didn’t have a part in. It infuriated you. “Tell me about yours.”

“It’s a Rookie Report!” Ace sounded thrilled, and you crawled over next to him to look at the file. 

“Is Luffy there?” you asked as you scanned through the pictures. 

“Not yet. He turns seventeen in a few months, and then he’ll definitely make this list.”

“Who’s on the list now?” Your head leaned gently on his shoulder, watching him flip through the papers.

He stiffened at your touch, but instantly relaxed again. “There are three pretty notorious ones. Capone Bege, Trafalgar Law, and Eustass Kid. Each of them comes from a different ocean. But they’re already making enough of a name that the World Government is starting to get nervous.”

“I've heard of Capone and Trafalgar before,” you noted. “Capone is a big mafia name in the West Blue right? And Trafalgar…” You remembered where you had heard that name, and how you weren’t supposed to disclose that information to anyone. “He’s up North, right?”

“Right. And Eustass Kid is in the South Blue. Which leaves the East Blue wide open territory for a new rookie.”

You smiled up at your sandy-haired commander. “Luffy’s stomping ground.”

He grinned back at you. “Exactly.”

You nuzzled yourself further into the crook of his neck when you felt him stiffen again. His thumb roughly rubbed across your throat as he examined the day-old bruises scattered across your neck.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice suddenly brash. “Did that Admiral touch you? I told you-”

“You did that, idiot,” you said, jerking away from Ace. You rubbed your neck, conscious of his eyes on you. “Last night.”

“I did that?” 

“I didn’t have any other guys sucking on my neck!”

“Okay, okay! Calm down,” Ace hissed, glancing nervously at the door. There was nobody else in the house, but you understood his jumpiness. 

His fingers reached out again, softly grazing over your tender skin. They were gentler than earlier, sending a shiver down your spine. 

You could feel your heart rate starting to pick up, the air suddenly charged with electricity between the two of you.

“Did you like it?” His voice was soft, his eyes peering at the few marks still left.

You gave a silent nod, your voice failing you. Your chest was tight from anticipation, waiting to see what he’d do next. 

“Do you want me to do it again?” His voice was low and smoky, and you could feel your body beginning to melt at his words. 

His gaze moved to your lips, and then up to your eyes, waiting for your answer. You opened your mouth to respond, but you still couldn’t manage to get words out. 

You both stared at each other for a moment, Ace’s eyes trailing back down to your lips. His fingers were still tracing the bruises on your skin, waiting patiently. 

You finally gave a nod, and Ace wasted no time diving into you. His hands wrapped around you and pulled you into his lips. 

You moved to get more comfortable, sitting in his lap and wrapping your legs around his waist while you swirled your tongue against his. Your fingers quickly became entangled in his hair, and you sent soft moans of pleasure into his mouth. He held you tightly against his body, and you grinded against his core in a passionate response. 

Your enthusiasm seemed to humor him, because you could feel his lips tugging into a smile as he pulled away momentarily.

“Slow down, love,” Ace purred, moving down to your neck to pick up where he had left off last night. “We’ve got plenty of time and nobody to stop us now.”

--

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[sabakos]

I don’t mean to sound accusatory, this is a genuine question; how can you tell, or how do you know if those donation asks are actually spam/fake? I see many users who are “vetted” by another user, but I never see any sort of like… explanation or whatever as to how someone is vetted or what that means or how we can tell what’s fake or not. I only see “how dare you assume the asks are fake” or “they’re obviously fake.” Like 100% of the donation asks I get do seem spammy and fake, and I often delete them but I feel crazy for doubting them because I can’t actually know for sure. Feels like everyone else is either Aware of something being unsaid or are just blindly posting in the dark.

well, the people who are doing the "vetting" called me a racist and then blocked me for pointing out that one of the people in their spreadsheet was sending literal sugar daddy pornbot asks in parallel with their gaza donation asks. they then later doubled down and insisted that the pornbot was a real person after claiming they talked to someone who was able to talk to someone who was able to confirm he was real. so I tend to assume that if they're not in on the scam themselves, then they're so incompetent that any "vetting" they're doing is a waste of time that's letting the scams proliferate.

Maybe some of the gofundmes being boosted by random tumblr users are real, I don't know. But I don't believe for a second that anyone mass-sending asks to Tumblr users at random is a legitimate person asking for money. These people are evidently using spamming software to mass-send asks to users, that doesn't sound like something someone who hasn't used Tumblr before and can barely speak English would be competent enough to do!

And the majority of the asks, which are claiming to be raising money to cross the Rafah border, don't seem to be aware that the Rafah border has been closed since May. that seems like something people in Gaza would probably know.

Additionally, even if any of these fundraisers were legitimate, donating to random gofundmes doesn't actually increase the supply of goods in gaza, it just drives inflation higher by letting the people you donate to outbid other starving people in Gaza. If you actually want to increase the supply of these goods, you should donate to the UNRWA. the fact that so many of the people boosting these fundraisers instead actively discourage donating to the UNRWA also suggests that they are scammers who don't actually care about the lives of real palestinians, anyone who discourages you from donating to a legitimate charity so you can give to a "tumblr user vetted" gofundme is clearly just stealing from you.

[thinkingofausername]

cw: rant, don't read if you're religious and easily offended

The older I get, the more I'm fascinated and avidly repulsed by religion.

I'm fascinated with the fact that so many people view religious texts as the objective truth. They don't even question it, it just is what it is. A virgin gave birth, a man made everything and is watching us all the time and knows everything about us and has a plan for us, a man turned water to wine and cured blindness and came back from the dead, another man parted the sea, etc. Somehow mermaids and vampires aren't believable.

I'm fascinated with the fact that religion holds so much power. It's put its hand on politics, education, healthcare. It dictates things it never should've. It's spoken of as a personal choice and belief which is to be respected and yet it's an all around force involved in things it should've stayed out of.

I'm fascinated with the fact that we never outgrew it, never evolved past it. It's such a backwards and rigid thing that I honestly can't believe we haven't left it behind. I can imagine centuries and centuries ago people needed to be told killing was bad because you will die and burn forever but how does that apply to this day and age? Shouldn't it be the most reasonable thing that our actions be controlled by morals, guilt, rationality, law, etc. If someone has to threaten you with eternal damnation in order for you to be good, than how good are you?

I'm repulsed by the mindlessness of it. It reads as nothing but mass control and simultaneously giving up control. It reads as controlling mindless masses who need to blindly follow something and never question it. I believe "the Lord is my shepherd" is very much on point. It reads as avoiding taking accountability. It reads as avoiding the fact that our lives are in our control. We have no inherent purpose and no one but us is guiding our lives. Our actions have direct consequences. God didn't save that person's life, it was the surgeon who performed the surgery for fifteen fucking hours. We are conscious creatures and we should be exercising critical thinking and not giving up control of our lives because "someone has a plan for us and all will be as he has imagined it".

I'm repulsed by the fact that it's spoken of as something that revolves around loving and forgiving and yet fear is at the center of it. We should believe in God because if we don't we are forever doomed? Religion gives you permission to meddle in other people's lives an question them and judge them? Religion gives you permission to look at a person with piercings/tattoos/skull accessories/black eyeshadow and feel free to tell them they will burn in hell? Religion gives you permission to look at two people who love each other in a way your beliefs don't align with and tell them they will be eternally punished for it?

I'm repulsed by the fact that it's based on lies and a superiority complex. Religion is apparently virtue and purity and mercy and yet it's caused and justified more suffering than anything else in the world. Religion painted women as silent servants in servitude of men and for the obvious reason men liked that and used it as much as possible and they still do. Countless women were burned for being "witches", people were tortured so they would accept a religion, countless other crimes were committed because it was "in the Lord's name".

I'm repulsed by the fact that nothing stands in the face of delusion. Religion is seen as the objective truth and whoever doesn't believe it is wrong, in denial, lost, has to be saved, waiting for God to be speak to them, etc.

I'm fascinated by the fact that the world is led by a cult and no one wants to admit it.

[rotworld]

The Oldest Dance

you knew a werewolf when you were younger. your lives went in different directions, but you find yourself suddenly reunited under the worst possible circumstances.

->explicit. contains kidnapping, drugging, power imbalance, mentions of noncon and conditioning, biting, feral behavior, mild gore.

.

.

.

You’ve never seen so many stars before.

The thought strikes you only after the sharp burn of adrenaline dies to a simmer. Fear curdles into exhaustion. Time gets fuzzy. Between the hairpin turns of the road and the lush sea of furs and bedding all around you, there’s no way to get your footing or your bearings. You test the rope around your wrists again and there’s no give, no weakness, just an unpleasant, stinging friction where they’ve been chafing your skin. You hear the rumble of the engine, the scrape of tires over dirt, branches dragging like nails across the windows. You can barely see a thing, and it’s not just your blurry, swimming vision, the exhaustion clinging stubbornly to your eyes. It’s dark here and dark outside, the whole world just a mass of merging shadows. 

And the stars…you must not be in town anymore. Not even close to it.

There’s nowhere to go but you still fight to sit up, to get to your knees at least. It’s not a dip in the road or a sudden turn that throws you off balance this time. Someone grabs the back of your neck and shoves you down again. That large, callused hand could almost wrap all the way around your throat if it wanted, but it settles on your nape, squeezing with the gentle but firm chiding of an animal scruffing its young. 

“First one’s awake,” you hear.

There’s a sharp, amused exhale from the front seats, driver’s side. “The one who barely touched their drink, I’m guessing. You got a grip on them?” 

“Yeah. It’s fine, they’re still groggy.” 

You run your hands through the blankets, hoping you look confused instead of searching, trying to make sense of your surroundings. Wool. Flannel. A zipper? Someone curled up on their side, breathing softly. Your elbow bumps into a warm body beside you, a bony shoulder exposed by a sagging, oversized sweater. They mutter in their sleep. The hand on the back of your neck eases when you settle and don’t try to get up again, but it stays, thumb gently stroking. It takes everything you have to keep your breathing calm and even.

Three of you back here, you count. Captives. The other two still out cold. And four of them. Two in the front and two in the back, keeping watch.

“Should only be a half hour or so for the rest, as long as you didn’t give them too much.” You recognize the voice from the passenger seat. He was at the club. Smaller guy, not huge like the one kneeling next to you. Dark hair. Dazzling smile. And touchy, always trying to get in your space, talking a little too close for comfort. It all starts coming back in a slow trickle. Right. The club. And that guy, Corbin, you’ve seen him a few times before, thought he was a little weird but he always seemed to know when to back off. So how…why…?

“Wish we could’ve taken the fourth one, too,” the guy holding you down says wistfully. His hand rubs up and down your back in a soothing, absentminded motion. “Such pretty eyes, and a sweet scent.”

There’s a grunt of agreement from the other guy in the back, a hulking figure sitting against the wall further from you. “Bigger hunts are always more fun,” he murmurs.

“Aww, I know,” Corbin coos. “But trust me, they weren’t a good match. These three, on the other hand? They’re perfect.” There’s a glimmer of light in the front seat—the glare of a cell phone illuminating part of Corbin’s jaw. It’s nearly blinding after your eyes have adjusted to the dark, and it suddenly occurs to you why you can’t see anything. Not the men, not much more than lumpy silhouettes, not any trees distinct from the moving shadows beyond the windows; nothing but stars. 

They’re not using headlights. These are wolves.

You surge up in a panic, scrabbling blindly for the doors. It’s probably not a good idea—even if they’re miraculously unlocked, you won’t accomplish much more than tumbling out in the middle of fucking nowhere, maybe skin yourself on the road in the process—but your terror is louder than your rational thinking. You fight the hands that grab you, screaming, clawing, biting like an animal, thrashing with all your strength. It takes both of them to pin you back down and you savor that even through the humiliating briefness of your rebellion, wrestled onto your stomach with a hand shoving your head down into the blankets.

You don’t expect him to bite you and that drags a shrill but short noise out of you. You’re not ready for what it feels like, the weight of him across your back and the crunch of his teeth sinking in, a hot gush of blood dribbling past his snarling lips. It hurts like hell and it doesn’t stop. Every time you squirm, every panicked jerk and attempted wriggling movement, makes him growl against your skin. He holds your hands down with his much larger, much stronger ones, fingers pinning yours on either side of your head, and that’s when you finally give in. You aren’t punished for the last nervous shiver that travels down your spine, or the whimper that slips out when he loosens his jaw and pulls away, strings of saliva and sticky blood slicking your neck.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Good human. Stay down.” The gentleness of his fingers stroking your scalp makes a sob build in your throat. 

“You got it?” the driver asks.

“Yeah, sorry, I got it. Tried to keep the bite light, but they wouldn’t submit. Might leave a mark.” He traces his thumb over the throbbing wound he left behind, ragged and still bleeding. 

Corbin chuckles. “It’s fine, I’ll vouch for you if anyone asks.” You can’t see him clearly but you can tell he’s turned around, leaning slightly around his seat to peer into the back. You can feel his gaze burning into you. “I won’t tell you not to fight. I hope you do,” he says, lowering his voice slightly. Talking to you rather than about you, you realize. “I chose you because I knew you would. It’s a good thing. Good for the pack. Eventually, you’ll learn how to pick your battles.” 

“Fuck you,” you say, embarrassed by how shaky and hoarse you sound. 

You can’t see what kind of expression he has, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “You’ll thank me someday.” 

It doesn’t take long for the other two to wake after all the commotion. One just stares in silent shock and disbelief. The other starts to cry. The other wolf in the back pulls them into his lap and nuzzles his face against their cheek and neck, as though they want anything to do with him. He grunts unhappily when they cry harder and shove him away. You can just make out a chorus of howls over the sound of the engine. The wolf who bit you starts stroking your back again, a melodic hum rumbling in his chest. 

“The heartland joining us tonight?” the driver asks.

Corbin hums softly. “They’re abstaining. A few might come to watch.” 

“Ah, that’s a shame. I hoped one of these might be a good fit.” 

“Linden needs an absolutely perfect match. It’s my next project.” 

You don’t catch what else they say because those quiet, miserable sobs turn to heartwrenching wailing. The other person in the back starts to plead for their life. The wolf closest to them strokes their cheek. “You’re not going to die,” he murmurs. “Hush. It’ll all make sense soon.” 

The van slows, relief and terror warring in your heart. You can run—and go where? You don’t know where you are, don’t know the way back to town. Outrunning a werewolf is a tall order under the best circumstances. You’re on their turf, in the dark; you don’t stand a chance. Doesn’t matter. You have to try. The road gets rougher, the foliage thicker like grasping hands. The van rolls to a slow, grinding stop and the engine dies. You’re surprised nobody tries to restrain you before the locks disengage and the back doors are thrown open, but it doesn’t take long to see why.

You’re deep in the woods. The full moon drapes a thin, silver gleam over the silhouettes of shifting figures, animal eyes shining in the dark. There must be dozens of them—thirty, maybe forty wolves, all sniffing the air, growling and pacing impatiently. More are still coming, slipping through the trees in the shape of both humans and beasts. You’re completely surrounded. They form a wide circle around the van, all eyes trained on you and the other two petrified people huddled at your back. You can hear them talking to each other, their voices half-feral with barks and growls.

“Three? Just three?” 

“Three’s a lot for the off-season.”

“All awake, too. Afraid and alert. Gonna be a good hunt.” 

“And look at that one in front, bristling like that. Think they’ll bite back?” 

Laughter. Your stomach churns. One of the wolves gets out of the van while the other leans in close at your side, the two of them gradually easing you out and onto your feet. A door slams. The wolf who was driving gets out, stretches his legs. You see him kick off his shoes and shed his shirt, tossing his clothes into the driver’s seat before he suddenly falls down on all fours and shifts into a wolf. The change is nearly instant, a chorus of unpleasant, bone-cracking sounds, his skin engulfed in dark fur. Corbin wanders into view, glancing at the three of you with an expression of infuriating tranquility. 

Golden light flickers in the corner of your vision. The crowd parts and the man who steps forward makes the wolves you’ve seen so far seem small and delicate in comparison. Massive and towering over all the rest, his chest bare and broad, muscled shoulders adorned with tattoos, he comes forward with a lantern in his hand and a sharp grin on his face. The others all have that intimidating air about them but this one truly looks like a werewolf, overwhelming and wild. His sharp gaze flicks to each of you. Your heart leaps into your throat as, one by one, he looks you in the eyes and speaks your names. 

“Welcome, chosen,” he says. “My name is Vanagandr, and this is Hoarfrost Falls. The pack is eager to meet you. Are you well?”

It takes you a moment to understand this is a serious, genuine question. He waits patiently for an answer, studying each of you in turn. “Are we well?” you repeat in disbelief. “Are you for real?” 

To your dismay, he finds your anger harmless and amusing, a soft chuff of laughter escaping his lips. “Let me rephrase. Do you feel sick or hungover? Any injuries, particularly to the legs or feet? Be honest. We have a medic.” 

The two cowering behind you don’t say a word, too afraid to even lift their gazes. One of them is shaking, clinging to your shoulder. Still, Vanagandr waits, and the uncomfortable silence stretches on. Eventually, one of them shakes their head. The other mutters a quiet, “I’m fine.” The wolves around you stare and point openly, muttering to one another about which one of you smells the best, which one looks the softest, the most defiant, the most fun to train. 

“I was bitten,” you mutter.

He doesn’t wait for you to show him, grabbing you by the shoulder and turning you in place. His hand is large, his nails sharp like claws. He traces the teeth marks in your neck and growls softly. The wolf who bit you stiffens and turns his head. Baring his throat, you realize.

It’s then that you see Corbin slink closer, pressing himself against the enormous wolf’s side. “It wasn’t his fault,” he says in a soft, demure tone, his head bowed so he looks up at Vanagandr through his thick lashes. “He couldn’t let up because they wouldn’t submit. It took a little while.”

“I figured as much,” Vaganadr chuckles. He rubs his face against Corbin’s neck and jaw, a gesture that strikes you as odd, affectionate, and a touch possessive. “Go on. Your alpha’s looking for you.” At that, Corbin’s eyes light up and he slips away with one last lingering touch to Vanagandr’s shoulder, but he doesn’t rush to leave. He meanders through the crowd of wolves and the others greet him with the same eager affection, grabbing him, passing him amongst themselves like a toy to sniff and touch and grope shamelessly. The display unsettles you and in your haste to find somewhere else to look, you see something that makes your heart skip a beat.

A small group has just arrived. These wolves are younger, noticeably nervous and fidgeting. They’re led by a wolf who looks like he got stuck in the middle of shifting, limbs long and furred, hands and feet tipped with claws, a bushy tail swishing behind him. He’s talking to them in a low, gravelly voice, something about herding and not rushing, but that doesn’t matter. None of it matters except for one wolf who stands out from the rest. Not because he does anything unusual. Not because he’s particularly big or intimidating looking—he always was bigger than you but here, he’s average. Right at home. 

You know that wolf. You recognize the scars slashed from his hairline to his jaw, long, jagged lines clawed across the left side of his face. You remember that nervous little twitch of the nose whenever he ran into something new, some situation that made him nervous. He’s grown his hair out longer, let it spill over his shoulders and down his back in thick, black waves, but you know it’s him. The fearful expression on his face transforms into full-blown panic when your eyes meet.

“Flint?” All you can manage is a strangled whisper but you know he hears you. An unhappy, dog-like whine rises in his throat. “Flint? What—why are you here?” You aren’t thinking when you push your way towards him. No one is stopping you but you barely notice, don’t even hesitate to wonder why. You shoulder through the crowd, ignoring the whispers, the uneasy glances, Vanagandr gone completely still and silent behind you.

Flint lowers his gaze, staring at the grass by your feet. You’re further from the lantern and the shadows are thick, his face half-hidden in flickering, lurching darkness, but you can hear him panting the way he always would when he felt overwhelmed. Your name comes out in a needy whine, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “No…no, no, no, not yet…” He has trouble getting the words out, and even more trouble trying to look you in the eye. His voice is exactly the way you remember, low and rough and painfully quiet, like he’s afraid to speak any louder than a rumbling whisper. “I’m not—I’m not ready, I can’t…”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did they kidnap you, too?” you ask, your voice raising with anger the more you speak. You know next to nothing about wild wolves, but you know Flint is meek and easy to boss around, the kind of person who got picked on by other wolves when you were younger. The tall werewolf, the one who looks caught between human and animal, steps closer as though he means to separate you. “Don’t touch him!” you snap. He looks down at you, an expression of muted surprise smoothing into understanding. 

“Corbin,” he says quietly. The smaller man rushes over, now carrying the lantern Vanagandr held earlier. “You two. Follow.” He doesn’t tell you where he’s taking you. He just starts walking. You’re startled that Flint obeys without question, keeping his head down. Corbin grabs your forearm and drags you along, frowning at your attempts to squirm free and pry his fingers off. 

He leans in, lowering his voice. “Remember what I said before about picking your battles?” he asks. You’re suddenly aware of just how quiet the clearing has become, all eyes on you. Vanagandr watches you very carefully, his gaze hardened and threatening. You glance ahead where the tall werewolf has stopped moving, looking back over his shoulder. 

Flint is hunched next to him, head down, whimpering. The wolf has a hand on his forearm, gripping hard enough to leave marks. You take a deep breath. Fine. You can play along for now. You’ll do anything for Flint’s sake. 

*

Wolves have their own gods. 

Flint knew that when he was little, of course, but it was a vague sort of awareness. Hearsay, rather than knowledge. Wolves, he was surely told at some point, have many faiths and traditions depending on where they live or where they come from. But these things are distant for city wolves, even shameful at times. Why stick out any more than you already, unavoidably do? His family had distanced themselves from any sort of archaic, wild customs long before even his parents were born. When he followed the family tree as far back as it went, tracing those ancient scribbles on the old, yellowed parchment kept hidden in his father’s lockbox, he found strange symbols and names he wasn’t sure how to pronounce. The word ulfhednar was written in thick, black ink.

When he repeated the word to his parents, they looked at him like he’d dragged a human corpse through the front door and dropped it at their feet. “It’s an old, awful thing that you shouldn’t tell anyone,” his mother warned. And that was that. For years, he went on thinking there was something wrong with him, some secret shame he’d unknowingly inherited. It isn’t until much later—until Hoarfrost Falls—that he finds out the truth. Ulfhednar is not a dirty word, but it is something city wolves don’t talk about.

That, and gods. They don’t talk about those either. Not the old ones like the Poised Fang, god of the perfect strike. Some have forgotten and some no longer understand. Sawyer taught him all about that. Sawyer, who leads the three of them now—him and the hrefn and you, he can hardly believe it, you where he least expects to see you, exactly the wrong place and exactly the wrong time. He hadn’t even planned on being there. He was still too new to take part in the claiming chase, still too uncomfortable with the realities of acquiring pack humans to even watch.

Sawyer had insisted. He was kind about it. He had waited until the evening lessons were over to pull Flint aside, dusk simmering like dying embers along the horizon. Flint’s peers had all come from loose, disorganized city packs. Like him, they had dulled senses and smothered instincts. Their shifts were slow and uncomfortable because they’d all learned to do it quietly, stifling the popping of their joints and the rearranging of their bones in a way that left them winded when it was over. 

There was comfort and camaraderie in being new and terrible at everything together, but Flint knew he was falling behind. The others were just as clueless but twice as eager, embracing each new facet of wild pack life while Flint was still reeling. He didn’t think they were judging him for it—he desperately hoped not—but he wasn’t sure. He was used to being an outcast. His whole life, he’d been the obvious werewolf in a room full of humans. He was tall, strongly built, his limbs thick with muscle, his nails constantly needing to be filed down as they grew quicker and sharper than he could keep up with. He’d tried joining packs before. Things always started well and soured quickly. City wolves would look at him and assume he was something wild, and as soon as they realized he wasn’t, he’d start getting pushed around and singled out. He didn’t like making a fuss so he just did what he was told and kept his head down.

But you—you would fight for him. You always did. You’d find out, no matter how hard he tried to keep these things quiet, and you’d tell him you were going to his next pack meeting. You’d be the smallest one in the room between all those werewolves, and you’d still march right up to whatever loudmouth was calling themselves alpha and tear them a new one. You’d demand all of his stuff back if anything had been taken and placed in communal storage—family heirlooms, usually, fur-lined coats and old quilts. Sometimes you’d manage to get a few of his membership fees reimbursed by citing breaches of contract, listing all the ways his pack had failed to behave like his pack.

You’d gotten hurt doing that, just once. It was the last pack he’d tried joining, the last desperate attempt to find belonging. The alpha had claimed his car as a pack asset and taken his keys, and you’d marched in there and refused to leave until they were put in your hand. Yelling had turned to shoving and someone had bitten you. Flint is ashamed to admit that he can’t fully remember everything that happened, only that he woke up in wolfskin, lying on the tile floor of his shower. You were kneeling next to him beneath the spray of warm water and running your fingers through his fur, wet, partially shredded clothes hanging off your body. Blood swirled down the drain.

“Not mine,” you assured him. “Not all yours, either, but don’t move around too much.” 

He thinks about that all the time. He dreams about it. Curled up with his head in your lap and your hands running up and down his body, your touch soothing and affectionate. That’s what he was thinking of earlier tonight when Sawyer stopped him as the others ran off to gossip excitedly with their elders about the new pack humans coming up the mountain. Sawyer led him down a trail that wandered away from the commune’s structures, deeper into the woods.

Flint smelled it before he saw it; perspiration. Excitement. Arousal. A human and a werewolf. The end of a chase. They were up ahead, tucked away in a grove of crooked, towering oak trees. The human was making soft, scared sounds as she was forced down to her knees and made to present herself in proper submission, but she smelled eager and Flint saw a smile before her head was shoved down into the leaves. The wolf growled playfully when he mounted her, nuzzling against the nape of her neck. He whispered something in Old Wolven Norse; a term of endearment, Flint guessed, from the tone.

It felt wrong to stand there and watch. They’d come here to be alone, hadn’t they? But Sawyer looked at him sharply when Flint glanced back the way they’d come. They were going to talk here? In earshot of another wolf and his human as they joined in bliss, rutting on the forest floor? Sawyer did nothing without a reason. There was something Flint was meant to see here, something he was supposed to learn. 

“You don’t want to watch tonight’s claiming,” Sawyer said quietly. “I think you should.” 

Flint said nothing. He couldn’t gather his thoughts. He was too focused on the human’s alluring scent, their needy whimpers and squirming as the wolf took them. Would…would you look like that, under him? Would you be so open, so sweet? So much had gone unsaid between the two of you before. You weren’t together. You’d never broached the subject, even though he could smell your interest in him. He hadn’t wanted to push, terrified of scaring you away. 

“Flint.” Sawyer was studying his face in the subtle way wolves did, a sidelong glance whenever he let his guard down. “Something’s on your mind.” 

Flint swallowed. He could feel himself reacting to the couple in front of him, the tender flesh at the base of his cock where his knot swells up pulsing gently, and he was ashamed. “I’m thinking about studying a different trade,” he admitted. 

Sawyer said nothing. Flint found himself looking desperately at his face, searching for signs of anger or disappointment, and found him completely unreadable. Sawyer was stone-faced and taciturn most of the time. Flint had to take a deep breath, relax himself, and remember to look elsewhere for answers. Sawyer’s scent was…calm. His tail was still, slightly raised in curiosity but there was no evidence of aggression or displeasure in his posture. He tilted his head slightly and avoided direct eye contact, looking in Flint’s general direction rather than right at him, trying not to make him feel threatened. 

Emboldened, Flint continued. “It’s not your fault, it’s all me. You’ve done so much for me since I got here. You’re always patient with me no matter what I screw up. I know I can tell you things and you’ll listen. It’s just…I don’t think I can do this. I wouldn’t be a good shepherd.”

Sawyer grunted. It was more of a wolf sound than a human one, a chiding growl and a resigned huff all in one. “You’re the only one who decides your path. But if you want my opinion, I disagree. You’d make an exceptional shepherd.”

Flint shook his head. “I could never hurt them. I can’t wrap my head around it. The whole claiming thing, the biting, the…”

“Fucking?” Sawyer said it so easily. 

“We’re forcing them, aren’t we? They don’t want it.”

“They do. They just don’t know it yet.” Sawyer had barely taken his eyes off the wolf and the human since they’d arrived, something nostalgic and bittersweet in his gaze. He nodded to the two of them, the human writhing in mindless pleasure and the wolf pounding her breathless, groaning into the flesh of her shoulder. “They’re no different from us. Strip the wild out of them and they become caged, miserable animals. Here, they learn to heed their instincts again.”

Flint knew that. He’d been taught all of this before. Alpha Druian told him that most humans lived in societies of suffering, and Flint knew he was right because he’d seen it himself, had lived in it for most of his life. Taking pack humans, teaching them everything they’d forgotten after centuries of isolating themselves from wolves—it was all natural and beautiful. It was the steps in between that he had trouble rationalizing; the claiming and the training. The fear and the pain, how new humans shivered at the sight of him and whimpered when he came too close. He was told that this, too, was perfectly normal, a necessary and expected part of the process. 

He heard a quiet chuckle. A smile tugged at the corner of Sawyer’s lips. “This is why you’d be so good at it,” he said. “I stopped shepherding a long time ago, but those instincts never go away. I know what to look for. All that thinking and worrying, that’s what we’re best at. The pack’s most tenderhearted are the ones who should be closest to our humans. Confidence is important. Being able to make difficult choices and administer discipline, that’s also important. But you have to care, more than anything. You have to want what’s best for them.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he hadn’t said anything. Sawyer had simply stood beside him as the shadows grew and the sky darkened, night draping across the mountain. They watched the wolf bring the human to climax once, twice, a third time shuddering and wailing as her toes curled, the wolf’s hands roaming her sensitive body. When he finally spilled inside her, he sank his teeth into her neck. The spot was already marked and the precise way he angled his head, tonguing at the indentations before biting down, told Flint that was his mark. His human. A bond, renewed and made even stronger. He thought of you again and realized he was fully hard.

And now—here you are. He’s not ready. He can’t meet your worried gaze. Sawyer leads the way to the guest house, a large cabin where friends and allies stay while visiting the territory. Neutral, scentless ground. You’re wary, probably because you can’t see very well. Corbin sets the lantern down on a table but the light is dim, unable to crawl into all the cozy nooks and crannies in the spacious common area. Flint is happy that you go to him, sticking close to his side, but he doesn’t like how stiff and standoffish you are. He risks inching closer, pressing himself against you—and he smells another wolf on you. Saliva. Blood. A bite? Without thinking, he tugs at the neckline of your shirt, nostrils flaring at the sight of the wound.

“I’m sorry, Flint. I had no idea,” Corbin says softly. “The bite happened on the way here. It was intended to force submission.” He reaches out, trying to offer comfort. You slap his hand away. Flint’s hand twitches at his side, instincts warring within him. He wants to soothe you. Wants to scold you. Wants to protect you. Wants to protect Corbin. Paralyzed by indecision, he does nothing. Corbin’s attention shifts from Flint to you, his expression thoughtful. Part of Flint lurches in fear at the thought of Corbin getting his hands on you. Training you, the way he helps Druian train all the new arrivals. He sees that eager look in Corbin’s eyes, the way his gaze roams. He’s sizing you up. Finding weaknesses. Memorizing all of your movements, conscious and unconscious, how you carry yourself, how long you can look him in the eye.

Another part of him, deeply buried, considers it with alarming calmness. Before Hoarfrost Falls, he’d blame those thoughts on his “inner wolf,” but Sawyer has cautioned him against that kind of mental partitioning. “Don’t cut yourself into pieces,” he’d say. He is a wolf and a man and the melding of those things, all together, all at once. He is the clear-headed human understanding that you have every right and reason to be terrified right now, and he is also the feverish need to wrap around you in wolfskin as though his closeness can take all of your worries away.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Corbin says. An absurd statement, intended to be disarming. You make a sound that’s not quite a laugh, sharp and guarded, not taking the bait. Flint is proud—excited—for reasons he is afraid to identify. “I’m serious. There’s been a big misunderstanding. I know how it looks from your perspective, but—” 

“You slipped something in my drink,” you say, accusing. “You kidnapped me, and two other people.” 

“‘Kidnapped’ is a really loaded word.” 

“Sit.” Sawyer’s voice comes from the far end of the room, by the windows. He’s got the long, draping curtains pulled shut to hide your view of the woods, just in case the chase comes this way. Corbin drops where he’s standing, immediately settling onto the soft rug. Flint seats himself on the couch, dismayed when you don’t follow his lead. You’re still standing, looking Sawyer in the eye and glaring hatefully. Flint understands suddenly what’s happening here, why you’re not just uneasy but furious. 

“It’s not like that,” he tries to tell you, tugging at your hand. “This pack, they’re not like the others.”

“That’s what you always say. And then they boss you around and take advantage of you,” you mutter. And that’s true. He would always say that everything’s fine. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of his problems, and he didn’t want you getting hurt trying to defend him. It was all backwards. He was supposed to protect you. The ulfhednar didn’t just have pack humans, they had human allies, human trade partners, human settlements within their territory they defended from harm. 

And yet, here you are with another wolf’s bite on your neck. Here he is, failing you again.

“Sit down, human,” Sawyer repeats. “You want an explanation. I’ll give it to you.”

“Are you the alpha?” you ask.

“Beta. Sit, please.” 

Flint lets out a shaky, relieved breath when you finally obey, sinking onto the cushion beside him. Sawyer makes his approach slow and indirect, pacing, pretending to fuss over the decor. He straightens out a blanket draped over the back of an armchair and returns a book left on the table to its proper shelf. It works. You don’t relax completely but you follow his movements with your eyes, curiosity rounding the edges of your annoyance. You try to hide it when Sawyer finishes his minor adjustments and comes to stand in front of you, towering over Corbin beside him, but your sweetening scent gives you away.

Flint knows he should let the pack beta speak, but the guilt is eating him alive. “This is my fault,” he blurts out. You look at him the same, soft way you always have. 

“That’s not true,” Corbin insists. “It’s mine. I should’ve been more thorough—”

Sawyer growls quietly. “It’s nobody’s fault.” He mutters in Old Wolven Norse, “It’s fate. Keep your fangs poised.” 

Flint’s heart skips a beat. He can’t. He can’t do this. He’s not ready. He feels a whine building in his throat and bites it back, embarrassed by how readily his feelings show. He’s always been bad at keeping growls and barks out of his speech, especially when he’s particularly nervous or excited, overwhelmed by emotion. Sawyer glances at him, holds eye contact for a meaningful moment, before he returns his attention to you.

“This is Hoarfrost Falls. We’re what you would call a ‘wild pack,’ although we welcome wolves of other backgrounds if they’re willing to make the lifestyle adjustment. My name is Sawyer. You’ve met Corbin, our hrefn—”

“Your what?” you say.

Sawyer visibly bristles at the interruption but doesn’t comment on it. He runs his hand through Corbin’s hair and Corbin melts under the attention, nuzzling his face into the dark, thick fur on Sawyer’s thigh. “It’s his rank,” Sawyer says, pausing to consider his word choice. “He’s a pack human with authority over our other pack humans.”

“Pack humans? That’s a real thing?” You sound horrified. You’re looking at Corbin like he’s something wounded on the side of the road. 

“It’s real. It’s why you were brought here. Normally, you’d be enjoying your initiation right now, but I pulled you out for the pack’s safety.”

“The pack’s safety?” you echo, disbelieving. “How are you the ones in danger?”

Sawyer says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at Flint, and Flint looks anywhere else, and you know. You remember. He’s territorial. Obsessed, people used to say, as if they’d never yearned for a human before. City wolves like to pretend they don’t have instincts. He tried to pretend, too. But any little thing could happen—you could scrape your knee on the pavement, or someone could raise their voice a little too loud while talking to you—and he’d feel himself growling, bristling, ready to fight and die for you. 

When he saw you earlier tonight, knowing what would happen, imagining you stumbling afraid through the woods with some other wolf lunging and pinning you and leaving marks, he felt that reckless urge rise up like an inferno beneath his skin. He’d nearly thrown himself at Alpha Vanagandr—would’ve, if Sawyer and the others hadn’t talked him down. 

“It’s clear to me that you’re Flint’s. His…friend,” Sawyer amends, seeing your expression pinch in confusion. “I don’t know much about you. He doesn’t like talking about his old life and I don’t like to dredge it up more than necessary.”

Flint bows his head, feeling guilty again. “I left someone behind.” That’s all he could bring himself to say when the subject came up. It wasn’t entirely true; you’d both gone your separate ways. But he’d left first—decided to try his luck with distant family in another city, relatives his parents rarely spoke to. You’d tried to keep in touch but things had fizzled out. You were both busy with your own lives and your talks became less frequent. You left messages for each other on occasion; pictures from you, embarrassingly long and heartfelt texts that felt more like letters from him. He wanted you to know he was okay. He was strong and capable, and you didn’t have to worry.

“So can we go?” you ask.

The corner of Sawyer’s mouth twitches, the movement very quick and very slight but unmistakably a suppressed snarl. “We?” he repeats stiffly.

“I’m not leaving without Flint.”

Flint feels like he’s going to burst out of his own skin, terrified by your open defiance and how you won’t drop your gaze, even more afraid that he’ll lose control himself at any moment. He trusts his mentor but Sawyer has a reputation. He forgets to go easy on pack humans sometimes. He can be harsh, less forgiving of trespasses, dangerously aggressive in the heat of the moment. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Sawyer comes any closer. Flint knows there’s an old, awful story behind all his scars carving through the thick wolf fur he can’t fully retract. It’s not always easy to tell what’ll set him off.

It’s just as hard to predict what he’ll laugh off and deem unthreatening. Flint sags in relief when Sawyer lets out an amused huff, his posture loosening somewhat. Whatever he was looking for, whatever it is that reminds him of his scars, he doesn’t find it in you. If anything, he looks a little fond of you. “You’d better stay put,” Sawyer says. “The claiming hunt isn’t over. Won’t be for a little while. No one would purposefully antagonize Flint, but nobody is thinking clearly during a chase, either. Do you want something to eat or drink?” You glare at him. “Suit yourself. I have to speak with the alpha about this. Corbin, you’re dismissed. Let’s give them some space.” 

Corbin never takes his eyes off you as he gets to his feet, returning your scowl with a sweet smile. “It was so nice to meet you,” he purrs. 

Your frown deepens. “Feeling’s not mutual.” 

“Mm. Give it time.” He winks before Sawyer herds him out the door with a playful growl.

Sawyer pauses on the porch, looking back at you with a sharp gaze. “Stay,” he rumbles. He smirks. You think he’s making fun of you, but his gaze shifts to Flint just briefly. Flint’s heart skips a beat. 

Because Sawyer does nothing without a reason. All of that, every little thing, had a purpose. Getting you accustomed to hearing commands. Keeping his distance to put you at ease. Bringing Corbin along showed you that the pack keeps humans, that they’re fed, cared for, permitted some mischief from time to time. Giving you an order he knows you won’t follow wasn’t for you, though. That was for Flint. Because Flint is a shepherd, and when you disobey, it’s his responsibility to do something about it.

Your shoulders sag, a long sigh slipping out when the guest house door slams shut. The silence that follows is deafening. It’s just the two of you now. You and Flint. His hands shake. He tries to take deep breaths to calm himself but every inhale is full of your scent, the sharpness of your sweat and worry. He’s not ready. He’s petrified. What is he supposed to do now? What is he supposed to say? He wants to tell you so many things but the words won’t come. They never do. You’ve always understood what he tries to say, even when he can’t say it, but you don’t understand the situation you’re in now.

“Come on,” you say. “He’s probably bringing the alpha back with him. We have to hurry.” You rub your face on a few blankets and pillows—decoys. He recognizes this trick. You’ll take those with you when you run, toss them around to hide your trail. Then you rush to the kitchen and he follows nervously, reminded of a dozen other messes you’ve gotten him out of before. You turn on the sink and lather up the strongest-smelling soap you can find in the cupboards, scrubbing your face, your neck, your wrists, any exposed skin. Your natural scent isn’t gone but it’s smothered in earthy musk because all of the pack’s homemade soaps smell like the woods. Clever. Worryingly so.

“They didn’t…kidnap me,” he admits. “I chose to come here.”

You pause to look at him, your stony focus softening with sympathy. “Yeah? I bet it wasn’t what you thought it’d be,” you say. 

You’re right. Just not the way you think you are. “This isn’t like before. They’re different. The alpha is good. I know it seems strange. They’re not like the packs we’re used to. But—” 

“Flint.” You look up at him and his voice catches in his throat. “Come here. Your turn.” 

He shouldn’t. Shouldn’t encourage this any further. He has to be honest with you, has to make you understand. “It’s not safe out there,” he says weakly. “Sawyer wasn’t lying about the chase. It gets…intense. If anybody catches your scent—”

“They won’t,” you insist. You take one of his hands in his and his resolve crumbles bit by bit, eroded by the tender smoothing motions of your fingers over his palm and knuckles and joints. He’s thinking about that shower you took together years ago. The warmth. The safety. The certainty that he was home at last, pack or no pack, that he had everything he wanted. Hoarfrost Falls is where he belongs, but something has been missing all this time, something important. He can’t help it. When you tug on his arm, he kneels, letting you smooth your hands over his face and neck, shutting his eyes and savoring your touch. 

He’s not ready. But Sawyer told him he doesn’t have to be. Now and then, when the other lessons are done, they sit under the moon and talk about gods. “The Poised Fang is old. Very, very old,” Sawyer told him. “In his time, wolves had no names. Humans were prey. Smart, vicious prey, worthy of respect. The hunt is the oldest dance, and he is the best dancer. There are others who came after—gods of hearth-keeping and shepherding. But when you see a human—your human—you call on the Poised Fang first. That’s why we have that saying in Old Wolven. ‘Keep your fangs poised.’ It’s an invocation. Do you know the key to hunting humans?”

Flint hadn’t known. The topic made him squeamish. But Sawyer reassured him they meant it differently now. That the Poised Fang, timeless and eternal, was pleased that the hunt continued, even if its end had changed.

“The key is patience. It’s not strength. Not readiness. Patience. You’ll see this firsthand someday. You don’t have to be ready. You just have to wait. The moment will come.” 

Flint opens his eyes and you’re staring at him, your palms framing his face. He nuzzles against your touch and you blink, startled, pulling away. It makes him want to growl but he holds it in. “We should get going,” you tell him. You’re embarrassed. He can smell it. You shouldn’t be. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. He wishes the two of you had talked about it before—all of it. Your feelings. His instincts. The desire to hold you close and leave you drenched in his scent. The throbbing need to sink his teeth into your neck. 

“It’s a long way to the nearest town,” he tells you, his voice low but steady. “Hours. Too far on foot, for you.” 

“Shit. They didn’t take your keys, did they? Guess we could steal theirs.” You laugh. Flint smiles. He’s not ready. He’s a storm inside, hope and fear and revulsion all crashing against one another. Some part of him has always known he would come back for you, but he wanted more time. More certainty. Then again, hasn’t he already had all the time he needs? Nobody knows you better. You peer through the front windows, then the back. 

“Is there a river nearby?” you wonder aloud. “It rained the other day. Should be able to cover our scent with mud, if we have to.” 

Flint inches closer. Afraid. Excited. He’s panting. He can’t help it. The truth is that he’s going to have to hurt you. Just a little. Just enough. You’re going to scream and cry and it’s going to feel like a knife in the heart, but he knows you’ll feel even worse. And that’s okay, he tells himself. That’s normal. Natural. Part of the process. Like when you were children, and he got a splinter stuck in his paw, and you sat him down with a pair of tweezers and scratched under his chin while he whined. He didn’t want you to touch it but you insisted. It had to come out. It would hurt just a tiny bit one last time, and then it wouldn’t hurt anymore. It’s just like that. 

“Look!” you’d said, pointing up at a tree. “Squirrel!” 

He knew, logically, that you were just trying to distract him. But he’d perked up anyway, took his eyes off of you, and then it was done. Over in a blink. It’s just like that, he tells himself. He whispers a prayer in Old Wolven Norse to the Poised Fang, begging to know if prey can ever forgive the predator for the sharpness of his teeth.

“I love you,” he says. 

You freeze. Your palm hovers over the door handle. Looking up at him with wide eyes and mouth parted in shock, a question starts forming on your lips. And like the oldest of his gods stalking a primeval forest, Flint does not waste the moment. 

[morverenmaybewrites]

His Father's Son (A Dark Fantasy!Gotham AU): Preview

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

CW: Horror, Graphic Depictions of Violence

Tags: Dark Fantasy!AU, Hanahaki Disease!AU, Childhood friends to lovers

Synopsis:

Gotham City: the world’s last and greatest bastion of magic. A city made out of spells and twisting steel.

And the only place where the dead can be brought back to life.

After Jason Todd had been forcibly resurrected by his father, he left Gotham City in search of a new life. One where he did not have to be constantly reminded that he now sits on the border between the monstrous and the miraculous.

One where he could forget that no longer quite belongs in the world of the living.

But when a strange curse surfaces, one that causes plants to take root inside of living people and leaving flowering corpses in its wake, Jason finds that he must come back and help solve the case before it devours the city whole.

Preview:

Jason Todd hated taking the bus. 

He hated the fact that there was only one exit–one escape route, and that he was almost always seated too far from it. He hated the constant contact with strangers, any one of whom could be carrying a gun or a bomb or a knife, never mind the fact that Jason himself had all three on his person at any given time. 

He hated where this particular bus had been taking him, right before it had come to a screeching halt in the middle of the road.

The thing that had somehow snuck aboard, ripped off the driver’s left arm, and curled up above the glass doors did not help improve this sentiment. 

It had a man’s head, its once-blue pupils now milky with death, sitting on top of a writhing mass of arms. Some of the hands scrabbled at the glass windows, fingernails tapping out a meaningless rhythm that made his head ache. Others were grasping blindly at the steering wheel.

The man’s head opened, once, twice, as if trying to speak. But no sound came out. A quarter-sized hole, neatly slotted in the center of its forehead, sluggishly oozed out blood. 

Jason’s gun was still smoking. 

Someone behind him spoke in a shaking voice. Jason could smell the stink of urine. 

“Is it dead?” 

The head twitched, when it heard the woman’s voice.  

Then it smiled, showing far too many teeth, yellowed and cracked like old tombstones. Its arms stilled their distracted movements, muscles cording underneath gray skin. 

Though its eyes didn’t move, Jason knew that the thing’s attention was focused solely on him. 

He reached for his other gun. 

“No.”