#wild forcin' it

[questioningespecialy]

And I am not a Power Rangers fan, I've seen like 3 episodes of 1 of the series while I was babysitting one time, because the kid wanted to watch it.

*clutches chest*

I am still so salty about Power Rangers 2017.

People weep and moan for well written representation in film and I’m like “Power Rangers 2017 gave you a team with only one white member, a questioning queer girl, and an autistic hero that doesn’t have ‘magical autism’. He was just autistic and was just like, “Oh, I am autistic, so I’m not going to pick up on your sarcasm.”

They didn’t make autism into a superpower or some life ending tragedy, they had a character with autism who had that inform his character. Billy wasn’t ashamed of this. He was bullied and bad at social cues but the only shame he ever felt was guilt over his reaction to his dad’s death which makes perfect fucking sense.

Trini was in a questioning, confused state and her sexuality is just there and causing her some difficulty. Not because she might be gay, but because she is not sure and doesn’t know how to express this to her family.

Zack was the ultimate subversion of the model minority bullshit people assign to Asians and Asian characters. He was a tactless thrill junkie processing his own hardships.

Kimberly had a nuanced narrative regarding bullying. She was a VERY grey character who legitimately did something awful.

And Jason’s story is basically the ultimate disection of toxic masculinity.

Saban was even hinting that Tommy was going to be a girl in the planned sequel. WE MIGHT HAVE GOTTEN A FEMALE URBAN NATIVE GREEN RANGER. ANYONE who knows Power Rangers can tell you how huge that would be. Tommy was the fan favorite and one of the most interesting characters. Yeah, we might have gotten a superhero film with a female Urban Native lead.

And y'all just dismissed this movie and made Krispy Kreme jokes. Newsflash: the movie was making Krispy Kreme jokes that were better than your Krispy Kreme jokes. If you honestly think “Krispy Kreme… it is a magical place” was supposed to be taken seriously, you are lame and boring and probably like Air Supply.

And gaaaah! Do you know how bad this movie SHOULD have been? Take this from a girl who draped her room in Pink Ranger shit for two years: Power Rangers is pretty fucking dumb. I love it, but nuance, pathos, and realism WERE NEVER CARDS IN THIS FRANCHISE’S DECK. Then this fucking movie, which I went into expecting a lazy, stupid, nostalgia bait had like… real characters, and conflict, and a script written on empathy. People actually worked their ass off to not only make a good movie, but one that was genuinely diverse and respectful and EMPATHETIC.

The movie bombed and y'all wrote it off despite it being one of the most diverse, heartfelt, and nonstereotypical films in recent memory.

Now I’ll never get to watch Trini and LADY!Tommy flip back their helmets to make out with “Go Go Lesbo Rangers” playing in the background. I hope you’re happy with yourselves.

[evermoreal]

thinking abt some kind of outlaw!au where the 141 walk away from a raid with a lot more than they bargained for.

a few weeks back they’d received word of a nobleman and his wife who’d be leaving for their honeymoon, valuables aboard the carriage. after a bit of lurking and bribing, they’d narrowed down just which road was desolate and wild enough to get away with the raid.

concealed by the bordering forests, they’d waited. an embarrassingly opulent carriage came dawdling down the road (polished wood, velvet curtains, ostentatious engravings) & they pounced.

the drivers & guards, they’d expected. the gunshots, the shouting. what took them by surprise, though, was the wife, who did not fight as gaz wrestled her into his arms. who watched a little too closely when ghost dragged his blade across her husband’s chest, demanding the location of their funds.

“where’s’a money?” price questioned, moving towards the woman when her husband’s pride weighed heavier than his cowardice. his broad palm gripped her jaw as gaz held her arms behind her back. “hm, lovey? y’speak english? y’better tell me, or your sweetheart ‘ere ‘ll be gutted before tha night’s over.”

she watched her husband writhe for a long moment, before meeting price’s gaze. her voice was flat, steady. “kill him.”

soap barked a laugh. ghost cocked his head.

price, though, was intrigued.

“kill ‘im?” he echoed. then, he lifted her hand, yanking the diamond ring off her finger and pinching it between his fingers. “wha’ bout this? just a rock, is it? ‘till death do us part’ mean nothin’ to ya?”

“words don’t mean much when you’re forced to say them, sir.”

“forced?” price questions, narrowed eyes flicking across your features. he looks to your husband, then, who’s soiled his pants. “tha fuck is this muppet forcin’?”

price is quiet for a while, watching your husband as he wriggles in ghost’s grip. when he meets your gaze, there’s a small, barely-there curve to his chapped lips. “you really want ‘im dead?” there’s an amusement to his tone, a disbelief.

you steel your gaze. “yes.”

the curve of his lips bends into a grin, and you’ve barely exhaled before he’s lifting his pistol, aiming it at your husband’s head, and shooting.

limp, he falls to the ground.

you don’t flinch. in fact your voice is steady when you state, “the money’s in the chest, beneath the seats.”

once again, price approaches you. grips your jaw, tilts your face this way and that. he taps your cheek twice, and says, “you heard the woman. soap, get the money. gaz, tie ‘er up, she’s with me.”

[octopiys]

This is absolutely wild thank you all so much??? Oh goodness. I have nothing prepared I didn't think I'd reach this milestone for a while. Uh

200 people is a lot, so again thank you all so much. I'm almost finished with a soapghost ask (forcin' myself through the writer's block and business) so I'll see u all later :)

[toffyrats]

hey guys

have a little thingy i did w my ocs. avery is a wolf and juliette is a bunny for context... it takes place sometime mid 1800s havent decided yet lmao. i am NOT explaiming their whole lore but yeah lets just. go. also predator/prey racism system is like in zootopia but ramped up abit because it's the 1800s cmon. oh yeah also im sosorry for the lack of indents i wrote this on my musty old phone

"so... philadelphia, huh?" avery snorted as he flopped down less than gracefully onto the train bench. "what's so special 'bout it anyway? jus' seems like another stuck-up, pompous city wit' a bunch of stuck-up, pompous animals to go with it. 's like a package deal wit' cities."

avery leaned back sideways on the bench, his head hitting the wall. he stole a quick glance over at juli and shook his head. "no offense." a pause. "actually, no, all offense." he curled up in the corner of the seat, his tail curled almost protectively around himself. he huffed and stared out of the window.

juliette sighed and self-consciously pulled her dress down across her knees. "well, sor-RY. guess you're used to it by now."

"used to what? you forcin' me to go on this stupid train ride and inevi.. in.. hold on." avery stopped for a moment, seemingly thinking, only the tip of his tail moving. "inevita... i-nev-i-ta-ble-y. inevitably talkin' my ear off the whole way?" he finally got out, looking proud of himself for a moment before his usual scowl creased his face. "'cause i ain't."

"no, avery," juli groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. "i mean, used to being pushed around. by our kind." she made a wild gesture with her paw, looking around almost desperately. "you know... rabbits, mice-" she pointed to the train attendant, who had been especially rude to avery while the pair had been boarding the car. "-deer, haha. uh... um-"

"yeah, ya runnin' outta prey to name? i got it, thanks," avery snarled, his lip curling dangerously and his tail lashing, brushing against the leather seat.

"r-right. uh." juli searched for somehow, something to change the subject. giving up, she let out a long and- if she was being honest, purposely exaggerated- sigh, and mirrored avery's sulking against the window.

there was a few beats of tensioned silence, before avery broke it with another snort.

"ha. there ya are, mopin' by the window, waitin' for me to comfort you. it's this thing with girls, i've learned."

juliette indignantly opened her mouth to retort, even though she inwardly knew avery was right.

"aaaand there it is," he drawled with a rude-sounding chuckle. "see, this is why i don't do comfort. whatever needs to be said, it'll be that way eventually. if it never is, it wasn't important enough."

"that's awful!"

"tha's jus' life, darlin'. now go on and tell me, and rest assured, i won't care." avery made a dramatic slicing motion with both his arms and then fell back against the seat, grinning triumphantly. his top canines curled out prominently, and juli just shook her head with a sad sigh.

"the whole reason we're on this train.. my father sent for me."

"woah, the big guy himself, eh? must be quite a day."

juli glared daggers at the wolf- sprawled out disrespectfully on the seat in front of her- before going on. "i don't mean to appear rude, but... you probably don't understand how rich families truly work..." juli waited for a sneer, a laugh, some kind of snide remark from avery- but it never came. good, atleast he might be kind of paying attention.

"the men get the inheritance, the money, the power, the choices. while the women... get the chance to-"

"marry into just another pretentious jackass household?" avery tore his eyes away from the window, and juliette lifted her gaze from her lap.

"yeah..." she breathed. it wasn't anything special, what avery said. but the satisfaction of knowing he was listening at all was enough for juli.

"my father wants to marry me off. for the money, i assume." juli hung her head once again, wringing her paws and her nose twitching nervously in that way all rabbits did. "unfair, methinks, after running away to philadelphia immediately after receiving the dowry and inheritance. i don't want to see him- he ruined my mother's life. and in turn, mine." her paws curled into fists at her sides. "i much less don't want to marry someone like him--"

"then you shouldn't have to." avery's voice was as stubborn and angry-sounding as it always was, but there was a tone of softness in it that juli had never heard him use before. "fuck ya da. fuck the rules. who cares? why'd ya even get on the train in the first place?"

"my mother would be disappointed," juliette whispered, her ear tips stinging slightly from the strong curses flowing from avery's mouth as if they were slaps to the face.

"ya know what, fuck ya ma, too." juli's ears twitched involuntarily and angled away. "i saw that!" avery shouted, earning him a loud hush from the train attendant. he glared at him before leaning closer to juli and dropping his voice volume slightly. "you listen to me, dollface. if ya don't wanna do it, who on god's green earth is gonna make you?? no one, that's who."

"i have to marry into a rich family. i barely get a choice," juli sobbed, wiping her eyes with the back of her paw.

"yeah, well- it ain't right." avery nudged juli's paw away from her face gentler than both of them would have expected him to. "listen, when we get to philadelphia, you'll see. i'm sure ya da ain't all that anyways."

avery swallowed suddenly and returned to his curled-up state in the corner of his seat.

"thank you," juliette breathed out. "for that."

"'t was nothin'," avery mumbled, running his paws across the brush of his tail.

they rode in complete- though comfortable- silence for the rest of the trip.

[toby-du-coeur]

Here's pg. 250:

Thomas strutted half tha distizzle ta Newt, then stopped. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da most shitty part bout his wild lil' playa was the wildnizz up in his wild lil' fuckin eyes. Madnizz lurked behind them, two festerin poolz of sicknizz yo. How tha fuck had it happened so quickly?

“Hey. Newt. It’s me, Thomas. Yo ass still remember me, right?”

A sudden claritizzle filled Newt’s eyes then, almost makin Thomas step back up in surprise.

“I bloody remember you, Tommy. Yo ass just came ta peep me all up in tha Palace, rubbed it up in dat you ignored my note. I can’t go straight-up wild-ass up in all dem days.”

…

“Newt, stop. Just dig mah dirty ass. I know you’re aiiight up in there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Enough ta hear me out.”

“I don't give a fuck bout you, Tommy!” Dude was only all dem feet away n' Thomas took a step backward, his hurt over Newt turnin ta fear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. “I don't give a fuck bout you I don't give a fuck bout you I don't give a fuck bout you, nahmean biiiatch, biatch? Afta all I did fo' you, afta all tha freakin klunk I went all up in in tha bloody Maze, you can’t do tha one n' only thang I’ve eva axed you ta do! I can’t even peep yo' skanky shuck face!”

Thomas took two mo' steps back. “Newt, you need ta stop. They’re goin ta blast you, biatch. Just stop and dig me biaaatch! Git up in tha van, let me tie you up. Give me a cold-ass lil chance!” Dude couldn’t bust a cap up in his wild lil' playa yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin' yo. Dude just couldn’t.

Newt screamed n' rushed forward. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! An arc of Launcher lightnin blasted from tha van, skiddin and cracklin across tha pavement yo, but it missed his muthafuckin ass. Thomas had frozen up in place, n' Newt tackled his ass to the ground, knockin tha breath outta his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude struggled ta fill his fuckin lungs as his oldschool playa climbed on top of his ass n' pinned his ass down.

“I should rip yo' eyes out,” Newt holla'd, sprayin Thomas wit spit. “Teach you a lesson up in stupidity. Why’d you come over here, biatch? Yo ass expected a funky-ass bloody hug, biatch? Huh, biatch? A sick sit-down ta rap bout tha good times up in tha Glade?”

Thomas shook his head, gripped by terror, straight-up slowly reachin fo' his wild lil' freakadelic glock wit his wild lil' free hand. “Yo ass wanna know why I have dis limp, Tommy, biatch? Did I eva tell yo slick ass, biatch? Fuck dat shit, I don’t be thinkin I done did.”

“What happened?” Thomas asked, stallin fo' time yo. Dude slipped his wild lil' fingers round tha weapon.

“I tried ta bust a cap up in mah dirty ass up in tha Maze. Climbed halfway up one of dem bloody walls n' jumped right off. Alby found mah crazy ass n' dragged mah crazy ass back ta tha Glade right before tha Doors closed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I hated tha place, Tommy. I hated every last muthafuckin second of every last muthafuckin day. It make me wanna hollar playa! And dat shiznit was all … yo' … fault!”

Newt suddenly twisted round n' grabbed Thomas by tha hand holdin tha gun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude yanked it toward himself, forcin it up until tha end of tha pistol was pressed against his own forehead. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! “Now make amendz muthafucka! Bust a cap up in me before I become one of dem cannibal monsters muthafucka! Bust a cap up in me biaaatch! I trusted you wit tha note biaaatch! No one else. Now do dat shiznit son!”

Thomas tried ta pull his hand away yo, but Newt was too strong. “I can’t, Newt, I can’t.”

“Make amendz muthafucka! Repent fo' what tha fuck you did!” Da lyrics tore outta him, his whole body trembling. Then his voice dropped ta a urgent, harsh whisper n' shit. “Bust a cap up in me, you shuck coward. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Prove you can do tha right thing. Put me outta mah misery.”

Da lyrics horrified Thomas. “Newt, maybe we can-"”

“Shut up! Just shut tha fuck up! I trusted you, nahmean biiiatch, biatch? Now do dat shiznit son!”

“I can’t.”

“Do dat shiznit son!”

“I can’t!” How tha fuck could Newt ask his ass ta do suttin' like this, biatch? How tha fuck could he possibly bust a cap up in one of his best playas?

“Bust a cap up in me or I’ll bust a cap up in you, biatch. Bust a cap up in me biaaatch! Do dat shiznit son!”

“Newt …”

“Do it before I become one of them!”

“I …”

“KILL ME!” And then Newt’s eyes cleared, as if he’d gained one last tremblin gasp of sanity, n' his voice softened. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! “Please, Tommy. Please.”

With his thugged-out ass fallin tha fuck into a funky-ass black abyss, Thomas pulled tha trigger.

Dude fuckin started his freshly smoked up game standin up, surrounded by cold darknizz n’ stale, dusty air.

Metal ground against metal; a lurchin shudder shook tha floor beneath his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude fell tha fuck down all up in tha sudden movement n’ shuffled backward on his handz n’ feet, dropz of sweat beadin on his wild lil’ forehead despite tha def air yo. His back struck a hard metal wall; da perved-out muthafucka slid along it until dat schmoooove muthafucka hit tha corner of tha room. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sinkin ta tha floor, he pulled his hairy-ass legs up tight against his body, hopin his wild lil’ fuckin eyes would soon adjust ta tha darkness.

With another jolt, tha room jerked upward like a oldschool lift up in a mine shaft.

Harsh soundz of chains n’ pulleys, like tha workingz of a ancient steel factory, echoed all up in tha room, bouncin off tha walls wit a hollow, tinny whine. Da lightless elevator swayed back n’ forth as it ascended, turnin tha boy’s stomach sour wit nausea; a smell like burnt oil invaded his senses, makin his ass feel worse yo. Dude wanted ta cry yo, but no tears came; his schmoooove ass could only sit there, alone, waiting.

Hoes call me Thomas, tha pimpin’ muthafucka thought.

That … dat was tha only thang his schmoooove ass could remember bout his wild lil’ freakadelic game.

Dude didn’t KNOW how tha fuck dis could be possible yo. His mind functioned without flaw, tryin ta calculate his surroundings n’ predicament. Knowledge flooded his cold-ass thoughts, facts n’ images, memories n’ detailz of tha ghetto n’ how tha fuck it works yo. Dude pictured snow on trees, hustlin down a leaf-strewn road, smokin a hamburger, tha moon castin a pale glow on a grassy meadow, swimmin up in a lake, a funky-ass busy hood square wit hundredz of playas bustlin bout they bidnizz.

And yet da ruffneck didn’t know where his schmoooove ass came from, or how tha fuck he’d gotten inside tha dark lift, or whoz ass his thugged-out lil’ muthafathas were, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin’ thru fo’sho yo. Dude didn’t even know his fuckin last name. Imagez of playas flashed across his crazy-ass mind yo, but there was no recognition, they faces replaced wit hustled smearz of color yo. Dude couldn’t be thinkin of one thug he knew, or recall a single conversation.

Da room continued its ascent, swaying; Thomas grew immune ta tha ceaseless rattlin of tha chains dat pulled his ass upward. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! A long time passed. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Minutes stretched tha fuck into hours, although dat shiznit was impossible ta know fo’ shizzle cuz every last muthafuckin second seemed a eternity. No yo. Dude was smarter than dis shit. Trustin his crazy-ass muthafuckin instincts, he knew he’d been movin fo’ roughly half a hour.

Strangely enough, he felt his wild lil’ fear whisked away like a swarm of gnats caught up in tha wind, replaced by a intense curiositizzle yo. Dude wanted ta know where da thug was n’ what tha fuck was happening.

With a groan n’ then a cold-ass lil clonk, tha risin room halted; tha sudden chizzle jolted Thomas from his huddled posizzle n’ threw his ass across tha hard floor fo’ realz. As da perved-out muthafucka scrambled ta his wild lil’ feet, he felt tha room sway less n’ less until it finally stilled. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Everythang fell tha fuck silent.

A minute passed. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Two yo. Dude looked up in every last muthafuckin direction but saw only darkness; he felt along tha walls again, searchin fo’ a way out. But there was nothing, only tha def metal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack yo. Dude groaned up in frustration; his wild lil’ fuckin echo amplified all up in tha air, like tha hustled moan of dirtnap. Well shiiiit, it faded, n’ silence returned. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude screamed, called fo’ help, pounded on tha walls wit his wild lil’ fists.

Nothing.

Thomas backed tha fuck into tha corner once again, folded his thugged-out arms n’ shivered, n’ tha fear returned. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude felt a worryin shudder up in his chest, as if his thugged-out ass wanted ta escape, ta flee his body.

“Someone … help … me!” da perved-out muthafucka screamed; each word ripped his cold-ass throat raw.

A bangin clank rang up above his ass n’ da perved-out muthafucka sucked up in a startled breath as he looked up fo’ realz. A straight line of light rocked up across tha ceilin of tha room, n’ Thomas peeped it as it expanded. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! A heavy gratin sound revealed double slidin doors bein forced open. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch fo’ realz. After so long up in darkness, tha light jabbed his wild lil’ fuckin eyes; he looked away, coverin his wild lil’ grill wit both hands.

Dude heard noises above-voices-and fear squeezed his chest.

“Look at dat shank.”

“How tha fuck oldschool is he?”

“Looks like a klunk up in a T-shirt.”

“You’re tha klunk, shuck-face.”

“Dude, it smells like feet down there!”

“Hope you enjoyed tha one-way trip, Greenie.”

“Ain’t no ticket back, bro.”

Thomas was hit wit a wave of mad drama, blistered wit panic. Da voices was odd, tinged wit echo; a shitload of tha lyrics was straight-up foreign-others felt familiar yo. Dude willed his wild lil’ fuckin eyes ta adjust as da perved-out muthafucka squinted toward tha light n’ dem bustin lyrics fo’ realz. At first his schmoooove ass could peep only shiftin shadows yo, but they soon turned tha fuck into tha shapez of bodies-people bendin over tha hole up in tha ceiling, lookin down at him, pointing.

And then, as if tha lenz of a cold-ass lil camera had sharpened its focus, tha faces cleared. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They was thugs, all of them-some young, some olda n’ shit. Thomas didn’t know what tha fuck he’d expected yo, but seein dem faces puzzled his muthafuckin ass. They was just teenagers. Kids. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some of his wild lil’ fear melted away yo, but not enough ta calm his bangin racin ass.

Someone lowered a rope from above, tha end of it tied tha fuck into a funky-ass big-ass loop. Thomas hesitated, then stepped tha fuck into it wit his bangin right foot n’ clutched tha rope as da thug was yanked toward tha sky yo. Handz reached down, fuckin shitloadz of hands, grabbin his ass by his clothes, pullin his ass up. Da ghetto seemed ta spin, a swirlin mist of faces n’ color n’ light fo’ realz. A storm of emotions wrenched his wild lil’ freakadelic gut, twisted n’ pulled; da thug wanted ta scream, cry, throw up. Da choruz of voices had grown silent yo, but one of mah thugs was rappin as they yanked his ass over tha sharp edge of tha dark box fo’ realz. And Thomas knew he’d never forget tha lyrics.

“Sick ta hook up ya, shank,” tha pimp holla’d. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! “Yo, wuz crackalackin’, biatch? Yo ass is smokin tha Glade.”

[ask-mortarion-the-death-lord]

been workin out some vague alt heresy ideas, but the twist is that all the canon legions have to fight oc traitor legions, and also horus dies on davin from the bad juju.

general ideas:

horuses death possesses both a physical and psychic component to it, ie when horus bites it the immaterium itself freaks the fuck out.

a lot of the og traitor legions sort their shit out so to speak through the repercussions of horuses death. the world eaters for instance get super paranoid about angrons own impending death and institute operation save angrons ass. fulgrim gets reaaal fuckin sad and in the process of forcin everyone to play funeral dress-up kinda stumbles ass back into the emperors childrens slaanesh problem. stuff like that.

fun team ups! jaghatai khan and mortarion have to escort magnuses limp ass body across the galaxy on the run from traitor forces. angron growling at a frazzled roboute well lorgar is on his other side getting incredibly pissy about the whole 'turns out weaponized religious faith can actually hurt daemons' thing and alpharius is starin him down waitin patiently for a good round of 'told ya so' and spy network reporting.

a really crowded imperium secundus

perturabo building the bestest no girls allowed fort out of olympia ever, way cooler then rogals lame ass imperial palace fortifications.

abaddons wild ride of gathering shattered loyalist legions, aiming em vaguely towards terra and saying 'mush'

konrad curze: the dark knight returns

ferrus manus doesnt get decapitated! right away anyways.

lemen russ, the reasonable executioner when prospero burned

turns out psychic prophesizing dont mean shit, if the entire timeline decides to go absolutely completely bonkers off the rails

the sethian heresy, when arch traitor seth aventine, the second son, betrayed the imperium of man because of severe brocon issues

"g'day jaghatai, mortarion. so, turns out magnus aint as dead as we were hopin he'd be and i've been sent here ta finish the job. Now, I aint got a quarrel with you, but its been a long flight and ive been meanin to test out my super suit, so be a pair of dolls and gimmie a good show! both at once, really wanna put this thing through its paces."

roboute from the original timeline waking up in this weird alt universe 10,000 years later and having to make heads and tails of everything.

[morgana-ren]

For the me. Shigaraki and somnophilia. Or shigaraki and noncon, whichever you'd prefer

No | rather not | I dunno | I guess | Sure | Yes | FUCK yes | Oh god you don’t even know | ALSKFNAJDLFN NAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

TO BOTH OF THOSE.

I'm a sick little bitch, and both of those get me so hot that I rival the sun. Especially both of them a the same time.

Shigaraki runnin' up on me in an alley, puttin a knife to my throat and forcin' me to deepthroat his cock like it's my final meal? Quaking. Him jerkin' it over my sleeping form when I have no idea he's even there cause I'm gone to meemee land? Ooh baby. Him slippin' into my sleeping bag after I had a lil' too much to drink at the bar and fuckin' me with a hand around my throat and me coming to and trying to fight him but he's not having it? Bitch I'm a waterfall.

There's something disturbingly hot to me about him wanting me so badly that he doesn't give a single fuck whether or not I want him back. If it means taking me unaware or when I'm vulnerable and sleepin' peacefully, so be it. Dominance and that sheer power is also a huge turn on, so that whole "Go ahead, fight me. Pretend you can fend me off while I take what I want from you if it makes you feel better." thing while I fight him tooth and nail and it don't make a lick of difference makes me quiver like a fuckin' arrow. I also like my men extremely possessive, so that behavior gotta kinda be special to me and me only (or reader in this case). If he's sluttin' it up around town and bangin' everything that moves, it loses a lot of the allure for me and I'll start actually trying to bite and kick. You don't get to touch me if I'm not special to you.

Is it canon? Probably not (although it largely depends on your interpretation since I highly doubt Horikoshi is EVER gunna touch this one with a ten foot rod). He's probably the type to get all red-faced and flustered if he accidently walks in on you changing your shirt even with a tank top underneath, but since I'm affection deprived in my every day life, I make up for it in my fantasies. The thought of him just simply not fucking caring is unbelievably hot to me.

Noncon is my huge one. My biggest one, more than likely. I can go fuckin' wild with a noncon concept, my brain FINDS a way, baby.

[wri0thesley]

Can we get some Mista and his super shy s/o watching porn together for the first time :3c

mostly neutral reader in both physicality and pronouns, although mista uses some gendered language because Italian Hard (’carina’). not sfw!

“Babe,” Mista’s voice is gentle, his hand on your thigh. “If you won’t wanna do this, we ain’t gotta. I can turn it off right now, I don’t want you to feel like I’m forcin’ you to do anythin’! I want you to be comfy, y’know?”

You shift, moving closer to him, swallowing. You look at the laptop set up in front of you gingerly, your natural shyness swelling up in your chest. It would be so easy to say you don’t want to do this; to hide away from the feelings inside of you and pretend that they don’t exist. To pretend that every time Guido Mista kisses you and his mouth is hot and his body presses against you, burning with need, you don’t feel an answering call thrum through your body that begs to be touched and kissed and caressed.

“It’s not that,” you say, your skin flushed. “I want to! I’m just … nervous.”

“Hey,” Mista’s fingers are scooping up your chin, making you look at him - and look at him you do, your heart skipping a beat as it often does when you see the lopsided smile and the big dark eyes. In the intimacy of your bedroom, he’s lost the hat, and dark curls flop over his forehead in a way that’s begging for fingers to run messily through them. 

He’s lost his sweater, too. And his loud, tiger-print trousers, so tight you have to force your eyes away from the curve of his ass and the bulge in the crotch where you know that both his cock and his gun are being stashed. You, in turn, have lost your clothes - and you sit beside him in your underwear, your skin dusted with blush, nervous that (despite what past experience has told you), Mista isn’t going to like what he sees. 

“Hey, carina,” he croons again, and you look up into those dark eyes. “You’ve got nothin’ to be nervous about.” Boldly, fingers land on your thigh, the hot pads of his digits dragging up to cup your hips and caress your waist, every touch leaving trails of fire behind. “You’re gorgeous, I’m gorgeous - and nothin’ we see’s gonna change that. It’s really not a big deal! I just thought it’d be nice, y’know - set the mood, give us some ideas …”

Effortlessly, Guido Mista has picked out two of the things that you’re terrified of. For a man with a reputation for being kind of clueless - everyone is always telling you that Mista enjoys the simple things in life with a smirk and raised eyebrows - he’s remarkably adept with you.

That fear someone you see in a video is going to be more Mista’s type than you ever were. That fear watching these videos is going to make him push you to do things that you don’t want to, Mista’s voice insistently saying ‘but they did it in the video, cara - don’t you wanna please me?’

No. He’s not like that. Your hands go to his face and pull him down into a kiss, fingers tangling into the nape of his neck. He breathes hotly against you, mouth damp, tongue sliding across your lower lip to beg to be kissed back. And you do kiss him back, despite the fact that doing it always makes you feel heady and embarrassed - because you want to kiss him. You want to make that shudder you always get when you nip at his lower lip, the way he groans low into your mouth and presses his body forward. He tastes like peppermint toothpaste - and you really hope you do too.

He pulls back, eyes lidded, tan skin flushed. 

“If we don’t put on the video now, amore,” he says, voice gritty and low in a way that sends a shiver right down your spine. “I’m gonna get way too carried away. You taste so good it should be fuckin’ illegal.”

You laugh, breathlessly, and move your face (warm cheek against warm cheek) to whisper lightly into his ear (you see the shudder that goes down his back at the heat of your breath);

“Like that would stop you.”

“Wild horses couldn’t stop me from needin’ to touch you,” he tells you - and, not without a touch of reticence, he leans forward to pull up a website onto the laptop. Your breath catches as the homepage - the squares of women being ravaged by men in what looks like painful ways, the weird kink set-ups, the leather and collars and paddles–

And, bashful, Mista goes up to the search bar and you watch as the words “tender amateur couple” are typed in by your boyfriend, who is going redder and redder by the minute.

“I like the look of that one,” you say, surprising even yourself, as the search results come up. The thumbnail is clean and crisp, filmed on a nice camera - but it’s very clearly a lived-in bedroom with nice white sheets, and the couple in question are kissing and looking at each other with a look that your brain processes as genuine adoration. One of them looks a bit like Mista - and, hoping it’s not too arrogant of you to say it, you can’t help thinking that one of them looks a bit like you.

He shoots you a secret smile, dark eyes almost a little relieved, as he clicks onto it with one hand and with the other places a comforting hand upon your thigh.

“I like the look of that one too.”

He presses play on the video and leans back against the headboard, letting you settle against him. He’s solid and warm and you can’t help but let your hand skim along his pectoral muscles, amazed at how solid they are - Mista’s breath hitching, his concentration caught between both you and the scene unfolding onscreen. The couple in question are laughing, bright eyes, cuddled up together in bed in a similar state of undress to you and Mista. The one that looks like him leans down to kiss the one that looks like you, and they moan aloud - and Mista shifts, the tent in his underwear stirring. 

There are wet noises of kisses, moans transferred into one another’s mouth, flesh on flesh as the two of them grind against each other - and you feel heat low down in your stomach, stirring betwen your thighs. You press them together as your fingers, unsure, toy at the waistband of Mista’s boxers. Onscreen, the man who looks like Mista is having his own crotch petted through his underwear, and as you reach in to take ahold of his rapidly hardening manhood, Mista breathes out a whistling noise though his teeth;

“Fuck, babe,” he whines, his hips canting upwards. You kiss his chest and he moans again, and . . . you don’t mind this. You don’t mind the sounds of another couple in the background (though it’s becoming more and more of background noise, especially now your hands are on him). You don’t mind the way Mista’s eyes flicker from the screen to you, the dopey grin on his face, You don’t mind . . . at all.

In fact . . .

You pull back from his cock, making Mista let out a disappointed groan, dark eyebrows pulled low over darker eyes in dismay. 

“B-babe,” he says, half-whining, and you let a mischievous smirk settle on your own face. The insistent ache between your thighs doesn’t stop for a moment, but you think you can hold on - after all, it’s always better if you deny yourself a bit, right? “Why’re you stoppin’? You can’t just leave me like this--” He helplessly gestures at the now impressive bulge in his underwear, a damp spot where precome is leaking against the fabric. You kiss his nose.

“I just wanna watch some more, that’s all,” you say innocently, and Mista huffs out and reaches for you, hands sliding down bare skin, clearly intending to rile you up into being needy for a continuation as you watch. A small smile settles on your lips as fingertips slide across your chest, nipples hardening beneath the heel of his hand and hot want prickling your skin all over.

You’re extremely glad to find out that this was a good idea. 

[domesticatedantelope]

slow burn

Pairing: Colt x MC

Rating: Explicit, 18+ NSFW (*sexual content and drug use*)

Word Count: 3248

Summary: The one where Colt smokes Mercy out. For RoD Appreciation Week.

(AN: First line taken from this song.)

@desiree-0816 @leelee10898 @client-327 @octobereighth @liamzigmichael4ever @navigatorholmes @sibella-plays-choices @brightpinkpeppercorn @choicesarehard @lovehugsandcandy @dr-casey-lahela

“Your dad would kill me if he knew what we were doing.”

The offhand comment startles Mercy into laughing. She bites the inside of her cheek, fixing her face into a scowl. “That’s not funny.”

Colt grins, unabashed. “You laughed.” 

Stretched back against the couch, he lets the filter of a joint hang lazily between his lips, cupping those hands she loves over his mouth. The lighter flicks to life under a few strikes of his thumb, the flame dancing reflected in his eyes as the end of the joint lights up vibrant red. A ring of glowing scarlet smolders down the paper when he tests a few gentle hits, smoke seeping in white ringlets from between his teeth. 

With that devilish smirk and the joint cradled between his fingers, Colt looks like some cautionary tale about temptation given flesh. Gray curls of smoke fade slowly in the air around them, fragrant with the smell of burning paper and the unfamiliar sticky sweetness of weed, like something that’s been buried under wet earth. He tips her head up by the chin, brushing his thumb down the slope of her throat, where her pulse beats rapidly beneath the skin. “You ready?”

Mercy feels a familiar twinge of excitement right at the center of her heart, the running start before the fall. “Yes.” 

Gripping the joint between index and thumb, Colt sets the filter to his lips and draws a long, slow hit into his lungs. His brows knit, and his chest expands as he inhales, a few thick whorls of smoke escaping from his teeth when he sets the joint aside and reaches out to take her face gently between his hands.

She gravitates into his lap, and this, at least, is blissfully familiar: the rough warmth of his palms, the sprint that leaps in her pulse when he tilts his mouth to hers. The kiss starts easy and unhurried before it deepens into her lips parting for the stroke of his tongue. She feels the tickle of his breath, the first dry taste of smoke, and then he exhales, and she’s breathing in, stealing the hit from his lips until she can feel the smoke swirling heavy in her lungs.

His mouth lingers to brush against hers once, twice more, teasing with teeth before he pulls away. Eyes dark and lidded and fixed firmly on her mouth, he strokes his thumb across her lips and back again. “Breathe in if you can,” he guides, voice husky with the rasp of smoke. “Just a little more.”

One last timid sip of air fills her lungs to the brink of her limits. There’s no heat, but the smoke still burns her throat, and the taste that lingers after is mossy and damp, gray like ash, scorched earth on the back of her tongue. Her lungs throb with the unfamiliar sensation, and then they start to ache, and slowly she allows herself to exhale, eyes widening when the faintest cloud of smoke forms on her breath. “I did it!”

An enamored smile flits across his face before he stifles it away, stuffed down wherever Colt Kaneko hides his smiles from the world. “Congratulations, stoner. Wanna try on your own?”

Blushing, lip bitten pink between her teeth, she shakes her head and chances a swift glance up through her lashes. “I want it from you.”

His laughter comes as no surprise, but the sound is softer than expected; it shivers warm like sunlight down her spine as he leans in to kiss each of her glowing cheekbones. “You are so fucking cute, you know that?” 

She basks in the heat of his touch, the timbre of his voice that hovers somewhere between fondness and frustration. Her gaze chases the perfect architecture of his hands as he taps ash from the end of the joint with a practiced flick of his fingers. The cherry glows bright red when he inhales again, slow as the sun crawls the sky, every second that he draws it out stretching into another torturous eternity between his kisses. 

From the amusement in his eyes, he’s enjoying making her wait. 

“Colt,” she whines, and curls her hand into his shirt. 

His lips twitch toward a smirk around the filter, fighting not to laugh. Finally he leaves the joint to hang between his fingers, tangling his other hand into her hair, drawing her close and dropping his mouth softly over hers. She nips hard at his bottom lip, feeling him shake with stifled laughter as he passes the smoke to her mouth with a few languid strokes of his tongue. His hand climbs the length of her backbone, tracking the swell in her ribs as they breathe in sync. When her lungs are full, he breaks away to drag his mouth down the cage of her jaw, warm lips and biting teeth and the barest scrape of stubble; it’s been a few days since he’s shaved, and the sensation never fails to make her shiver. 

Mercy almost forgets about the smoke in her lungs. Her head feels several pounds too light when she remembers to breathe out, and then Colt has his teeth against her throat, and there’s no telling if it’s the progression of his mouth or the weed making it so difficult to pin her thoughts down.

A pleasant buzz has settled in behind her eyes, and a euphoric sort of wonder slows the constant chatter of her worries. For the briefest moment (or is it much longer?) her mind is entirely quiet, the type of inner silence she can only ever achieve during climax or a rush like flying down the freeway at daredevil speeds. This is softer, washing over her in one long, gentle wave of calm and stealing all her stress away when it recedes. 

It leaves her blissfully carefree as she conducts a thorough study of Colt’s neck and shoulders, trailing her fingers up the contours of his throat and the sharp angles of his face, sketching over his pulse and the hinge of his jaw. He allows this exploration with only a teasing smirk, shifting to grant her better access when she requires further area for consideration. Past the heavy ghost of smoke that haunts her tongue, she can just taste the sharp of peppermint and leather on his skin, the same delicious smell that clings to the sheets of their bed or the sweat down the back of his neck when he’s just stepped off his bike. She threads her nails into his hair, and his head falls back with a shudder, eyes drifting shut as dregs of smoke lift from his mouth and dissipate in twisting shapes above their heads.

She has yet to decide what she likes more: the weed, or how he shares it with her. Then his hands tease up under the frayed hem of her shorts, and her heart settles firmly on the latter. 

Between drags of his own, Colt slips her hits in teasing kisses that become increasingly involved until he abandons the joint altogether, leaves it trailing smoke among the cinders in the ashtray to fill his hands with Mercy instead. They spill out across the floor together, breathing smoke and laughter as her shoulders hit the carpet and he follows to claim her smiling mouth. 

He knits his fingers through her hair, gripping in just hard enough that she can feel the pressure of his hold. Hunger stains a flush across his cheeks, darkens his eyes with pupil as he licks his teeth and smirks at her. “You know, if you wanted to fuck me, you didn’t have to get me high first.”

Despite her greatest effort, Mercy laughs. She fights a wave of giddy laughter, trying and failing to tame the smile from her face. “I always want to fuck you.”

He blinks, briefly dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, did Mercy just talk dirty?”

Heat suffuses her face, but she persists with a weed-tipsy smile, reaching up to tweak the shell of his ear. “You heard me.”

“I did.” There’s a shift in his expression, heavy with intent: promise, and something close to threat. “I think I want to hear it again.”

Mercy feels that ledge beneath her toes. Her heart lodges somewhere below her throat when she summons her most winning smirk and takes the leap. “You’ll have to convince me.”

This time his laughter is all arrogance, that softness burned away into a heat that skitters like warm fingers down her skin. He tilts her head back by the grip he has secured among her hair, steady and slow, the sting just barely there before his mouth skims her pulse point with gentle, pulling kisses; punctuates them each with the blunt edge of teeth, then his tongue charting the muscles in her neck. 

She is never more sensitive than moments like these, when Colt has her at his mercy and her throat under his teeth, and he is free to reclaim every tender nerve that he’s discovered over all the hours of his own attentive exploration. His greedy fingers play across her skin with expert understanding, rough where she is soft. He conquers her in languid and painstaking increments, skirts his fingertips over the dark waves and white spray of her tattoo, the beauty marks that scatter out like stars against her skin. He worries the first button of her shirt beneath his thumb and glances up to consider the flush across her cheeks with an impish grin.

“You look impatient.”

She is. Her thoughts are wild, errant things, tearing beyond her reach; when she dares to let them wander, they travel back in winding paths to the shape of his mouth, the taste of smoke on his tongue, the vague outlines his fingers trace into her skin. Time cycles strangely through the haze of her high; she has spent both seconds and an interminable eternity under his touch, and she needs more of him at once. “You look pleased with yourself.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” His tone straddles the line of mocking, and any other time she wouldn’t let him get away with it - but the pet name softens at her agitation, wears her down into a pool of heat and hungry body, aching for his touch. “You’ll be pleased with me pretty soon, too.” 

One long hand curls around her wrists and cages them above her head. Her body bends, driven open by his grip, forcing her back into an arch that sets her flush against his chest. It leaves them both so intimately close, close enough to feel the muscles in his body shift with breath, the heat that radiates from deep beneath his skin. She throbs where she has bruises from his teeth, heartbeats of numbing pain that pale and sweeten when his fingers slip beneath her shorts and find the slick between her thighs.

She seizes, and Colt groans, and they shiver together as he makes a teasing pass with the pads of his fingers. The contact scalds like branding irons, heat that he imprints over wet skin and drags in looping shapes until she keens and squirms and tugs her wrists against his hold, his name a broken syllable between her teeth. 

He tempers his touch, slowing to an excruciating pace that only hints at something deeper. 

“Colt.” Mercy whines and drinks him in with pleading eyes, the smug tilt of his mouth, the smooth planes of his cheekbones and the faint stipple of freckles that tiptoe across them. He’s spent the last few days out in the sun, and its touch lingers on his skin; she wants to kiss them over, one by one. 

His gaze hangs lovingly on her face, watching the need arch in her features. When she meets the ardent longing in his eyes, he smirks and dips his fingers lower, teasing at pushing in, she needs him just a little further, just -

Colt stops. His touch retreats, and humor lights his face when she whimpers in frustration. “Tell me what you want, Mercy.” The pad of his thumb circles softly at the frantic pulse in her wrist, pressing the briefest reassurance there: Ask me. I will provide. 

The words are caught somewhere behind the brute force of her shyness, too crude and too heavy to lift. Her face burns at the thought of forming them. 

“Hmm.” He considers her with the pleased echo of a smirk, and then his mouth is hunting down her breastbone to the collar of her blouse, catching the cotton tight between his teeth and tugging it aside in one dismissive motion. Buttons pop apart and scatter to the floor, but she hasn’t the time to protest before his breath warms the sensitive curves of her breasts, tongue lashing lazily against her skin, as if he will exhaust every last inch of her until he gets what he wants. 

The warmth and dull, sweet pleasure wind a frenzied course down to the heat between her legs, where everything compounds into the most exquisite ache. “Please-!” It lifts unbidden from her tongue, compressing all her want and need into one desperate, seething word. 

“I’m listening.” Still rich with humor, but there’s hunger there too, undercurrents surging in his voice. His fingers tease her with deeper and harder strokes as he sucks a scattered path of love bites down her throat, finally soothing at that flame that itches underneath her skin. “Ask me for it, Mercy.”

“Please -” And it’s easier now, forcing the phonemes through her teeth. “Colt, please. I want you.”

“You want me toooo…” He lets the sentence drag out, long and drawling, and she knows, she knows the words he wants to hear, but the blushing bashful part of her still bites them back. His touch doubles down between her legs until her hips are bucking hard against his hand, and everything is building, winding tighter, forming into promises of something solid. He eases off and then persists, retreats and resieges and breaks her down into a sobbing mess beneath his hands. “C’mon, Mercy. I know you have it in you.” The kiss he crushes to her mouth is rough with urgency, just short of pain. Two fingers part the wet folds of her sex and start to push in, working down to the first knuckle and no further as his thumb flutters breath-light over her clit. 

She’s close, so unbearably close, stranded past the limit of coherency. Her knuckles have gone numb within his grasp, muscles pulled taut with coiled tension. “Pleasepleaseplease,” she sings, as if the plea will coax him somehow into giving in. And then his thumb twitches down hard against her clit, fingers fucking inches deeper, and the last frayed strand of her resistance snaps. “Colt, please, god, fuck me.” The blush remains, but words rush to her lips before she can stop them, a floodgate finally lifted. “Baby, I’m dying for you, please. Please make me come.”

A wounded noise rumbles low in his throat as he drags her into a kiss, hands racing to yank at their clothing. The blood rushes back into the tips of her fingers, and she seizes the chance to run her hands over the dips between his abs, the roll of muscle in his arms and shoulders and the column of his neck, tense beneath the inky waves of his tattoo. 

There’s a breathless moment of bare skin on skin, the heat of him above her like a singular sun as he sets one last kiss against her panting mouth. He braces a hand above her shoulder, and she hooks her legs around his waist, guiding him in against her. Their eyes lock, and her heart leaps at the first hard, hard press of him between her thighs. His head tilts down against hers, thumb soft at the line of her jaw as he sinks into her with slow, measured rolls of his hips. 

“Ye-essss.” Her nails etch lines across his back, red-painted points that furrow crimson arcs into his skin, and the throbbing twitch of his cock deep inside of her suggests that he can more than take the pain. 

Seething a groan into his teeth, Colt drops his hand to the slick crossroads of their bodies. His jaw works taut beneath the skin as he resumes the urgent pace he started earlier, toying those devilish fingers over the hood of her clit. He doesn’t fuck her, not when she sobs or begs or digs her nails into his hips, just holds her full around his cock as he forces her closer and closer to that knife-edge line of her undoing. The determined heat that scorches in his gaze sinks hot, tight fingers at the knot of tension in her belly, and realization wrenches into place.

He wants to feel her come around him. 

Her thoughts tangle together into one world-shattering conclusion, then swiftly yank apart and fade to ash as Mercy tumbles into climax. Black void pulses behind her lids, throbbing with every frantic heartbeat, and she is full, is falling, empty pieces stringing all together into something wholly perfect as his name unwinds into a wordless scream. 

The crest recedes like waves away from shore, leaving her shell-shocked and stunned for breath. Colt’s arms are wrapped hot around her when she recovers, sweat and smoke and peppermint gracing her tongue when she sucks blindly at the base of his throat. 

“God, you feel so good when you come,” he sighs, between the clumsy kisses that he strings along her shoulders. Another pitch of his hips slings them tight together, sinks him down into the deepest parts of her, heavy-handed pleasure that spreads over every nerve with wildfire greed. He presses a trembling hand to the side of her face, eyes hooded, fingers twitching down to the soft pink of her lips and hooking firmly into her mouth, rough pads against her tongue.

Acting on instinct, Mercy closes her lips around his fingers and sucks. A shudder zigzags up his spine, hips jerking hard against her. She tastes smoke, tastes Colt, tastes herself between his fingers when he rocks a deep, rough thrust and comes inside of her, that warm, wet rush that always makes her shiver. His groan spills hot against her shoulder, and she curls soothing nails down the nape of his neck, brushing kisses to the damp skin of his temple as he grinds out the last few wrings of pleasure.

Panting, Colt slumps into her arms and crushes her against him, leaving spent attempts at kisses down her jaw. New hickies throb to life under her skin, and rug burn itches at her shoulders, but they are only little pains, and more than worth the pleasures that preceded them. Lazy with afterglow, he busies himself revisiting the faint roadmap of bruises he left on her body, tending to each with soft nudges of lips and tongue. 

In the heart-pounding ease that settles, Mercy feels just the right amount of sore and properly debauched. “Mmn, I think you were right.”

“I usually am.” He reaches over to retrieve the joint, long cold, smiling around the filter as he strikes the lighter back to life. “But what about this time?”

She trails her fingers down the line that arcs in from his hip, where the sweat from their lovemaking is still cooling on his skin. “My dad would kill you if he knew what we were doing.”

[clacclo]

The Wild, The Innocent & The E Street Shuffle - Bruce Springsteen (1973)

[berrodarmstrong]

Sweeping Duty.

Flora Valerian , with a broom in hand, pokes her head out of the house and does a few test swishes at the ground-- Then she promptly decides the porch, too, is in need of a good dusting off. At some point she might spot Berrod, and wanders over his way.

Berrod Armstrong had been conducting some breathing exercises -- nothing too involved, for a mercy. As a result, he was able to spot and greet Flora with ease -- though he did appear somewhat confused by the presence of a broom. "'Ey."

Flora Valerian sweeps as she speaks, probably equally confused that he looks confused. "Good evening, Brother. Have you been well?”

Berrod Armstrong finished a few more breaths then straightened up. "Well enough, yeah," He offered. His face bore mild intrigue as he jerked his head toward the broom. "In a cleanin' mood?"

Flora Valerian just nodnods her head. "Yes. I think it is a good evening for this." She herself is... as always, caked with the remnants of whatever dust storm hit her last, but perhaps her random burst of cleaning mania doesn't extend as far as her own appearance. "I looked at the... things, on the board, as well, yes. Since I am in Thanalan for a little while."

Berrod Armstrong cracked a small smile -- he wasn't going to look a gift sweeping in the mouth. Aside from a slightly concerned frown at her appearance, the Highlander maintained a polite mum on that matter. "Yeah? Anythin' interesting? A new batch came in a couple bells earlier but I still gotta sort through 'em."

Flora Valerian brightens right up. "Someone needed help fighting, ah-- what are they called-- Gigantoads, and-- I am very excited about this. I think I am going to take this job. They are so very large and powerful."

Berrod Armstrong nodded eagerly. "They are! A lil' nasty though. Watch out for the tongues. Lucky, they're slow, so the only thing is to overpower 'em an' do enough damage to bring 'em down. The skins sell, too!"

Flora Valerian: "That's right-- uhm--" She again nods, "I think all will be just fine unless I let them outnumber me, yes! What have you been up to?"

Berrod Armstrong: "I was wrappin' up some meditation with a bit o'breathin'...gonna head in and check my messages in a bit. A slow day! Been havin' a few o'those. No complaints here, though. I saw Autgar an' Martin the other day."

Flora Valerian: "Ah, yes. Martin came to me at the Monastery. Autgar assigned him lots of books to read, yes. And so Martin wanted me to help." Her lips press into a thin line as she brushes a stubborn fallen leaf from the grout. "I think he meant that he wanted me to read them for him."

Berrod Armstrong: "Like, read 'em aloud to him, or...jus'...read 'em while he slacked off?"

Flora Valerian: "Very much of... asking me questions about things he had not read about yet, yes. I think it is good that he is learning-- but, well, I want him to read these things and make up his own mind."

Berrod Armstrong lifted an indicative finger. "That's the thing, ain't it? I've been watchin'...an' I've been wonderin' if it's somethin' he really wants, or if it's somethin' he's forcin' himself to do. I won't overstep an' ask 'im that though, that's for Autgar to see, recognize, an' investigate."

Flora Valerian 's brows knit. "I will help as much as I can, but I wonder if-- I wonder if I want it too much for him, to be unbiased. But-- when I speak to him of our faith, he is... more inquisitive than nearly anyone I have ever met, and that is telling, to me."

Berrod Armstrong let a quick smile flit across his lips. "I want it for 'im too. Badly. But what I want for 'im is irrelevant. I suppose we'll see. I'm ready to help guide 'im with what he wants to know, even if he doesn't make up his mind in the end."

Flora Valerian nods her head, and with a tiny grunt of acquiescence, starts in on a new  corner of the porch. "Yes, ah-- whatever happens, I'll be here, too. I-- passed my trial with Autgar, by the way. A moon or so ago..? I don't know if he told you. I have been, ah, on the mend, mostly, but still trying quite hard to train as hard as possible, considering."

Berrod Armstrong stepped forward as if to examine her. "I remember advisin' you to take some time to heal...but I reckon' time enough's passed anyroad. Time to start trainin' to master what you got, I imagine...though I won't overstep there, either." There was a proud glow about him as he spoke.

Flora Valerian doesn't look too much more worse than wear than she did after first opening Atala, though the dark circles under her eyes have largely dissippated. She looks happy, though, and proud. "Ah, I-- I will take any advice I can get, in that regard. It does not incapacitate me for days, anymore, to open Atala, but it is still a task. And-- It is difficult to, ah, make it happen, so that the valve feels like it will open," she makes some weird motions with her hands, like she's looking for a better way to explain what she feels.

Berrod Armstrong: "Use an' practice," He put forward, "The more you train with it, the easier it'll become -- until one day it'll be jus' like the fingers on yer hand that y'can move an' bend at will. First few steps are always hard, especially with the shadows. I believe in you."

Flora Valerian perks up, but then abruptly bows her head. "Thank you. I'm going to do my best." She peeks up again, though, and rearrages her mats so that she can actually see through her mop of hair again. "Is-- is that so? Does it really take longer? Why do you suppose this is?"

Berrod Armstrong lapsed into thought. "Actually, you made me think there. I don't think it takes longer for the shadows in particular. I jus' realised I had a hard time with 'em because uh -- well, I was a lil' small-minded back then. My limitations ain't universal!"

Flora Valerian: "I already feel like I was small-minded when I started, and that was-- just this summer, yes? I think it is a good thing-- to... be able to recognize how much we have grown." She nods, then starts again, with a little difficulty. "I-- I think I am apprehensive to begin challenging Light-aligned folk and begin opening those chakras, just yet. But I think I will be strong enough after Vitala, maybe, yes."

Berrod Armstrong nodded. "Together you an' Autgar will be able to gauge when yer ready, I think. Don't be afraid to spar with Light-aligned monks though! Jus' make sure that both o'you exercise some restraint so that nothin' gets triggered."

Flora Valerian: "I-- ah, yes! You are right. I ought to-- mayhap start seeking some others out. I-- Mostly do not want to cause embarassment, I admit, but-- well, it is a holy thing, that must be done."

Berrod Armstrong raised both hands and shook his head, "Now-- I don't mean to go wild challengin' whoever...jus' don't be afraid if the opportunity shows itself, that's all."

Flora Valerian: "Yes, ah-- yes. I'll-- I'll try to be smart about it. Mayhap try and find folk that-- that have not been at it long, either, but-- most of all, I think I ought to be.... ah, sparring folk I trust, I mean, maybe."

Berrod Armstrong frowned slightly. "No matter what the circumstances, only ever spar people y'trust," Berrod laid down firmly, "Not jus' for this situation, but in general."

Flora Valerian looks a little chastened. "No strangers I meet in the mountains, anymore--  yes, I understand."

Berrod Armstrong smiled at that -- and then looked mildly stricken. "Guh, I'm oversteppin' again! I gotta get used to this..."

Flora Valerian: "A-ah, I don't think that is overstepping," she starts-- and then looks similarly struck. "But I don't mean to tell you what to do, Brother."

Berrod Armstrong laughed then, a gruff, somewhat growling sound. "We'll all figure out the lines together, I feel."

Flora Valerian nods to you.

Flora Valerian: "I think it would be difficult, ah-- watching your student begin to teach others, yes?"

Berrod Armstrong: "Difficult?" He shook his head vigorously, "Well -- not exactly the word I'd use for it. Tricky! Yeah, real tricky, figurin' out where the boundaries are. I'm so damn proud that I don't really think of it as difficult, heh..." Flora Valerian nods her head. "I'm very proud of Brother Autgar, too. It's-- He is a truly special sort of person, I think. He has been very patient with me. I think I do not mind him very well."

Berrod Armstrong: "Autgar's a good man. He's -- he's got so much potential. All of y'all do, I suppose, but he's got a special kinda heart. One that's meant to lead, protect an' teach. I think he'll do well for you...an' love you like a sister all the while."

Flora Valerian: "This is how I feel. I want to do what I can to help him to lead, so-- Well, I think this is why I have tried to be involved so heavily with Martin's learning. I would not have seen anything at all in that man. But-- Autgar did. And-- since then, even in-- working with Martin, and speaking to him about the Destroyer, I think I have learned very much. About-- well, preaching."

Berrod Armstrong 's expression was brief, but it was the same sort of enthusiasm as one who'd discovered that they'd gotten everything they wanted for their namesday. "That's encouragin' to hear."

Flora Valerian nods twice, rapidly. "That is something you cannot learn alone on a mountaintop. So-- yes." She pauses, then looks like she remembered something.  "A-ah, I think I was supposed to ask you about having a soul crystal cut, yes. It-- It is not too soon, is it?"

Berrod Armstrong grinned. "I'm glad you asked -- I've already cut you one. But it's not my place to pass it to you, yeah?"

Flora Valerian: "O-oh," she turns pale. Maybe she wasn't ready to hear that. "Yes, yes. I'm-- I'll tell Brother Autgar. Yes," she stammers.

Berrod Armstrong actually gave an offhand shrug. "That won't be necessary. Don't worry 'bout that."

Flora Valerian looks like the broom is about to drop out of her hands. "Yes-- ah, alright. I am supposed to see him, tonight, and train with him. And I am excited."

Berrod Armstrong 's smile lasted. "I am too."

Flora Valerian: "Thank you, again, for everything."

Berrod Armstrong bowed deeply. "I'm honored to serve."

Flora Valerian shuffles forward, her arms raised awkwardly, like she's not naturally a hugger but feels it's necessary.

Berrod Armstrong seems the same -- or at least accustomed to hugging much, -much- larger bodies. It was a bit of an awkward puppet show, but he managed to grant her a vigorous embrace.

Flora Valerian feels like she's about to snap in half like a brittle twig, but lasts through it. Once released, she gives him a nod like, yup, did the thing. "I am going to go and sweep up inside. And-- Oh, I hope you do not mind, I made a shrine to Rhalgr in the broom closet, because, ah, that was the best wall, it faces Starfall."

Berrod Armstrong blinked -- and then accepted it. It was by far the least strange thing to be found in a broom closet here. "That's fine. I'll probably go check my messages an' see about sortin' the new jobs out."

Flora Valerian: "Ah-- yes. If you need anything, please let me know. I like cleaning very much, yes. And jobs are even better."

Berrod Armstrong: "I will! The new stuff should be up on the board tomorrow, so still check there in case there's somethin' that I mighta missed in terms o'what you're interested in."

Flora Valerian nods to you.

Flora Valerian: "Ah, I will. Please be well, Brother," so saying, she takes her broom and starts off toward the door again.

Berrod Armstrong: "You too, Sister." 

((Thanks much to @florihilda for the RP. @dynamitecowboy and @friendly-fire-engaged got mentioned as well!))

[playpretendx]

You Ain’t My Family

[ This was written before it was decided that Gizmo would live through the shooting. ]

The night was clear save for the few wisps of translucent clouds dimming small patches of starlight as the wind pulled them along the sky. Tiny specks of ethereal light reflected on the surface of the sapphire pools staring up at them from beneath full lashes. Alessandra was unsure of exactly how she had found herself alone in the middle of the familiar desert highway, but she did know that she had just left work from the glitter laced bits of cloth that barely offered her any coverage. Bare feet on cold sand ferried her robotically along the road. A sudden gust of the night air brought to her the comforting scent of Kurt’s cologne. She stood still for a moment, closing her eyes and breathing it in deep as her lungs would allow. The spice of the aroma paired well with the cigarette smoke that perpetually lingered around him.

A motorcycle’s rumble opened her eyes and brought her attention to a light just down the road. It was dim and small but illuminated enough of the darkness for her to recognize the silhouette of the trailer it shone over. Overcome by its magnetism, she started to walk toward it, the air now thicker with his scent, but the more she walked, the farther the destination became. Her pace quickened from a walk to a jog and eventually she was sprinting along the pavement. Heart racing and bare feet aching from the small rocks scattered about the road, she took notice of the darkening of the sky. Keeping her running pace, she looked upward to find the silver of the moon was fading away to red, casting down a bloody light. Her stomach twisted when she finally made it to the door of the trailer. The windows were dark and Giz’s bike was nowhere to be found. She’d heard it, though, she was sure of it. Dread bore down on her so heavily, she began to shake under it. Trembling fingers found the silver latch of the door and pulled it open. Inside, she found nothing. Not a speck of dust on the counter in the kitchen or a cigarette in the ashtray; it was as though no one had ever lived there at all. Swallowing back anxiety, Alessandra allowed herself to call out, “Kurt?” All that followed was a silence so thick, she could hear her own rapid heartbeat thumping in her ears. Frantic and short of breath, she searched through the small space for any sign that anyone had been there before her but found none. She was hyperventilating now, her chest heaving and tightening as she stumbled out of the trailer and back into the night. The moon and stars were gone, shrouded by rolling storm clouds. Thunder broke through the silence and brought with it a cascade of thick, red rain. It fell gently at first, but as her anxiety rose, the sprinkle turned into a downpour. Drenched and nearly freezing, Alessandra’s tears mixed into the red on her cheeks. She let out a shriek and fell to her knees. “KURT!”

---

Alessandra.

 A touch of a hand pulled her from the sea of red and into a blinding white light. Was she dead? No. If she were dead, her surroundings would surely have more of a red tint with an aroma of sulfur. Blinking away the haze in her eyes, she looked over to make out the distorted image of Maria Del Toro sitting in the chair next to the bed Lessa found herself lying in. Even through the blur of bright lights and a migraine, her mother looked beautifully disdained in her presence. It was hard to think of a time when Maria didn’t have some degree of contempt twisting her face except a night a little over thirteen years prior. All her life, her mother had hinted resentment at missing the opportunity to take a trip to the clinic and fix the mistake she made that weekend in Vegas, but it was finding Lessa half-naked and her legs wrapped around her latest sugar daddy conquest that sent Maria over the edge. Her man fled the scene as soon as she began throwing everything within reach in their direction, leaving the thirteen-year-old to face the hurricane on her own. That was the last night Alessandra had seen her mother until she decided to saunter into town unannounced.

 Eyes wandered to their hands; Maria gave her knuckles a gentle stroke of the thumb in response. It was a normal, motherly gesture of kindness and comfort, but it felt alien. Fake. Lessa went to pull her hand from the touch only to find herself gripping onto Maria’s fingers when a dull pain in her shoulder reminded her why she was there. Closing her eyes, she tried to reflect on what happened at the trailer. It was a comfortably cool night with only the slight breeze. They had just gotten back home from sharing a few drinks with Travis and Delia. She could still taste the beer on Kurt’s lips when he blindsided her with a kiss as soon as the door shut behind them. The tickle of his stubble on her face was always a welcome sensation. They had just made their way to the bedroom when they heard the first pop.

 “Alessandra.”

 Even when she was trying to play the part of the concerned mother, Maria still had a timbre of irritation. Maternal instinct was never her strong suit, but she picked up on the stares laced with contempt and judgment as well as the tone of disapproval. Despite the long lapse in communication since the night Lessa was kicked out of the home they once shared, Maria was quick to vocalize her disapproval of Kurt. A walking, talking example of pent up daddy issues, she called him. That was two days before the night he died. Bringing her eyes to meet her mothers, Lessa let out a quiet sigh and shifted uncomfortably in her bed.

 “Don’t move so much,” Maria whispered, tightening her grip and giving a small smile, “you’ll pop a stitch.”

  Alessandra’s lips gave a slight twitch before she snatched her hand away. The pain pulsating in her shoulder put a strain in her voice as she mumbled, “Yeah, and you’ll pull’a muscle forcin’ a smile like that.”

 The façade left quick as it had come, leaving Maria with her usual deadpan discontent. A long moment of silence followed with only the muffled goings-on of the hospital on the other side of the door to lessen the tension. Leaning her head back against her pillow, Alessandra stared at the ceiling tiles, overlooking the water stains yellowing the once white tiles to make note of a bit of dust dangling from the plastic covering the fluorescent light directly above her. She could hear Alayna’s voice listing off her many complaints on the upkeep of the hospital and how she planned on making sure it would improve. Nearing on five years later, it was still just as shabby. As if they were in a game of follow-the-leader, Maria’s gaze also went to the ceiling causing her to let out a scoff.

 “Limbo General. Troglodyte’s Hollow would be more befitting. I thought that if there were one pristine place in this hell hole, it would be the hospital. We’ll go too a better hospital with more qualified doctors when we get back—”

 “Get back where, Maria?” Alessandra interjected, not taking her eyes off of the dust bunny that was proving to be a far more comforting visitor than her mother, “New York? Last time I checked, I didn’t have a place there. You ‘n Nonna made sure’a that.”

 “Stop playing the victim card, Alessandra, it’s beneath you and very unbecoming.” Maria replied, shifting a bit in her seat, “Wherever we wind up is a result of our own choices. Your choices brought you to Limbo. Your choices led you to Kurt and his choices brought us to this moment. You in the hospital and him in the morgue.”

 Kurt. Leave it to her mother to both distract her from the awful truth and remind her of it moments later. Lessa was so focused on figuring out Maria’s agenda that she hadn’t the chance to register that she would never see him again. She closed her eyes to trap the tears that stung them, but they spilled over the edge anyway. The popping of firecrackers rang in her ears.

 “Ain’t firecrackers.”

 Knotted stomach.

 “Get down ‘n stay outta sight.”

 Racing heart. Tight throat.

 “Alessandra… you did know that Kurt—”

 A slam of the fist against the railing of the bed nearly cause Maria to jump from her seat. Glacial eyes of equal intensity locked onto each other as Alessandra sat up straight.

 “You don’t get t’say his name in front’a me again. Kurt made a lotta choices. Just like you. Diff’rence is that he chose t’take care’a me. You chose t’take care’a yourself. You kicked me out and he took me in. You ain’t my family anymore. That’s the choice you made.”

 “Stop, I only ever—”

 “YOU AIN’T MY FAMILY AND I DON’T WANT YOU HERE. GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY FUCKIN’ ROOM.”

 That was all it took. Maria quickly picked her purse up off of the floor and hurried toward the exit. There was a moment that it seemed she was considering another comment, but when she looked back to see Alessandra’s wild eyes staring back, she bit her tongue and opened the door to leave. Chest heaving and throat raw, Lessa let herself fall back against her pillow and let her new reality set in on her.

[pyorzea]

LAYER ONE : THE OUTSIDE

Name: Tal’orei (Tali) Neldawn Eye Color: Silvery Grey Hair Style/Color: Long wild pale blonde curls Height: 5′ Clothing Style: Functional and Cutesy 

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

Your Fears: “Losin’ me family.” Your Guilty Pleasure: “Gettin’ Gabe t’ cook me somethin’ sweet and then havin’ him sing or read one o’ them stories before bed. I know it be somethin’ for a younger kit and all, but I really like when he does that.” Your Biggest Pet Peeve: “People that aint be takin’ action when ye could easily. I just don’t get ‘em!” Your Ambition for the Future: “Be as great a matriarch as Mama that’s as strong and quick as Papa.”

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

Your First Thoughts Waking Up: “Food.” What You Think About the Most: “How people view me. I know I try and say i aint got me no care and all, but I sorta do care. I wanna be good and smart, y’know?” What You Think About Before Bed: “If i’m comfy or not.” Your Best Quality Is: “Everyone always been sayin’ that me hair be like moonlight washin’ over th’ sea and all... suppose that be one o’ th’ better physical sorts, aint it? If it aint that, then... mmm... Probably me strength. I be pretty strong, even if I aint look it.”

LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER?

Single or Group Dates: “Group dates sound like fun, but mama always said it be better t’ get someone ye like rightly alone and give ‘em all ye attention.” To be Loved or Respected: “Loved sounds better, if only because even if ye weren’t respected, it aint like they’re gonna be doing bad against ye... aye?” Beauty or Brains: “I like both. Can’t I choose both? Both is better...” Dogs or Cats: “Ehr.... Cats, I suppose. Though pups aint so bad, minus all them slobbery sorts. I can’t say I much appreciate them.”

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU?

Lie: “Aye, from time t’ time. But I be right and good and I aint never lie t’ Papa or Mama... Be more scared o’ them, honestly... or well not scared, but more, it be heartbreakin’ t’ see when either o’ them is disappointed in ye.” Believe in Yourself: “Aye!” Believe in Love: “Aye!!” Want Someone: “Aye, o’ course I want someone- I got me someones, too. Plenty o’ someones. But i’m always up for more someones, I suppose. I like people- so long as their worth likin’, ye know?”

LAYER SIX: EVER?

Been on Stage: ”Aye.” Done Drugs: “... Is this papa?”  Changed Who You Were to Fit In: “Aye.”

LAYER SEVEN: FAVORITES

Favorite Color: “Green!” Favorite Animal: “None that I can rightly think of...” Favorite Food: “Peaches.” Favorite Game: “Mm... Hide and Seek is fun.”

LAYER EIGHT: AGE

Day Your Next Birthday Will Be: “30th Sun of th’ Fifth Umbral Moon!” How Old Will You Be: “21!” Age You Lost Your Virginity: “... Eh... When I was seventeen.”  Does Age Matter: “Suppose not, considerin’ it all. I mean, so long as they’re old’nuff.”

LAYER NINE: IN A BOY OR GIRL

Best Personality: “Th’ dark, mysterious, wise sorta persons.” Best Eye Color: “Shale’s got himself some real pretty eyes- teal, like a churnin’ sea. I aint never seen eyes I thought were half as pretty as them ones.”  Best Hair Color: “Black ‘r Brown.” Best thing to do with a Partner: “Have fun. Any way ye wanna take that.”

LAYER TEN: FINISH THE SENTENCE

I love: “My family.” I feel: “Content with th’ state o’ things.” I hide: ”My brothers things sometimes now that he got himself a right house. I aint told him yet, and I aint think he’s caught on. It be funny t’ watch him amblin’ around all confused like.” I miss: ”Papa. Wish he’d visit more often than th’ few random occasions or forcin’ me off t’ go all th’ way t’ track him down.” I wish: “That i’ll become th’ strongest Neldawn there ever rightly will be!”

Tagged by @mekirazhra and @jessipalooza

Tagging.... uhh @kaalamizhu @she-wants-the-d20 and @jessipalooza back at u OH AND @sakialyn @raserus cus yall were mentioned too

[golisopod-no-ka-oi-blog]

“We never think about how hard it is to always be the bad guy, you know?”

Jenna Marbles ll Acceptin’

    “Tch, ya really think it’s that hard?  Me, at least, comes naturally.  I don’t get along with people.  I do what I want.  Don’t gotta worry ‘bout rules, don’t gotta worry ‘bout bein’ nice, or polite.  What’s so tough ‘bout that?”

     “Ya know what’s hard?  Forcin’ ya self to always do the good thing, even when the people ‘round ya don’t deserve it.  Tryin’a make everyone believe ya some kinda saint, when inside ya wanna beat ‘em all down.  Ain’t worth it.  Jus’ be the bad guy an’ go wild!”

[re-rift]

attract light || cc || mm trial || re: shion, seiko, tsurugi

CC, she was sure, would never be making the mistake of considering another person as 'kind' ever again. One was enough. Maybe there was only one person like that in the world, or had been, and there wasn't any longer. It didn't matter-- any kindness she'd seen in Shion was gone, probably had never existed. Broken just like the chips he was talking about.

CC would probably go to her grave with her trust in others withered at this rate, but at least she'd be happy, and secure in knowing that she had been right all along to keep everyone at arm's length. Maybe this game had been good for one thing. 

Furious, she leans over, speaking through hissed teeth at the revelation. 

"Great news, dipshits-- your stupid game worked to prove that over and over, people will do fucked-up shit just 'cause they're morons who think they know best for everyone. Gee, I wonder what's gonna stop murder... but more murder? Yeah, that's exactly the line of thought I'd believe from some bitch stuck angstin' about her own past and a fuckin' TI-84 calculator."

Her smile twists, and her mind races. There had to be a way. Mingzhu had said as much. CC didn't believe in the existence of kind people, but she believed in good ones-- it was what she was trying to be. She had only come here to ruin this game, and if it was the last thing she did, she'd wipe that smug tone out of Shion's voice.

"If anyone ever needed an argument against sentient AI, this is it, huh? You're right that unchecked emotions can make people do wild things. All you've fuckin' done is made an entire room of people angry, after forcin' 'em to relive their goddamn past trauma, so, gee! I wonder what our unchecked emotions'll do, huh?"

Her arm spreads wide again, and then slams against her own chest. 

"I'll tell you what mine'll do. I already went through one fuckin' game like this where I couldn't save the people I wanted to. So if you think I'm gonna stand here and take shit from a roomba with a god complex, you're out of your goddamn mind. I hate most of the people that ever stood in this room, but I ain't stupid enough to say they deserve to die. I only joined this game to cause whoever was behind it problems. I ain't even had a wish or anythin' as a goddamn prize. But I'll tell you what-- those unchecked emotions you stirred up from forcin' me through a second one of these helped me think of one! My biggest wish is to prove your delusional ass wrong. Take that for fuckin' data and shove it up your ass."

She had only come here to ruin this game-- but really, what was her biggest wish? To be a hero. CC cackles, fueled by her own massive ego that had, as long as she remembered, given her the choice ability to ignore things said by people she viewed as lesser to her-- and now, even if she was the delusional one, she'd ignore what Shion was saying.

"Hey, ain't it great? You proved your own damn point. I wonder, then--"

Two fingers are held up, and then point at Shion and Seiko in turn. 

"Both of you died, ain't that right? And now you came back, and boy, looks like you got a lot of problems and issues! It'd be for the best if both of you got wiped out of existence too, wouldn't it? It's only fair."

Speaking of-- to her side, she hears Tsurugi speaking and her smile grows. Her hand slips into her pocket, and comes out gripping something. 

"Heeeeey, y'know! I ain't forgiven you for accusin' me, but you can make up for it by causin' some problems, ain't that right? Catch~!"

A small knife, folded up, is tossed across the room at Tsurugi. Thank goodness CC'd spent so much time bored with nothing to do but practice darts. She cackles, wiggling her fingers in a wave, before her attention turns to Seiko. Shion was a lost cause at this point, in her mind, but maybe...

"Soooooo-rry, I'm gonna keep pokin' around! Everyone's bodies are alive, and frankly, there's no data that's unrecoverable. The fact that it's corrupted means it still exists, anyway, so you've already boned that one. I'd say go ahead and punish me, but it seems like this game's way out of your hands now, huh, Seeeeeeiko? What with the two of you not really bein' in charge, and then your sweet little robot son goin' rogue. So I'll just do what I want, y'know?"

She reaches into her pocket again, still sneering, and pulls out a phone.

"But, hey. Maybe you could redeem yourself here. Your son's off the shits, but are you? Did you want all those people to die? It doesn't matter to me either way, since I'm sure I'm far fuckin' smarter than a dumb bitch who thought a killin' game was the route to stop all killin' games, but hey-- I'll give you a chance! What do you know about ways to uncorrupt that data? If you want to make things at least a tiny bit right from your freak-ass son, tell us what we can do."

CC never expected the best in people, and she certainly didn't now-- that's why she gestures at Tsurugi again, cackling.

"...Otherwise, I say just kill her. I'll make sure her data gets wiped out, bwahahaha!"

[severelynerdysheep]

But if the chicks are female, well they are in luck! They get to be born into these hatcheries to then be sent along with thousands of other baby girls to farms to spend an approx. 72 weeks having their genetically engineered bodies be brutally exploited to for their reproductive systems before they are then sent to a slaughterhouse to be strung upside down to get their throats slit open for the profit of farmers and personal pleasure if consumers. Fantastic! Only the girls will be exploited and murdered needlessly for profit instead of girls and boys. I'm sure that this new law will make them feel soo much better while they are being needlessly and brutally exploited, abused and murdered for profit and the personal pleasure of consumers.

And then theres the fact that probably far more hens will be needlessly and brutally exploited and murdered in farms across Germany as a result of this new “animal welfare” law since whenever these woeful “welfare” laws get implemented, demand for the “products” of this exploitation/murder (in this case eggs) increases as the consumers get a renewed false sense that that the needless exploitation, abuse and murder they are paying for is “humane”.

So to be clear, this new law means nothing when it comes to the ethics of buying eggs when it is at all possible and practicable to avoid doing so. If you buy eggs after this law, you aren’t paying for the brutal murder of male chciks, but you are still paying for the brutal exploitation and murder of female chicks/hens. And this is always ethically unjustifiable to pay for when at all avoidable. Because needless exploitaiton is injust. Because needless murder is injust. 

To quote from this fab speech:

“This is how profoundly illogical our thinking is when it comes to animals. It goes against all basic human understanding. Knowing better but doing wrong anyway is worse than having no knowledge. Yet we have the audacity to hold this legislative recognition of non-human sentience on high as a giant step forward for the rights of animals. As if systematically exploiting individuals with fully admitted knowledge and comprehension of their capacity to suffer is something to commend.”

“Is this really the best we have to offer? Being the most courteous murderers? The most considerate rapists? Pouring untold resources into these convoluted laws and regulations, all the while completely blind to the fact that there’s another option entirely. One we don’t have to manipulate our values to justify. One we don’t have to couch in euphemistic terms or bury beneath incomprehensibly dense legislation.”

And in the words of Alex Herschaft, the founder of the Farm Animal Rights Movement, a Holocaust survivor, and all round an incredible activist for justice:

“I don't believe in small improvements to the living conditions of the chickens and cows. Slightly increasing the sizes of the cages is like giving me a hot meal while I'm imprisoned in the ghetto. It's like asking an abusive man to continue beating his wife but in a less brutal manner. The solution is for all of us to stop eating meat, eggs and dairy products.”

Some facts about the egg industry in Germany (and worldwide) which remains even when you take out one of the forms of violent injustice inflicted onto these defenceless sentient beings for profit/personal pleasure:

~  Unlike the red jungle fowl, the presumed wild ancestor of today’s domesticated breeds, which lays only 10-15 eggs per year. Domesticated hens have been genetically engineered in order to  lay an average of 266 eggs per year (though 300+ is not uncommon) in order to “maximize” egg production. Which is massively taxing on the bodies of these selectively bred animals, and has resulted in them suffering high levels of “production diseases,” such as osteoporosis, bone fractures, cancers and reproductive disorders. So just bringing these animals into existence into these genetically engineered bodies is an act of deep cruelty in itself as your forcing these baby girls to live in bodies which are so incredibly harmful to them, which has thoroughly destroyed them by the time they are sent of to be murdered once “spent”.

Past post on the selective breeding of domesticated hens/chickens

“ Estimates of mortality due to osteoporosis in commercial caged layer flocks are few, but range up to a third of total mortality. Many of these deaths would be lingering and attended by emaciation and possibly pain.”

~ Egg laying hens from even the most local, small time “free range” or “pasture raised” farms will still be brutally murdered when their egg production drops. Since farms simply cannot be economically viable otherwise. And typically, this is around a mere 72 weeks old. 

And when it comes to this needless murder, many hens regain consciousness before they die in the slaughter process (they have been shown to recover consciousness after as little as 22 seconds) which means that they are still conscious when having their throats slit, as a result, a large amount of these hens are also still alive when they are submerged in scalding water tanks which remove their feathers pre butchering

~ Even “free-range” egg-producing hens are still most often crammed into sheds where access to the outside world may be severely limited. The crowding in these sheds is often so intense that the hens almost never have a chance to engage in any of their natural activities, such as foraging, dust-bathing, and socializing. Many lose their feathers because of the high levels of ammonia and the stress from the extreme noise, stench, and confinement. 

Past post on “free range eggs” here

 From organic and “high welfare” farms in germany:

little ag news update:

starting 2022 germany is gonna ban killing male chicks. 2024 germany will ban destroying eggs with male chicks after the sixth day since the embryo starts to register pain at that point.

the tech that determines the gender of the chicks before they're even out of the egg is there, but not perfected yet.