#climate wall of shame

[contemplatingoutlander]

Interesting proposal by Nate Loewentheil in a guest column in The New York Times. Not only was his proposal thought provoking, but two of the comments regarding it by readers were also worth contemplating. Below are some excerpts from the column, followed by the two comments.

Here is a proposal for the environmental movement: Pool philanthropic funds for a day, buy a small plot of land in Washington, D.C., and put up a tall marble wall to serve as a climate memorial. Carve on this memorial the names of public figures actively denying the existence of climate change. Carve the names so deep and large, our grandchildren and great-grandchildren need not search the archives. This is not a metaphor. The problem with climate change is the disconnect between action and impact. If politicians vote against construction standards and a school collapses, the next election will be their last. But with climate change, cause and effect are at a vast distance. We are already seeing the consequences of our past and present greenhouse gas emissions. In coming decades, those emissions will wreak their full havoc on the climate, and it will take hundreds, possibly thousands, of years for those pollutants to fully dissipate. But in the short term, the most immediate burdens are borne mostly by the poor in America and distant people in distant lands. Misaligned incentives are at the heart of why some political and business leaders deny and delay. [...] I would first nominate those who have sown confusion over climate science, like Myron Ebell, who recently retired as director of the Competitive Enterprise Institute’s Center for Energy and Environment, where he sought to block climate change efforts in Congress, and served as the head of Donald Trump’s transition team for the Environmental Protection Agency. Mr. Ebell has argued that the idea that climate change is “an existential threat or even crisis is preposterous.” Then there are lawmakers who have consistently stood in the way of federal action, like the recently retired senator James Inhofe of Oklahoma, the author of the book “The Greatest Hoax: How the Global Warming Conspiracy Threatens Your Future.” [color emphasis added]

Below is the first thought provoking comment to this article:

There is, in Iceland, a memorial to a dead glacier - the Ok Glacier. It reads: "Ok is the first Icelandic glacier to lose its status as a glacier. In the next 200 years all our glaciers are expected to follow the same path. This monument is to acknowledge that we know what is happening and what needs to be done. Only you know if we did it." [color emphasis added] --Chris D., Colorado

Photo of the plaque at the at the Okjökull (OK Glacier) memorial.

Here is the second thought provoking comment to this article:

For reference this graph https://i.redd.it/ljifc828iui31.jpg is from the Exxon internal scientific report on climate change, 1982, produced by scientists working for that fossil fuel corporation. Look at what their graph predicted for 2020. Approaching 420 ppm CO2 and a rise of 1.2 C degrees above pre-industrial temperature - very close to what we actually got in 2020. Then look at what the graph shows for later this century, based on not reducing emissions. Very serious temperature rises, that could make agriculture very difficult in many countries. Yes, and then Exxon, having seen this, got involved in PR campaigns to "cast doubt" on climate science, to protect their assets. [color emphasis added] --Erik Frederiksen, Ashville, NC

1982 Exxon graph depicting average global temperature increases over time correlating with increases in atmospheric CO2. NOTE: Graph color was modified for greater clarity.

Fossil fuel companies like Exxon, and fossil fuel oligarchs like the Koch brothers should be included in any "Climate Wall of Shame."

#climate change #disinformation about climate change #climate change deniers #climate wall of shame #myron ebell #james inhofe #koch brothers #exxon #fossil fuel industry #ok glacier memorial #nate loewentheil #the new york times

[frogchiro]

No I have to add something to this or I'll go insane oH MY GOD-

Graves is awful and an asshole; every chance he gets he will rub it in that HE is the one getting hacker girl by his side almost all the time and not 141 :(( He thanks whatever higher power there is that he's a 'techno-wizard' as you affectionally call him and he can show his prowess off like a peacock both on the battlefield (you're not an operator and don't engage in fire exchange per say but he knows you still keep a watchful eye on them with cameras and your various knick knacks) and in the technical world, he LIVES for your praise and usually ends up with a half chub because of it :((

His latest 'kick 141 in the proverbial balls' operation was even more successful than his stunt with the plane and capturing Hassan. They were all stationed in some bumfuck-nowhere in Al-Mazrah with you in tow for technical support. It was...hell to say the least. During the day it was unbearably hot and Johnny felt like his fuckin' balls were dripping with sweat and he could see that Ghost wasn't in much better shape, his huge body was naturally incredibly warm, all that muscle and layer of fat and thick body hair was made for keeping warm in colder climates; Johnny knew that from experience when you, him and Simon were stationed in Russia and Ghost had the two of you cuddled up all nice and warm, sharing intimate moments and body heat...but this wasn't Russia. It wasn't pleasantly warm but dripping hot and Johnny wished he was everywhere but not here and though Ghost didn't seem to mind the conditions, the Scott knew that he was bothered too.

But the real nail to the coffin was a message. Not a simple one like a debrief or a message from Laswell to update them, no. It was fucking Graves and what did he send? A picture of you. A photo of pretty little you, laid out like a perfect meal on soft looking sheets and it looked like some sort of base because it was way too luxurious to be a safehouse.

And there you laid, all pretty and nice with a shy smile on your face, naked safe for the loose shorts you usually wore. Your skin glistening with a healthy glow, looking impossibly soft and your stomach rolls only adding to the perfection of your body; you looked like a goddess. But then really hit Soap like a train; Graves had you laid out like this, probably touching your body with his rough hands, kissing all over you and muttering dirty words of love in that damn southern accent in the comfort of a cool room, AC probably blasting all nice and comfortable and cool judging by the way your nipples were hard and perked up, that damn mutt was surely having the time of his life suckling and biting on them while Johnny and Ghost and the rest of their men were stuck in horrendous humid heat with no privacy and absolutely no time to even jerk off, though he could see Ghost spreading his huge legs and adjusting his cock through his dark pants, no shame at all.

Johnny had to turn the phone off again and could only scream in his head at the top of his lungs in agony, his head thumping semi-loudly on the wooden wall behind him. Oh he was gonna get you the second he comes back♡

#kin speaks #asks #interactions #my ovaries made me write this #cod x reader #cod mw x reader #philip graves x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #philip graves #simon ghost riley #simon riley #john soap mactavish

[15-lizards]

What are your thoughts on Northern fashion? You mentioned in an early post that it would be different depending on the location, can you elaborate on that? I also feel like the style changed soon after Catelyn married Ned, since she would bring styles from the Riverlands and Winterfell is the King's Landing of the North when it comes to fashion

Let’s goooo 🏃🏻‍♀️

Starting in the Neck, they would definitely be more like the riverlanders in terms of clothing. It’s a fairly similar wet and muggy climate. Everything is mostly made of wool and hemp and linen. Thinner clothes for the muggy summers and warmer, thicker ones for when winter comes. Leather/animal skin shoes to keep the mud off. Also whenever I imagine the Crannogmen I imagine cloaks and hoods to stay dry in the swamps. So lots of those.

To the East and a bit father to the north, that costal area around White Harbor is colder than the Neck. So theres a lot more layers, and clothing it way thicker. Also the Manderlys are dripped tf out they got that White Harbor money. Wyman has fur lined EVERYTHING his damask coats could put Cerseis to shame. Wylla and Wynafred pull up to the Sept with lace and silk and jewels eating all the other bitches up. Also since they follow the Faith and are originally southern, this area probably follows more southern customs (fabrics, headpieces, etc)

And we finally make it to winterfell 🤸🏻‍♀️At this point everyone’s freezing their tits off, so fur lined everything. Indoors, I think they can wear lighter stuff bc of those hot springs. Even in the spring months, you can catch Cat wearing at least one shift, underdress, overdress, AND a jacket bc I feel like she never acclimated to the cold. Lots of leather and wool for everyday wear, but when Ned throws a feast or something they get to wear more fur and velvet (even Jon gets to wear a nice velvet surcoat, as a treat). Since the Starks are bordering on ascetic sometimes, there isn’t a ton of ornamentation, but Sansa likes to wear southern-ish styles as much as she can, so you can frequently find her wearing clothes from white harbor (aka I want to see Sansa in a kokoshnik)

And then even farther north we start to see Bolton and Umber territory. The conditions are even more brutal than at Winterfell and they don’t even have hot springs :/ like Sansa and Arya could probably get away with not having to cover their ears during warmer days, but the girls of last hearth and the dreadfort have no warm days. At this point clothing becomes a bit bulky and harder to move around in. Dresses are lined stiffly and almost drag the floor, and everyone is always bundled up to the neck. However materials and fabrics are cohesive and nice atp.

And by the time we nearly reach the wall, conditions are almost unbearable during the winter. Even during spring, all the villagers in the gift are wearing at least four layers (bc I hate hate hate how the show made the people at and around the wall just chill in a thin jacket when they were near a gargantuan frozen block of ice). Clothing is a lot less structured here, resources are getting sparse so most people stitch together a patchwork of whatever furs they can get their hands on. You will rarely see a person without a big hood or thick gloves on. And even though they aren’t wildlings, you can probably see a lot of animal head hoods, bc these people do NOT waste any part of the animal

#asoiaf #asoiaf hair and clothing #hiii I hope u like it I kinda don’t :/ I feel like I just couldn’t do the north justice #it’s sooo big so I couldn’t really get any cohesion going #but alas #we ball

[sgiandubh]

The Ascent of Lying

Why, Mordor people? Why do you lie?

Is it stupidity? Hunger Greed for clicks? That #silly, #silly itch to be FIRST? And RIGHT?

The Ascent of Lying started in this fandom with *urv. Her Google sources, her undying obsession for S (and the mandatory hypocrisy that comes along with it), her paltry stories fit for people who never took a flight overseas in their entire life (not something bad at all, but in this context, this makes you incredibly fragile), her remake of the Twilight fandom hullaballoo and her chutzpah.

It continued with Jess, on this side of the fandom: her OTT girlish enthusiasm, her elusiveness IRL and finally, her capitulation and resurrection, under the same name, but with a totally opposed POV. For perhaps you don't know it, but Jess 2.0 has been back since quite a while ago, now making amends about her former strong beliefs. Even taking full responsibility for some 'receipts' (remember the S lemon pin/wedding ring one? she confirmed it was her and it probably was a #silly, horrible lie). How convenient and how depressing, isn't it? Reading her new, sparse blog brought along two firm thoughts: why this need to robotically inform us about her happiness and her change of heart? Also, how many Anons did Jess 2.0 send, since her comeback, to this side of the fandom?

Let this disappointment be my sin, then and let the link to her new hole in the wall remain undisclosed by this page. I have no wish to either start a flaming war, nor give this woman more space than she deserves:

You'll have to deal with the very childish LMAO and this completely irresponsible explanation: 'it was fun to fantasize at the time'. No, lady: you LIED. You lied through your teeth and because you had the privilege of having a thirsty audience, you thoroughly enjoyed this strange avatar of fame, as you say it publicly yourself, now. You even were, most probably, heavily used by ***'s PR and even S (that is a very firm belief), just like another very fragile individual, who switched sides in a far more vocal and pathetic way. That makes for a mixed bag of truths and lies, something I think we all are way too familiar with, by now. But that does not preclude, nor excuse in any shape or form, your eagerness to ahem, 'embellish" a very real love story and twist it according to your naivete and parochial life experience. Morally, you are 0, to me: a sentimental troll, completely on par with *urv.

I could blather on and on about Jess's main competitor, Puffy, too. I think I already wrote enough about her, if only because many believed me to be her latest avatar, which is completely ridiculous, but ridiculous with an agenda. So, did Puffy lie, too? Probably, especially while creating Stella and Deep Throat out of thin air. Let's agree she heavily extrapolated, which is a shame, because some of her analysis is really spot on.

The Ascent of Lying then morphed, along with an US busy social and political agenda being more and more sensitive to the 'fake news" issue, towards the Factchecker Anti blogs, who mimicked neutrality and promoted online stalking to unprecedented levels. Along came people like Meowkabob, who even manufactured their own facts/evidence and released them online. That was perfectly premeditated and done for increased credibility (I have debunked her shite last fall, if you remember), being fully aware that her libel could not be justified only by a prior, questionable, 'London experience', of which we conveniently have no concrete details. The other blog, you all know and sometimes visit: whether she is a PR plant or lonely rider doesn't really matter, yet a stalker and a hypocrite in her own right, too. The fact that both these persons suddenly felt an urge to express themselves during the heavily conspiratorial climate of the first COVID pandemic wave is not innocent at all, I think.

Lying is the real Uncharted Territory of this fandom and one of the main reasons we seldom have nice things to talk about, anymore. I barely scratched its surface and merely stated the obvious. If anything, it only comforted and strengthened my own beliefs, which I always strived to base on personal findings and facts, along with other likeminded people's experience. And I'd rather take the general brunt and simply say 'I don't know", than embellish. Also, when I am wrong, I am wrong: it happens to the best of us and it's always either immediately edited and explained or taken full responsibility for.

What I do know with a reasonable degree of certainty is that These Two are together. And this is all that matters to me, justifying my presence here.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk. There's more, but here is just an overview of the sentiments that prompted my next investigation.

#fandom #shitshow

[2btheanswertothequestion]

Eddie's Kissing Lesson #3: It's way more than kissing now

(Lesson 1 | Lesson 2 | AO3)

A few years ago, Eddie made a habit of driving to Indianapolis. Inevitably, he ended the trips at a club or a bar. The visits were usually solo affairs, though not always; sometimes Donnie or Zac (the only ones in Hellfire who looked old enough to get past the bouncers) or Callie (who didn't look old enough, but who could charm her way in), would tag along. If they did, they'd go to a straight club. If he was by himself, he'd roll a die between a straight or a gay one. No matter the kind, he'd be approached at least twice every night. Beautiful strangers with appreciative eyes, a drink in hand and a line ready on their lips.

Eddie would accept the drink, flirt for a second, then tell them he 'wasn't interested, but thanks anyway'.

It was half true – he was interested (fuck, was he interested), but also… not. He'd never say it out loud, but even at his horniest there was something in his way. A roadblock. Because the thing was, intimacy required, as one might suspect, intimacy. Although, one night stands walked hand in hand with alluring anonymity. Like being watched without risking being seen.

Eddie liked that, most of the time. Liked shrouding himself in a mystery. But when it came to sex, he wasn't so certain. Something instinctual told him it wouldn't be truly good unless it was real. For it to be real, walls would have to come down. Leave an unobstructed field of view for wide-open eyes. Terrifying and exhilarating; he wanted it so bad, but he couldn't (wouldn't) have it with just anyone.

It had to be special.

So, he accepted the drinks, flirted for a second, and sent the beautiful strangers on their way.

Steve writes with a rhythm. It goes tap-tap-tap-tap with the pencil on the pad while he thinks, followed by scritching, before he pauses to tap-tap-tap some more.

It's strangely endearing, not to mention relaxing. You'd expect a guy like him to be rough, leave imprints on the papers underneath and constantly break the point, but no. His large hand is soft as it writes. Eddie could fall asleep to it. A shame they're too busy to sleep.

Star Trek IV came out a week ago and the kids, Dustin especially, have been obsessed ever since. The moment they stepped out of the theater, the little twerp turned to Eddie and begged for a science fiction-themed campaign. And because he's a chump who can't say no to the kids nowadays, Eddie agreed – to a one-shot, not an entire campaign.

(Also, he's already been crafting a solar system for a potential space exploration-campaign on the down low. Why not finish and use it?)

And because Eddie Munson doesn't do half-measures in these circumstances, he spent the next week worldbuilding and polishing his new universe. At one point, as he put the finishing touches on the water planet's cuisine, Steve peeked over his shoulder and asked about sports. Eyebrow raised, Eddie said 'what about sports'. And that's when Steve snottily pointed out that Eddie had developed everything about these space cultures except for the sports, which didn't make any sense – sports was a huge part of every culture, whether Eddie liked it or not.

So! Because Eddie Munson does not do half-measures… he's currently creating extraterrestrial sports games in Steve's kitchen. Although, right now Steve's doing most of the work. After Eddie came up with the base concepts, Steve stepped in to use earth sports as inspiration for the technical aspects: rules, scoring, player positions, player numbers, playing fields, seasons (which ties in with the climate of each planet), and so on.

If he's being honest, he'll never use most of this. God knows the kids (except maybe Lucas, but he wouldn't bring it up) wouldn't notice or care about the absence of sports. But. Turn down an opportunity to hang out with Steve? Never. Also, deciding how much of real baseball should inspire their thinly veiled version of space baseball (spaceball) is kind of fun? What's a penalty and what isn't is just exciting when you throw anti-gravity into the mix.

Most importantly, it's nice seeing Steve be in his element. Dude is so fucking knowledgeable about this. Hearing him say that this will score x points because of that reason, confidence dripping from every syllable, has Eddie's tailbone tingling.

Would it be rude to swipe their notes off the island and jump onto it, offering himself like a buffet?

He knows he's allowed. Or, he knows that Steve wouldn't mind if he asked for a break, even if it was to make out. They've made a habit of sucking face when it's just them and there's nothing else to do (or when there are things to do, but they're easily ignored). Question is if he truly wants to interrupt those soothing pencil scritches and put an end to Steve's surprisingly sexy thinking face. He's got a little furrow between his eyebrows while chewing on his bottom lip, and every so often he'll mutter hoarsely under his breath. The fact that he's being so serious about doing this for the campaign, for the kids, for Eddie, is…

'Unreal' is what Eddie would've said nine months ago. Now he knows it's entirely in character. It's still noteworthy enough for him to memorize every detail of this moment. The King creating nerdy sports with the Freak is a picture that must be immortalized.

He doesn't realize how hard he's been staring until Steve looks up from their work, raising his brows in a silent 'what is it?'

Eddie shakes his head, warmth creeping over his cheeks. He pushes off the kitchen island and turns away to hide it. The sink is conveniently right there, so he grabs a glass out of the cupboard and fills it as excuse.

Behind him, the pencil hits the pad, rolling across the paper. Steve's footsteps are deliberately loud, telegraphing his advance over the surge of running water. Eddie fills the glass, drinks it in one gulp, and puts it on the counter. When he turns, heart thudding, Steve is standing inches in front of him. Steve leans forward, bracing his hands against the counter on either side of Eddie's waist. Boxing him in, but not trapping him.

"Did you want something?" Steve asks.

Eddie crosses his arms casually and shrugs. "Not really."

"Huh. It seemed like you wanted something."

"I was admiring your dedication to the campaign. It warms even this barren heart that you'll partake in nerdestry for the sake of the children."

"Oh, okay," Steve says and doesn't move; his hands remain on the counter and his face stays inches away. His eyes shine like suns, hot and intense. Eddie meets his gaze, face schooled into something calm. At least, he hopes – years of DMing have taught him how to regulate his expressions, but there's a big difference between DnD and this.

"Did you want something?" he asks to fill the silence and – yes! – his voice didn't tremble.

Steve grins. "Now that you say it, I did."

And with that, Steve kisses him.

The initial second, Eddie's brain shuts off, as it always does. It's simply too much too fast and all he can register is Steve Steve Steve. His taste, his scent, his firmness as he presses against Eddie and backs him into the kitchen cupboards.

But only the initial second. After that, he's back on, and that means he's on. Loping his arms around Steve's neck, Eddie tilts his head at the perfect angle until their mouths fit together just so and licks the inside of Steve's mouth. His hands delve into product-stiff locks and tug the way Steve likes it. Steve moans, slumping against Eddie. Eddie giggles into the kiss. He fucking loves knowing Steve better than his own back pocket, loves coaxing these reactions out of him, loves when he melts and leans his weight on Eddie.

It could be better only if they were horizontal and on a bed, or couch, or the fucking floor, and he'd get to feel the hair on Steve's chest and legs, the jut of his hipbone, and his evenly distributed weight. He so badly wants to know how heavy Steve is. He wants to be fucking crushed underneath him.

Maybe he could if he asked. Or maybe that'd be too much. The only time they've gone past second base is during the spontaneous blowjob he still can't fathom happened. Since then, their hands and mouths have stayed strictly above the waist. Eddie, though he's dying to blow Steve, is not going to complain or rush. Steve's the teacher here; he decides the curriculum.

All Eddie can do is show off the results of his rigorous practice. Today, it's by slotting their faces together like a pro and perfectly executing that tongue-sucking move Steve seems to love having done to him as much as he loves doing it to others. It brings a guttural noise out of Steve; he grabs Eddie's ass with both hands and yanks him closer. Eddie nearly loses his balance and must cling to Steve's neck to stay upright. Laughter rumbles within Steve's chest as he steadies him and rolls their hips together. The neck of his shirt bunches in Eddie's vice-like grip. They're as close as during that first kiss, no room for Jesus' finest hair between them. Eddie feels Steve's heartbeat, which means Steve can feel his, and the combined thud-thud-thuddings have his knees shaking.

Steve's hands round Eddie's hips and tug at his belt buckle. Eddie jerks back, breaking the kiss; a string of saliva still connects their mouths. Steve's eyes are enormous, more black than hazel. There's a question in them, a plea for permission.

Eddie nods and doesn't look as Steve opens Eddie's jeans and pushes them down his thighs. His face is on fucking fire. You could fry eggs on his cheeks. Which is a little debilitating. This is never how it goes in his fantasies – he's a lot suaver in those. Quicker on the ball, so to speak. On top of things, one could even say. But not here. Because here's an unfortunate fact about sex:

It's embarrassing.

Exciting and sexy and fun, obviously. But also embarrassing. It was the same during the blowie. The moment his pants were coming off and his dick popped out, Eddie was more inclined to run away than anything else. Hopefully, the feeling will fade as he gets used to it. These hopes are supported by how at ease Steve is, going from de-pantsing Eddie to unbuttoning his own jeans like it's nothing, second nature.

Eddie couldn't look away from that if he wanted to. Why would he want to? Steve's dick is a sight to behold. It's the eighth wonder of the world. Worthy of worship, of a dozen temples and daily sacrifices. It's long and thick, smooth and symmetrical, flushed at the tip and with a bead of precome already pooling in the slit.

It's pretty. And it's hard. It's hard for Eddie.

"Hey." Steve cups Eddie's face, tilting his head up (as well as bringing to his attention that his mouth's been hanging open like a fool; Eddie's teeth clack when he shuts it). "Is this okay?"

Eddie nods, breathing harshly through his nose. "Okay. So okay."

Steve smiles like Eddie just did him a favor. Eddie could – would – analyze that a little closer, except Steve lines up their cocks so that they rest against the broad expanse of his palm, rest against each other, and-

That's another guy's hand on Eddie's dick. It's another guy's dick on his dick. Steve's. Steve Harrington's dick. Next to Eddie’s.

Hoooooooooly shit.

It's happening right in front of him, and he's still having a hard time believing it. But it's real; it has to be real. Imaginarily gifted as he might be, not even he could daydream this into existence. Like, the way Steve's fingers curve around their cocks as he squeezes and strokes? The scratchy calluses on his fingertips? The ever-present chill of the Harrington mansion? How Eddie's testes keep catching on Steve's shaft, rising and rubbing against the dry skin? Steve's softly labored breaths? The edge of the fucking countertop digging into Eddie's lower back?

That's real. Uncomfortably and amazingly real.

Steve pauses to spit in his palm; Eddie whimpers out loud. When Steve resumes stroking it's just amazing, the glide so much easier now. It lets him go faster, put his hips into it and grind their pelvises together. Eddie keeps whimpering, these shamefully squeaky little ah-ah-ahs that he tries to swallow until Steve moans, hotly against the shell of his ear, that he sounds so pretty and sexy and "fuuuuuck, Eddie, wanna hear you like this every day."

He stops holding back then. Gets even louder when Steve noses along his jaw and sucks what'll surely become a mark at the underside of it.

The saliva has rubbed off but the glide is only improving, thanks to the precome dripping everywhere. Both are leaking, but Eddie especially – he's so fucking close. He tries to say it, but his skull is full of cotton and he can't form the words.

Steve must have some sixth orgasm sense, though, because he presses his lips to the scar on Eddie's cheek and mumbles, "So good, baby, you're doing so good, so perfect, wanna hear you come, wanna see your face, looked so pretty last time, almost made me cream my pants-"

Eddie screams. Head tossing back, lungs bursting, as he slouches against the counter. Most of all he'd like to sag to the floor and nap for an hour, he's that spent. But he can't – Steve hasn't come yet, and there's no way he'll go without again.

"Steve," he says. "Whaddya wan' m' to… C'n I…?"

The syllables slur together; he takes Steve's dick in his hand while licking his lips, hoping the point comes across. He just wants to make him come. 'How' doesn’t matter, as long as he's the one doing it.

Steve, thankfully understanding, puts Eddie's other hand on his cock, molding them tightly around the shaft, and rocks back and forth. Eddie almost whines a little since… well, he honestly has never before been so keen on having a cock in his mouth. Like, Steve towering over him, holding his head in place while fucking his throat? Yes and please, Jesus Christ, amen!

But this image is also pretty good: Steve's face inches away, pink with exertion and arousal, fringe plastered to his forehead, mouth kissed raw, and him thrusting wildly into Eddie's closed fists. Eddie's gaze darts between it and the throbbing cock in his hands. It's the second he's ever touched, after his own. It's a bit like jerking himself off, except a million times better, despite the kinda awkward angle.

Steve makes a noise, reedy and desperate. Eddie's eyes snap up just in time to see the climax wash over him, his mouth dropping into a perfect 'o' and his half-closed eyelids fluttering in pleasure. Ridiculous, beautiful, intoxicating; Eddie could become addicted to it.

Sighing, Steve lumbers forward to flop his head into the crook of Eddie's neck. Eddie drapes his arms over Steve's shoulders, probably smearing body fluids on his shirt. Neither says anything – they simply hold each other and breathe.

It's been a while since Eddie last was in Indianapolis. Been even longer since he visited a club. After some time, rejecting willing strangers and going home with bluer and bluer balls, no one to blame but his own fucking hangups, got old. Why waste the gas when he could just as well be getting no dates and not laid in Hawkins instead?

Except here he is, sweat sticking his shirt to his skin, hair frizzing around his ears, come drying under his nails. Standing with his dick hanging out in Steve Harrington's kitchen, with Steve Harrington in his arms.

He's sure he could've gotten this exact experience in a gay club bathroom years ago.

"Rather unhygienic doing this in the kitchen, hmm?" Eddie says.

Steve grunts, grossed out, but shrugs a shoulder. "I'll disinfect it."

Eddie giggles, and so does Steve, rubbing circles over the scar tissue on Eddie's hips. Burrows farther into Eddie's neck and makes no indication he'll move anytime soon.

Yeah, Eddie could've had this in a club. But he couldn't have had it with Steve in a club. Couldn't have felt this swoop in his stomach, like he's at the top of a roller-coaster, anywhere but here. Couldn't have felt this special.

You're ruining me, he thinks as he pets Steve's head.

Do you know that? he wonders when Steve ducks away, griping about what a pain it is to get semen out of hair. Squinting, Eddie asks how he figures. Steve blushes and laughs and doesn't reply, eyes glittering.

Can you see it?

------------------------------

Not tagging anyone except @piratefishmama because she's the reason this exists in the first place. Also, I'm pretty sure she's even more excited about this than I am, so. Here you go, girl. I hope you enjoy this very late continuation.

#remember when I said this part would be shorter than the second? it's seven words longer #I'll just never say anything ever again if it's ok with you #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #steddie #steddie fanfic #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie fic: lesson/plan #my writing

[thatlittleegyptologist]

when i visited Egyptian antiquities it was shocking how lax the security was. Many visitors at every site i visited scratched the wall reliefs and paintings or climbed the bases of sculptures. It seems like at this rate there will be nothing left in 100 years it’s such a shame. An egyptologist also told me that the new Egyptian museum wasn’t properly acclimatised and test-run empty for a year like is customary to ensure the artefacts are safely kept. You’re right that Egyptian institutions and the government control their heritage but i feel like they could preserve it a little better. And it’s not like antiquities are such a small priority to the state, because they derive a lot of nationalist symbolism + cultural and economic capital from it, so it doesn’t make sense to me even in a utilitarian way.

(I don’t mean this in a xenophobic way btw i love Egypt and Egyptian culture, things are just badly run. And i’m not just saying that as a tourist, Egyptians always talk about how fucked the government is in other ways.)

I don’t have a solution i just wish the researchers and museums and sites good luck in carefully preserving this heritage.

This really is just repackaged 'the Egyptians can't take care of their own heritage and history' nonsense. It is xenophobic whether you intended it or not.

Many sites around the world have people clamber over them every day. The sites in Egypt have stood for over 4000 years, and yet you imagine they'd be gone in less than 100? Are you kidding me?

Museums don't need to be left to acclimatise for a whole year. That's nonsense. You can acclimatise the cases for about a week, but you don't need to leave the whole building empty. Most artefacts would be in cases, and those would be already acclimatised before objects were brought in and then continually monitored. Anything outside that would be stone and thus not affected by climate control within the museum. The Grand Egyptian museum isn't even open yet. They're still working on it. But some artefacts have been moved over and are being cared for and conserved in brand new state of the art facilities.

No, the government in Egypt isn't the best. No, they don't have all the state of the art facilities that other countries might have. But they're not actively damaging their heritage. Artefacts are well looked after.

Finally, if you claim you saw that many people actively damaging sites by scratching into the walls and you sat by and did nothing, then that makes you as bad as them.

[bitchfitch]

Abandoned bunkers were a common sight. The bombs dropped so long ago that even the most paranoid communities had left them to rejoin the larger population on the surface one or two generations ago.

Abandoned bunkers that hadn't been picked clean by scavengers like Lino were a different story entirely.

He crept through the eerily quiet halls looking for whatever might be worth taking. The lights flickered on as he triggered their proximity sensors. The place was finely decorated to look like the homes of the wealthy who lived before the war. Crown molding covered in cobwebs, statues caked with dust, paintings who's varnish was so yellow you could barely see the image beyond it.

Lino pulled the strap of his cross body bag a little tighter. The off white marble floors were pristine. His own muddy boot prints being the only source of filth. The floor cleaning bot must still be functional.

The doors to this place had been wide open. Maybe it was only recently vacated? The air didn't hurt, the circulation and vent systems were still doing their jobs all these years later. It was pleasantly cool with none of the humidity or mildew smell that came from broken climate controllers. It was still serviceable when so few other bunkers were. He'd need to return with tools to strip the mechanisms for parts.

Those might be the only thing worth the effort. Pre war art had value, but everything was so heavy he'd only be able to carry one delicate piece at a time... The math on that effort to return ratio wasn't favorable. There had to be more. Something of actual value he could pay his dues with today.

He stepped into what was once a massive living room. The ancient, rotting, couches were pushed up against the walls, side tables and other bits of decor piled atop them to make more space in the center for the army of... Mannequins? Dolls? Scarecrows?

They were made from torn down tree branches, dried plant matter, and hope. Haphazard creations meant to display the clothes they wore. Beautiful dresses, finely tailored suits, ensembles that blurred the line. Each one constructed as a masterpiece of form with no eye given to the horribly clashing colors found within their materials.

Lino didn't know who they would fit.

No one looked like That anymore. Two arms, two legs, a single head atop a neck connected to a straight back. He was the most 'classic' looking human he had ever seen, but even he wasn't the right shape for so many of these.

It was a shame really.

It meant their only value was in the fabrics they were made from.

Lino pursed his lips, looking from the one garment that Might fit him to the mirrors hung either side of the faux fireplace. Luxury and fine items that exist just to be beautiful weren't unheard of concepts anymore, they just weren't things he had ever had the money to know. His leader had told him he would have been beautiful if he'd been born into one of the higher families who could have afforded to decorate him and sell him for his 'classic' looks. The leader offered him that wealth once. If Lino would just dye his albino white hair and let the surgeon remove his extra arms, the leader would have gladly decorated him themself.

He wasn't going to dismember himself to be pleasing for another. He was fine. Constantly living on edge, scouring the lands for any tiny scrap of value left over after so many other hungry scavengers had done the same before him. He was fine. He didn't need to be beautiful to survive.

The dress was shiny and silky smooth when he brushed his fingers along the stormy grey fabric. The fabric from all the other garments would pay his way for the month probably... He was the only person who knew this dress existed.

He didn't need to be beautiful to survive.

He undid the fastens around the dress form's neck and lifted the piece off, laying it over the form's shoulder before shucking off his own shirt. The dress was meant for someone taller than him, his muddy boots and damp pant cuffs would ruin it. Those went off next, then his discolored socks that he didn't want to see poking out beneath the hem, all were dropped in a messy pile beside him. He pulled the dress on as he stepped away from the filth of his own garments and towards the mirror.

The dress was backless. The side hems brushed the bases of his extra arms. It was too big. It would buy his dinner for weeks. Lino didn't want to look in the mirror, but when he did his gut twisted.

He looked gorgeous, the contours of the bodice following the lines of a body he often felt too scrawny to be anything other than awkward looking. The collar was pleasantly firm against the front of his throat, not tight, but present enough to make him feel it every time he moved to find a new angle. Even his extra arms were made to look right in it. The back of the collar came down in a slight point that fell perfectly between his misshapen shoulder blades. It was too big, but it was clearly intended for a woman who looked like the models of before. His longer torso and flat but broad chest meant he'd only need to take in a bit around his hips for it to look perfect... Even the skirt being meant for someone a foot taller than him wouldn't be a problem, it just looked like a fine train. He couldn't stop smiling. Guilt ate at him. He didn't need to be beautiful. He was wearing so much money. The panels weren't even pieced, the skirt alone had to have more pristine bolts in its gathers than most saw in their lives.

It was just a dress.

He twirled in front of the mirror to make the too long skirt flare out around him. His bare feet padding on the hard stone, his own reflection distracting him, his guilt making him focus in on the price something so beautiful would go for if he could just make himself destroy it.

Lino didn't hear the breathing until it was already too late.

A scrambling form shot around the corner, its growling tearing through the still air as it launched towards Lino with more speed than something so twisted looked like it should be able to.

Lino was so grateful his fear response had always been flight. He bolted to the side, the badly mutated man careened into the mirror, shattering it across its massive shoulders. Lino didn't look back. He could hear the man panting and snarling like an animal as it gave chase. Its hands pounding on the stone as it dragged itself behind him. He could hear it gaining on him. The door was in sight. Would it follow an intruder out of its home? Lino had to hope not. The threshold was under his foot. A harsh tug at his skirt. He came crashing down, his jaw knocking hard against the concrete porch sent his head spinning with painful disorientation.

"Auth Code 1756" The man spat. Lino had thought him too far gone with his mutation to be person enough to speak. The bunker beeped in response, something mechanical thunked. Gears ground.

Lino kicked, his leg was grabbed. He turned to see the featureless face of his assailant for a split second before it was blocked from view by the closing door.

Lino's vision whites out, he heard screaming. The man was still holding him trapped by the leg when the multi ton hunk of metal shut atop it.

#hashtag meet cute

[dotthings]

Welp. I've talked before about how parts of the Jared stan lane have fake woke, dino, pseudoliberal tendencies while they're actually very narrow minded and anti-progressive and anti-diversity wankers. They sure are going hard openly embracing homophobic and fascist dog whistle tactics aimed against Destiel.

They're screaming and kicking and yelling against their own irrelevance. Nobody cares that you hate Destiel, Susan.

Worse, though, some from the staff of jibcon are full on embracing homophobic dog whistles, concern trolling, and fascism. They, and the Jared stans, resemble the book banning efforts targeted against LGBTQ books in libraries and schools going on in different states in the US right now. It's the same. Underlying. Mentality. It makes THEM uncomfortable. So nobody else should be able to have access. THEY don't like it so it has to go. The arguments are also relying on a vile level of demonizing the entire Destiel lane, which is extra gratuitous and gross and hilarious when you consider all the hatred that Jared stan accounts have been spewing onto the internet on multiple platforms non-stop.

The real world political climate makes it even more alarming that this is happening in a fandom space. It's a reflection of real world problems and it's leaking in. I do not want to hear your "shipping isn't activism" and that it doesn't matter how welcoming fandom spaces are. It matters.

Argue with the wall.

This is malicious and the goal is to full on ban Destiel from fandom spaces and make shippers feel unwelcome. Someone even made the slippery slope argument, and tried to blame the existence of fanart.

So let me slippery slope this--if they get their own way banning Destiel at cons, the fandom fascist anti-Destiel brigade will start a concerted effort to try to silence it online too.

If you think this is ok stay away from me.

Argue with the wall.

A jibcon staffer sought out a fan on twitter who got blocked at jibcon from having her fanart signed, despite Jensen's willingness to sign Destiel fanart (and he signed others). The fan got Misha to sign it and was comforted. Jensen never even got a chance to see it.

The jibcon staffer replied to this fan with a screed shaming them for refusing to hide their "boy love," used the "I have a gay friend" excuse, and collective accused every Destiel shipper who ever asked to have fanart signed, by two actors who have been more than willing and both have been kind and supportive towards shippers in fandom spaces, of only trying to "look cool" and using it as a "toy."

While the usual suspects from the Jared stan lane opportunistically tried to incite even more hatred aimed against the Destiel lane and used homophobic dog whistle tactics and concern trolling.

Someone calling all j2 fans "moderate, sensible" and all Destiel shippers "Gross" is classic dog whistling and is a tactic used by the far right while they attempt to paint compassion and inclusion and equity as an extremist position.

Do not even try to tell me this isn't homophobic fandom style fascism.

Argue with the wall.

It's stifling and silencing and malicious and people who think because THEY don't like a queer ship, it should not be seen and heard. They're like puritanical far right groups who wail "protect the children."

I do not care even one ounce if you don't like destiel and you're not a shipper so you think this is all ok.

YOUR DISLIKES ARE NOT RELEVANT HERE.

Homophobic dog whistlers and concern trolls who target Destiel shippers: You're done. You are not welcome in this fandom. Leave.

#dot trolls fandom #jibcongate

[painted-bees]

Has Raf not had a single loving relationship in his life before meeting Magritte and Cortes Or does he just have a hard time recognizing it?

He... has.

His grandmother and uncle both love(d) him v. much but a lot of their interactions with Raf growing up had been flavored with a bit of...idk, guilt? Shame??? At being unable to do more for him or deter his parents from the course they set out for him. The uncle actually left the family when Raf was quite young -due- to an unreconciliable difference in opinion over...Raf's upbringing, among a few other things.

Raf didn't reunite with his uncle again until after graduating post secondary, when instead of going back to Monaco, he decided to abscond to Vancouver instead--where his uncle had been living for the past decade or so. His uncle has being trying to make up for the lost time, helping Raf put roots down in Vancouver any way he can.

Grandma is still...very mired in the family business and while Raf thinks of her very fondly and owes some of his nicest childhood memories to her, if going back to Monaco is the only way he could ever see her again, he'd rather...not risk it.

As for his non-familial relationships lmao it's...a rough climate for him out there haha he's learned that his most comfortable 'friendships' are acquaintences actually--and has endeavored to maintain that safe, amiciable arms length with everyone. It took...a while...for Magritte to worm her way past that particular wall (and she did it by just...wholly accepting it as a boundary of his with no actual intention of worming her way around it. She just wanted someone who was excited to jam with her lmao)

#the harder you try to get to know Raf #the more he resists it and the less trusting he becomes towards to lmao #he's like a cat...just ignore him and he might come around to you if he gets the right vibe. #Hi-Note #rafael

[harrowharkwife]

ill go with sex pal :P but if that's already done, gideon :)

HIIIIII!!!!!!! hi friend!!!!!

favorite thing about them: PALAMEDESSSSSS my boy palamedes. my little guy. man, okay, what do i love about him. i love the way he loves. i am fascinated by his clumsy and imperfect and well-meaning but inherently flawed attempts/approaches to things like agency and ethics and fairness and respect. i love that he pays attention to everything. i love his drive. i love his gambling streak, his tendency to play the odds. i love that he's a boy who writes love letters™. i love how open he is about his affections and his feelings. i love his penchant for using terms of endearment. his love for teaching. his willingness to get up on a soapbox for things he believes in, even if he winds up stumbling sidelong into insufferable preachy condescension half the time. i love that he tries. i love that he sometimes fucks up and hurts the people around him. i love his boldness. i love his sweetness. i love his kindness. that boy could make friends with a brick wall if you gave him enough time. i love that he canonically writes weird erotica to cope. i love his taste in women. i love his gender. i just love him

least favorite thing about them: i mean, i could go on forever. he's deeply annoying sometimes, and as much as it's part of his charm, it also makes me want to thwap him upside the head from time to time, like. boy. shut UP!!! but the real answer is honestly his position as sixth house scion. master warden is an unspeakably rancid title in vibes alone and i sincerely hope we dig into the backstory behind that a little more in AtN. i find it fascinating, and troubling, and tragic, and frustrating, all the ways in which he talks the talk re: cavaliers and agency and free will, but when the rubber meets the road, do his actions really back that up? arguably, not always. and the guilt and complicity and codependent toxicity there re: camilla, is like catnip to me. he loves her, he respects her, she's his best friend, he's in awe of her and her abilities and her strength. and yet, time and time again, he puts her through harrowing things and thanks her each time she shoulders his burdens. it's a self-fulfilling prophecy, it makes me so sad, it's a snake eating its own tail, it is a mobius strip of toxic power imbalance codependent enmeshment and it is FASCINATING to think about. if i keep going we'll be here all night, but just. i think fandom has a tendency to write him as The Good Person™ (him and Camilla both) and, like, i love him as much as the next girl, but he's a head of state in an empire, with all the implications that brings with it.

favorite line: "how god takes, and takes, and takes." "fool us twice, shame on god." "thank god for that mad, stubborn, lovely girl." "it's not you, it's me wearing you." (moira quirk's inflection on that line is literally fucking haunting, btw.) "do you know, i miss harrowhark terribly." "and, most personally, this is for dulcinea septimus." god. i just love him

brOTP: harrow, and also gideon.

OTP: im shy <3

nOTP: im struggling to think of a pal pairing that i Couldn't find compelling or at least interesting, if written the right way, in the right light. he's just my interesting little guy. he's a barbie and im making him scissor all the other barbies. who said that

random headcanon: glasses chain. earrings. palamedes can have she/her pronouns, every now and then, as a treat. contrary to the initial assumption of everyone he's ever met, he's actually Not autistic. (cam is; he's just got wicked bad adhd.) jewamedes is also fun

unpopular opinion: i mean i guess just what i said up top re: people sometimes acting like he's never done anything wrong in his life? i love him but i love him Because he is an interesting and deeply morally gray (ha) character.

song i associate with them: what you can't look up by walk the moon, tiny moves by bleachers, to someone from a warm climate by hozier, chateau lobby #4 in c for two virgins by father john misty, shiver shiver by walk the moon, star by mitski, hopedrunk everasking by caroline polachek, GAMBLER'S PRAYER BY CAROLINE POLACHEK my ultimate palamedes song

favorite picture of them: ive tattooed every single piece of palamedes art ive ever seen on the inside of my eyelids. except white palamedes fanart which is always such a jumpscare

[kohakhearts]

hii u rb'd the short angst prompt list like. a year ago I'm sorry.... but If I would request something: "can't sleep?" prompt with ash and kukui !

"can't sleep?" wc: 1 861 read on ao3 here

Alolan nights are humid.

Even with the window closed, the cool, damp ocean breeze finds its way into Professor Kukui’s house, almost as if it were itself a fixture of the environment, as impressed upon by the force of the tides as the mounds of sand children shape into figures of various Pokémon on the beach. Late at night, Ash can hear the wind winding around the house, embracing it in that sharp, salty tang. Beneath that, the sound of the waves lapping up against the land attempts to make itself known to him, a constant reminder that even if he is within the walls of a house again, he is terribly, terribly far from home.

But the humidity is the worst. He’ll adjust—he always does—but for now he can’t help missing the crisp outdoor air of central Kalos. The climate here reminds him most of Hoenn, with its expansive oceans and scorching deserts. Most nights found the temperature dropping into a comfortable chill, but in the grips of summer on the coast, they often were stiflingly warm instead. May always complained about how it affected her hair the next morning; Ash found falling asleep the worst part, though. Those nights never felt particularly restful.

Which is kind of the whole problem now, he supposes.

If there were any comfortable, non-sweat-soaked position to put himself in, he would just close his eyes and hope for the best. It’s not like he can sleep in tomorrow, after all; he has school, and he’d hate to be the reason the professor was late, too.

So, he figures it’s probably easier to just find something that will keep him awake now and hope he doesn’t burn out too early in the day. He feels some guilt about rousing Pikachu when he finally rises and descends from the loft to the kitchen, but it is short-lived as he takes stock of his surroundings and realizes just how…cramped it feels. The way Pikachu heads straight for the door tells him he isn’t the only one who thinks so.

Outside is cooler, to his surprise. The salty tang of the sea breeze wraps around him unhindered by the foundations of the house, and he breathes it in, deeply, feeling his shoulders begin to slump already.

Carefully, he closes the door behind him and settles down on the porch, staring out towards the beach while Pikachu settles on his lap, apparently content now to go back to sleep. Without the walls to diminish the sound, the gentle crash of the waves becomes the night’s cacophonous rhythm.

And for a long time, he just sits and soaks it in. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine he is back in the Orange Islands with Tracey and Misty and Lapras, or maybe at the helm of the ship that toured him, Iris, and Cilan around the Decolore Islands.

Before he can follow the memory to the desire that sits half-mangled beneath his heart, the click of the door opening behind him has his eyes flying open again. He cranes his neck in order to watch Kukui step out on to the porch, all too aware of Pikachu’s slumbering form in his lap.

The professor lowers himself down on the step beside Ash, very quiet. The waves splash up to the beach, then recede, then splash up again, and he finally asks, “Can’t sleep?”

Ash shrugs noncommittally, not able to meet his eyes.

“If you’re not comfortable in the loft—”

“I’m fine,” Ash says quickly, before he can suggest anything awkward or embarrassing. “You’ve done lots already, Professor. Don’t worry about it.”

Splash. Recede. Repeat.

“There’s no shame in feeling homesick, you know.”

Ash blinks, startled. Finally, he chances a glance at the professor, whose gaze is thankfully glued to the darkened horizon ahead of them.

“I don’t really get homesick,” he says, and it’s the truth, too; he misses his mom sometimes, sure, but home is not tied to any particular place anymore. He has been all over the world. He could find comfort in any corner of it.

Even here, now—sure, he’s having a hard time sleeping, but during the day, he’s having all kinds of fun adventures with new friends, and even attending school is something to look forward to, as long as he isn’t given homework at the end of it.

He thinks to tell Kukui as much, but the words fade fast when he catches the troubled look on the man’s face. Perhaps he notices Ash’s attention on him, because he turns to face him at last, a small frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I know you don’t really know me, but if something isn’t working, I’ll help ya out. Promise.”

Ash opens his mouth to reassure him that everything is fine, but stops as he notices the words catching uncomfortably in his throat. Quickly, he looks away and clears his throat. Says, in any direction but Kukui’s, “I’m just tryna get used to it.”

“Alola?”

“Yeah. It’s…warm.”

A pause, and then Kukui chuckles, though it is short, surprised-sounding. “I guess it is pretty different from Kanto, huh? Our Sunny Day is a little more intense.”

“I was just thinkin’ it reminds me of Hoenn.”

“Sure, I can see that. Didn’t know you’d travelled that far.”

Ash shrugs. “It’s closer than Unova. Or Kalos.”

Kukui seems to chew on that for a moment. Then he asks, “Where else have you been?”

Absently, Ash strokes Pikachu’s fur. He keeps his eyes on the waves sparkling beneath the moonlight, but he doesn’t really see them. “I toured Kanto twice. Once for the League and once for the Battle Frontier.”

“Wow, the Battle Frontier, too, huh? How’d that go?”

“It was hard,” he admits. “It took us a few tries to beat all the Frontier Brains, but we were better for it, in the end. I mean, I learned a lot. Scott—he’s the guy who runs the Battle Frontier—he offered me a position as a Frontier Brain, but I wanted to keep journeying, so I said no.”

Kukui whistles appreciatively. “That’s pretty impressive, Ash. So, I’m guessing you competed in the Hoenn League, too?”

“Yeah, and the Johto League. After the Battle Frontier, I went to Sinnoh and entered the League there… Got really close to the end, too, but I think that was kinda where I realized that there’d always be other trainers who’re better than me.” His hand comes to rest over Pikachu’s back as his shoulders begin to tense. “I used to think that I had to beat ‘em all, but now I think there’s a lot I can learn just from getting to face off against strong trainers like that. I almost won in the Kalos League, but when the battle was over, I couldn’t really stay upset for long, ‘cause it was a great battle. It just meant I’d get better and try harder for the next one. And now I’m here.”

“Alola doesn’t have a League, though,” Kukui points out. “So, what made you wanna stay?”

Ash shakes his head. “It’s not about the battles, Professor. It’s about who you’re battling with. There’s so many cool Pokémon here, and everyone’s so nice, too… It’s different, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

“Then, whaddya think it is that’s keeping you up?”

He stares out at the beach. With some effort, he forces his muscles to relax again. The scent of the sea brings back a tide of memories—good, bad, and everything in between. His victories in the Orange League, Legendary and Mythical Pokémon and the terrible people that sought to control them, swimming with his friends, fishing with Misty, with Cilan… He has found a home in every corner of the world.

But it’s never been about where he is.

Finally, he confesses, “It’s been a long time since I’ve lived somewhere.”

Silence is his only response. He ducks his head, wishing he had had the forethought to grab his hat. It’s not something he’s really been thinking about, but now that the words have left his mouth, he knows it is the truth. Nobody has had to take care of him since the first time he left home. These days, even his calls with his mom are sparing things. His returns have shortened from weeks to days. He is sprung into each new departure by an itching restlessness, the sense of being cooped up.

He sucks in a deep breath to steel himself, then looks over at the professor. Immediately, his concern is washed out by surprise at the understanding expression on his face.

“Kinda the opposite of homesickness, then,” Kukui says. “Is that right?”

Under Ash’s hand, Pikachu stirs. He lifts his head and looks sleepily between Ash and the Professor, then lets out a small sigh and settles back down to sleep. Ash scratches behind his ears, a small smile coming to him at last.

“It’s just weird,” he says. “Me and Pikachu have been on the road for so long. We’ll get used to it, but…”

“But for now, you’re feeling a bit Imprisoned?” Kukui suggests.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, tell ya what… How about me, you, and Pikachu go out on a little island adventure on the weekend? There’s some pretty great spots to camp out at on Melemele.”

Ash starts, jostling Pikachu, who cracks open one eye in alarm. He quickly pats his head in reassurance, then says to the professor, “Really? That sounds great!”

Kukui grins, reaching a hand out. Ash thinks he is going to ruffle his hair, but then he seems to think better of it and sets it awkwardly on his shoulder instead. It is heavy and warm and present, in a way that brings a smile to Ash’s face, too.

“We’ll make a plan tomorrow,” the professor promises, and all too soon that hand is being pulled away as he leans back and begins to rise. “For now, let’s try to get a Rest in before school, hey?”

It’s not quite as humid outside as it had felt up in the loft. Ash doesn’t know if the cool cadence of the wind will follow him into the house.

But then Kukui offers that hand down to him, and he supposes he’ll never know if he doesn’t try. And since when has he been afraid to try something new?

He carefully lifts Pikachu up against his chest with one hand, then lifts the other to accept Kukui’s help. Once Kukui has ushered him back inside, he turns around and starts to say, “Thanks for—”

“Don’t worry about it,” the professor tells him, quickly. “Sleep well, Ash. I’ll see ya in the Morning Sun.”

Ash blinks, surprised, then thinks again of the awkward movement of his hand outside, those long, uncertain silences. At once, the walls of the house do not seem so oppressive anymore.

He smiles. Just as quickly, the tension seems to drain out of Kukui’s posture.

“Night, Professor,” he says, and that is that.

In only a matter of minutes after he and Pikachu have settled down in the loft again, they are both comfortably asleep.

#*reqs #anon #answered #*fic #mine #pokemon #anipoke #pokeani #thanks so much for the request!! hope you like it <3

[mangohobbit]

Soap and the artist

(Soap x y/n)(civilian)...I think that's how it goes? I'm still learning fanfiction language 😅😅

Authors note: So this is my first fanfiction ever and I am honestly terrified of posting it but FUCK IT! I have seen various styles for fanfic writing but I was really bad in trying to copy that so I just went with what I was most comfortable with.

-Just a few little notes before you get started so you aren't completely lost. 1) Setting is wherever you would like. The 141 are in a foreign country to their own so have fun with it. (make one up if you want. I kept it vague so you could use your imagination although I am descriptive on the setting being a mountainous region) 2) Anything italicized means you're speaking in another language (again, have fun with it) 3) I hope my jumping between perspectives is alright? Again, this is my first fanfic and I'm still getting used to this writing style so please bear with me 😅 Enjoy 🥰

(P.S : No NSFW warning....for now. This will be a slow burn. Just alot of flirting and tension)

Word count: 2820

Chapter 1: Sunbeams

The late afternoon air was setting in with an unfamiliar peace that Johnny had not felt in some time. It had also been awhile since he smelt the air of a new base. Everything about this place smelled of new. New walls, new floors, new paint, new everything other than his team that now walked its halls. His team of the 141 had been assigned for the training of some soldiers in the province of some small country that never came onto his rader from how small and insignificant it was. He thought it a shame that he had never heard of such a place considering he had been all over the world at this point. He also thought it a shame because of how beautiful it was. Although he had only seen the military airport and the roads that lead to the base which didn’t lead to any city, town, or village; only some spread out farms, the land was lush and green and the climate cool for the season; which seemed to be spring. He did see the outline to town from a distance once he was on the base. Once he had unpacked what he needed, him, and Gaz decided to explore the new place together. Ghost locked himself in his room for some much needed sleep as he tended to be a bad sleeper on plane rides. “I think the hairs on my nostrils are vaporizing from the smell of new paint,” Gaz rubbed his nose. 

“We’ve smelled our own funk and of others for so long that this is definitely a weird whiff for our noses,” Johnny laughed. 

“Kinda smells like a fresh mopped shopping center doesn’t it?” Gaz chuckled.

“Yeah,” Johnny laughed back at the comparison. 

The two friends found themselves on a balcony outside a small communal lounge area on the second floor. Underneath them was an open dirt field where some thirty young, newly appointed soldiers all lined up in rows and columns listening to their commanding officer give them some sort of speech. Majority were some pretty young lads. Looking at them made Johnny reminisce about his first few years in the military. He honestly wasn’t that much older than those boys down there but he wasn’t considered a “young adult” anymore and those years now seemed so far away with everything that he has seen and experienced. 

From this balcony is where he could see the outline of the town that seemed to sit by the river that the base sat next to as well. The area that the base was on was where the river expanded itself into some small marsh lands covered by a variety of tall grass, small bush, and tree’s. Rising all around them were some majestic mountains that loomed over them from all angles. The familiar views of long expanded valley’s made him nostalgic for his homeland. It was rather uncanny how alike the landscape looked from the views he saw growing up. 

“Why do you think Price accepted this assignment?” Johnny asked. “We’ve never been trainers or mentors before.

“Perhaps the world is finally at peace for once and the captain just wanted to keep us busy,” Gaz replied. “But knowing Laswell, this whole thing reeks of a deeper plot.”

“You think the captain and Laswell have another reason for us to be here?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised Soap. Would you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I was told one thing only to be saddled with another…and another,” he leaned against the railing, letting his elbows hold him up. 

“The plot will eventually thicken. Just you wait,” Gaz positioned himself in the same way as well. 

“Maybe we’re here for good reason?” Johnny wondered.

“Ready to be someone’s knight in shining armor Soap? Gaz released a small snort. 

“More like someone’s dog. Ready to fetch the ball.” Johnny sighed. 

“Come on Soap, normally Ghost is the pessimist.”

“Agh, you’re right. I think I’m just tired from the flight,” Johnny huffed. 

“You still have some time to rest up. Price said we wouldn’t be properly introduced until tomorrow morning,” Gaz patted his friends back. 

The two men started their route back to the barracks when they passed by the security office. Price was in there talking back and forth with an officer. Johnny and Gaz were able to catch what the conversation was about. 

“Alright I’ll have someone check out the sensor,” Price began to walk out the door when he spotted two of own lingering outside. 

“Everything alright Captain?” Gaz asked

“Security has just informed me that a motion sensor has been triggered,” he informed his boys about the alarm. 

“Couldn’t it just be an animal?” Johnny reasoned.

“I thought that too but the sensor is designed to go off only when anything that weighs more than a hundred pounds passes by it. We should check it out either way. This place is new and it already has some heads turning our way,” the captain crossed his arms. 

That was when Johnny knew Gaz was right about something more than training some new armed recruits was their purpose for being here. “We’re already up and dressed captain so we’ll go ahead and take a look at it,” Johnny looked to his crewmate. 

“Gear up and go find out what it was then. It was the northmost sensor, number T110.” the captain let them know. “Leave in five minutes and give me a radio check when you reach it,” Price headed back towards his new office.  

Geared up and armed the two soldiers headed towards the sensor. They were going in blind to this not only because they didn’t know what tripped the sensor but also they didn’t know the lay of the land just yet. They knew which direction of the base's perimeter was north but they came up to two others before coming up to the right one. It had a small light that was blinking red. It wasn’t hard to see that the place was disturbed…by a human. Clear footprints came from the fences direction and headed out towards the river. There was a clear path where the footprints were stamped on. Seemed to be a frequently used forest path to get to the river banks. 

“Let’s see if our guest is still here?” Johnny followed the path while Gaz walked from behind. To get to the river it was a slight downhill in the land with small curves that avoided the tree’s.

“These are some small prints Soap. It’s not like there are hardy boots or anything,” Gaz took note of the pattern of the prints which looked more like sneakers. 

“You’re right,” Johnny replied. “Maybe some local kids getting to their regular spot. We should be ready to not look intimidating if these are just local civilians,” Johnny began to speak quietly as they got near the riverbank. 

“Copy that,” Gaz nodded. 

The sounds of the flowing water started to get louder and louder as they tracked the footprints. A giant boulder crushed between two large trees blocked their sight of the river which was now in view. They could hear some shuffling going around the other side of the large chunk of rock. The two men put their backs and eyed one another in silence, giving each other hand signals on how they were going to approach this. Just as they were about to creep to the other side, the sudden bark of a dog that jumped in front of them made the two men flinch. 

“Shit,” Johnny cursed. 

“Who’s behind there!” 

Johnny’s mind did a mental gasp at the sound of a woman’s voice. It was speaking in the native tongue of course.

“Oli, get back here!”

“Recall your dog miss! Gaz shouted. “We’re from the base!” The woman’s voice shouted for her dog once more and the medium sized mutt retreated back to its owner in a huff. 

“We’re going to walk out! Don’t move an inch!” Johnny commanded; although he didn’t know if the person could understand him in the first place. It was a hunch at the very least since the dog did back up once its name was called when Gaz told the mystery intruder to do so. 

“You can come out now,” The voice spoke in English this time with a slight accent. 

Soap nodded his head forward for Gaz to follow him around the boulder. With their guns up they slowly crept into the view of the stranger standing within the shallows of the river. With your overalls rolled up to your knees and the sun rays that peeked through the tree’s which created a gold halo around your silhouette, Johnny was left speechless at the sight of you.

“I’m not armed…unless you count this small stone,” you held up her arms decorated in an array of beaded bracelets while holding the stone you warned them about. 

“What’s in the bag?” Johnny pointed out the stuffed canvas messenger bag on the ground. 

“Paint supplies,” you replied. 

Johnny approached the bag, lifted its flap, then revealed the said paint supplies. He rummaged around just in case. You did not like that as she yelled at him to keep his hands out of it.  

“You do know you are trespassing here, miss?” Gaz questioned you. 

“Yeah well up until eight months ago this place was open to everyone,” you had an angry tone to your voice. The stare of annoyance in your eyes gave Johnny a slight shiver up his spine. 

He didn’t have to be so aggressive in looking through your things. Damn those pretty blue eyes that looked up at you as your hands were up in the air so as to not provoke them. They were holding some pretty big guns at you and your dog. Luckily your furry companion was behaving for once and listening to your command of staying still, but they were ready to pounce at any time now. 

“Please don’t hurt my dog,” you said to the soldiers. 

“What’s his name?” The soldier with the silly mohawk asked you. 

“Oli,” you responded. “He’s just cautious but he’s nice if you approach him slowly…and not sneak from behind,” you said the last part in a scoff. The mohawk guy noticed and smiled a crooked grin your way. Damn he’s cute, you bit your tongue. The soldier carefully extended his hand to your dog with some soft words of encouragement to smell him. 

“Oli, safe,” you said to your dog. Oli yapped a happy bark and jumped onto the soldier’s chest with an unstoppable wagging tail which made their bottom wiggle back and forth. 

“Oh what a good dog you are,” the mohawk guy said in the usual “happy that a dog is happy” kind of voice. 

The other soldier with the baseball cap also crouched down to pet Oli with a smile. It put you at ease that Oli was calm and happy with them around. “Can I put my hands down now?” you asked. 

“Yes, miss,” the baseball-capped soldier said.

With your arms now resting you headed back to the riverbank. On the sand of the bank you unloaded your pockets of different stones. “That’s all I have, I swear.”

“Even though you’re not an armed threat you still haven’t answered what you’re doing here,” mohawk guy questioned you. 

“You know normally introducing yourself with your name is the polite thing to do. Or do they not do that sort of thing anymore around the world,” you jested. 

“You’re the one on our side of the fence so why don’t you start with introductions. What’s your name miss?”

Dick. Why did he have to be a cute dick. “I’m (Y/N) , I live in the town that overlooks that ugly thing,” you pointed at the gray blocks that made up the military base. 

“I take it you’re not a fan of your new neighbors?” Mohawk asked. 

“It would’ve been nice to not have it block my spot. Maybe if you built it not here then I wouldn’t mind it so much. I think it would look great in the mountains…on the other side,” you jested again.

"Your spot?” Mohawk asked. 

“Yes my spot, Mohawk! I’ve been coming here since I could walk and that damn fence isn’t going to stop me!”

Those cute angry eyes were definitely going to be the death of him. Calm yourself Johnny. A pair of batting lashes shouldn’t put your defenses down. But oh how he wanted to. 

“Oh, you already gave me a nickname?” 

“Well it’s not like YOU introduced yourself or your friend Baseball Cap over here,” you put your hands on your hips. 

“I’m Sergeant MacTavish and this is Sergeant Garrick,” he finally introduced himself. 

“Well Sergeant, if you’ll excuse me I have some business to attend to before I lose the light,” you approached your bag. Taking out your collapsible easel, you unclipped it and tried to position it in the right direction. 

“No miss you cannot make camp here,” MacTavish was about to reach for your easel when you swatted at his hand with a loud smack. “Hey!” he yapped. You could hear his friend smile with a chuckle. 

“I’m not setting up camp. Don’t you know an easel when you see it, soldier? I’m going to paint. Now if you will, I would appreciate some silence,” you only continued doing your usual set up. 

Johnny wasn’t about to deny that he was both surprised and slightly turned on from the hand smack you placed on the back of his hand. Not too often does he meet many people with such fearlessness. Your determination was admirable but he had a job to do and you weren’t supposed to be here. He backed away from you and came up to Gaz with a whisper. 

“So how do you want to play this?” Gaz asked. 

“Well she’s not a threat but she can’t be here,” Johnny pointed out. Peering over his shoulder he saw how you carefully set up her easel which transformed into a mini table on the side and took several other tools out. A jar of water, a pouch full of paint brushes, and a small palette with some nice looking paints. Looking at the tools brought the soldier back to his elementary art classroom. It used to be his favorite subject. His art teacher was the only one who cared about his doodles and scribbles. She would even hang her favorite ones on the wall. Nostalgia from a better time in his life flooded his mind. He felt bad having to move someone like you who just wanted her creative space back. With a huff and grunt he turned to Gaz. “You go Gaz, I’ll stay behind and wait for her to finish. It’s almost dark anyways,” Johnny sighed. 

“You’re going to let her stay?” Gaz asked. 

“Yeah, just head back. I’ll radio Price in a sec to let him know.”

“It’s your head Soap,” Gaz snickered. 

“I know,” Johnny huffed. 

“Have a goodnight miss,” Gaz said his goodbyes. “Goodnight Oli,” he patted your dog one last time before heading back and disappearing behind the tree’s.

“So you’re going to babysit me?” You jeered.  

“I’m no monster to disturb a creative mind. Plus, I don’t feel right leaving a damsel in the middle of nowhere when it’ll be getting dark soon,” Mohawk got himself comfortable on a stone. 

“How noble of you, Mohawk,” you huffed at the man. “Suit yourself,” you hunched your shoulders. Unbothered by the results. As long as you got to paint, all was good. Though, you wish you didn’t have to have a huge burly, mohawked, military dude breath down your neck. Cute for sure, but annoying nonetheless. 

As much as Johnny tried to admire the serenity of the location, which had much to look at in nature, he couldn’t help looking at you.  You were barefoot with your toes curled in the sand. Your back stood as straight as an oak. Your gaze aimed for the tree’s to the south of the riverbank. A landscape that was now disturbed by what you described as “those ugly things” which still left a laugh in Johnny’s chest. Your focus is what he couldn’t stop looking at the most. Christ was it mesmerizing to see how your eyes pierced through the landscape in trying to capture your little painting. You began to quickly work on what he could only describe as the best bloody sunset landscape he had ever seen. The soft pinks and purples were so similar to the real thing. 

“Y-you’re really talented,” he was finally able to get a compliment out of his mouth. 

In an elegant turn of your head the military man was captured by your stare. He gulped at your glare. “Thank you,” you smiled.

#cod mw2 #call of duty #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap mw2 #soap fanfic #soap x y/n #soap x reader #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty fanfic

[lucysinatizzy]

Really weird that you’re denying the harassment of non hellcheer shippers. My friends and I have gotten harassed with death threats and racism for no reason other than not shipping hellcheer, none of us said anything negative, just that we don’t ship it.

Even if someone says something negative, that still doesn’t warrant hellcheer shippers telling them to kill themselves, doxxing them, being homophobic/transphobic, and racist/antisemitic.

If you have actual proof of actual hellcheer shippers sending you and your friends harassment/death threats/being bigots, then show it. I keep hearing about this, yet no one's provided any evidence so far, despite hellcheer supporters themselves asking for it multiple times. I've also seen them receive similar anon asks and say they'd condemn the stuff you're talking about if there was proof of it happening.

Let's get something out of the way. Hellcheer supporters have put in a ridiculous amount of time and effort into debunking bs claims. They're always up to bat. If there was legitimate proof of them being horrible, the steddies and quinnies (whatever they're called) would be shoving it in everyone's faces and doing a victory lap all over social media. They did that with their false accusations and fabricated evidence before being exposed for lying, publicly shamed, Joseph himself calling their actions disgusting, and having articles written about them.

Unless you're holding out on your comrades... After spending a year trying to take down hellcheer and Grace, don't tell me you really left them hanging like that when you and your friends had the proof all along??? They tried so hard to paint both as some flavor of bigot or deviant... just throwing everything at the wall to see what might stick and you did them dirty like that? You could've saved them from a world of embarrassment.

At best, I'm extremely doubtful that you and your friends are totally innocent. No one would give a crap if you simply didn't like a ship and we both know that. I keep seeing the same people who've harassed hellcheer shippers and Grace (or those who won't stfu about how it's 'problematic' when in reality a little fictional blonde cheerleader that's dead just made them feel insecure) turn around and pretend to be the real victims after getting exposed. Grown adults whining that they've done nothing wrong or downplaying their actions while there are dozens of posts on their account of them purposefully antagonizing shippers and saying the wildest shit I've ever read with nothing to back it up.

If you have the evidence, put it out there. Expose them. As a bisexual Asian chick, I'd like to know if I'm interacting with a bunch of racists and homophobes or whatever. All I've mostly seen so far is a small group of white women mlm shippers weaponizing extremely serious issues like racism for their stupid shipping war because they know how much damage it can cause in today's social climate. It's not a joke or a toy to play with. If you're making things up to get back at strangers online over some dead fictional characters on a show, then you should be ashamed of yourself for going so low. Without proof, that's all I'm going to take it as and nothing else will change my mind.

#asks #anon #hellcheer #stranger things fandom #show me the receipts #I don't want no hearsay #hellcheer drama and the harassment campaign against Grace go hand in hand #they're tightly connected #most of the folks I've seen in hellcheer are queer themselves #and plenty are poc too

[hrefna-the-raven]

Tome of fate - Vol. 2

Masterlist - Loki masterlist

Chapters: 1 - 2 - 4 - 5 - 6 - Bonus chapter

Words: 1467

Warnings: none except maybe some angst

Chapter 3

You thought Jotunheim was already breathtaking during the summer, but you were in absolute awe of its beauty now during the winter. Despite the harsh climate and bone-chilling temperatures that pierced through layers of clothing, the palace was adorned with an array of lanterns, casting a magical glow upon the snow-covered landscape. Thor chuckled and reached for your hand, guiding you through the entrance as he greeted the guards.

"First time here for the winter solstice?"

You withdrew your hand and playfully slapped his shoulder.

"Of course", you laughed, "and you know it."

"Well my dearest sister", he mockingly bowed, "let me be your guide for once."

You rolled your eyes at his playful antics but couldn't help grinning as the two of you followed a guard to the throne room. Upon entering, King Laufey dismissed his guards and turned his attention towards you, a warm smile spreading across his face. He stood up and approached, enveloping both of you in a heartfelt hug.

"Thor Odinson and if this isn't my son's former teacher", he chuckled as he spoke your name.

You bowed respectfully, blushing slightly as you reminisced about your last time in Jotunheim.

"I had your room prepared, I trust you still know where it is?", Laufey asked, placing his large hand on Thor's shoulder, "I still need to discuss the details of the upcoming festivities with your brother."

"Yes my King", you nodded.

"Loki will arrive this evening, I will send a servant when dinner will be served, in the meantime feel free to explore the palace."

You curtsied and hurried off through the long hallways, feeling a chill in the air that seemed to seep through the walls. You wondered if the residents of this realm even noticed the change in temperature from summer to now. As you walked, your eyes were drawn to the festive decorations adorning the walls. There were large wreaths embellished with light blue ribbons and gilded ornaments, along with larger golden ribbons hanging from the chandeliers, each bearing the symbol of the king.

The fire in your room was already burning, a cozy warmth spreading through the chamber as you sunk down on the furs on the bed. Your eyes fixed on the beautifully adorned wooden door, your thoughts trailing off to that memorable night of this summer. Shaking your head, you got up and left, pacing towards the library, determined to distract yourself until the dinner.

Loki eagerly made his way to the throne room upon reaching the palace, hoping that his father wouldn't demand a lengthy conversation as he was in desperate need of a bath and fresh attire before supper. The doors swung open as the prince was greeted by the king and Thor. Odinson warmly shook Loki's hand, sharing laughter and catching up on the events of the past few months. Despite their stark differences, Loki found himself fond of Asgard's future ruler, believing that beneath his brash and boisterous exterior resided a genuine and kind heart. His thoughts drifted to you, pondering how you might be faring at this moment. On his journey back to Utgardhall, he had finally read your letters, filled with your kind and affectionate words that ignited his shame for the incident at the bath house. He tried to drown the sorrow caused by your absence in mead, clouding his own mind and nearly succumbing to temptation from which there would have been no redemption and while he was able to escape the situation, his heart would not tire to remind him of his betrayal. He ran away, but she still touched him, if only for a fleeting moment, and he allowed himself to believe it could have been you.

"You may leave, son", Laufey's gentle but commanding tone interrupted his spiraling thoughts, "you will be summoned when dinner is served."

Loki bowed respectfully and made his way directly to his room, sighing as he began to remove pieces of his clothing. He carefully stepped into the awaiting bath, submerging himself fully in a desperate longing for the tranquility of the water to soothe the turmoil within his thoughts.

Unbeknownst to each other, Loki and you just finished dressing up for dinner at the same time when there was a knock on the door. Feeling a bit shy, you asked the servant to assist you in braiding your long hair while Loki was escorted to the dining room. He took his usual seat at the table, giving a polite nod to Thor, who sat across from him. As Loki looked around, he noticed an additional set of cutlery and plates next to his own.

"Are we expecting another guest, father?", Loki asked cautiously.

Laufey and Thor exchanged smiles but remained silent as the doors suddenly swung open. Loki's mouth dropped open in surprise as you entered the room. You wore a stunning cerulean dress that hugged your soft skin, accentuating your curves and revealing just enough cleavage to appear both innocent and alluring. Your wavy hair cascaded down one side, while the other side was braided similarto Loki's, adorned with golden beads woven into different strands. You couldn't help but wear a soft smile on your face as you made your way towards the table. The edges of your lips twitched with delight, and a bubbling laughter threatened to escape as you caught sight of your beloved prince after being separated for months. Loki's reaction was immediate and a little bit too enthusiastic as he sprang up from his seat so abruptly that it toppled over with a loud thud, almost tripping over it in his haste to pull out your chair. Thor and you giggled both at the Jotun prince's endearing clumsiness.

"What are you...",Loki's voice trailed off, interrupted by a whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind.

The memories of summer, your unexpected presence, your beauty, and the warmth that flooded his heart collided with treacherous recollections of betrayal and hurt, like a cacophony of voices screaming in his head.

"Doing here...", you completed his unfinished sentence, a playful smile playing on your lips. Loki could only nod, his words failing him.

"I simply missed a certain prince", you remarked, causing his heart to quicken its pace.

In that moment, the clamour in his mind quieted, and he felt a genuine sense of gratitude for your presence.

The evening passed swiftly, and soon you found yourself seated on your bed, Loki by your side. Despite his gentle smile, something seemed amiss – his usual charm was absent, as if something weighed heavily on him, draining all his energy.

"Are you alright, my prince?", you asked, reaching out to hold his hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Loki's eyes welled up with tears. You meant everything to him but dark shadows engulfed him from within, insidious whispers convincing him that he was undeserving of someone like you, especially after his past actions.

"If you're unable to find the words, perhaps you can reveal it to me", you suggested, extending your hand, "our minds can intertwine."

A heavy sigh escaped from his lips as sadness spread through his being, acknowledging the inevitable fate that awaited him. His trembling hand reached out and clasped yours, bringing it to rest against his temple.

"I deeply apologize, my beloved", he murmured softly, "please find it in your heart to forgive me."

You were uncertain of what he meant until memories of him in the hot springs flashed in your mind, until you laid eyes on her. That stunning Jotun woman, whispering alluringly in your prince's ear while her hands caressed his body. Tears streamed down Loki's face as he sensed the pain in your heart, witnessing Galavi's hands venture lower to bring him pleasure. The guilt and self-hatred overwhelmed him, bubbling up once more until he couldn't bear it any longer. Springing up from the bed, he stumbled backward, muttering barely audible apologies before vanishing down the hallway, shutting the door behind him as he raced to his own room, sobbing silently.

Unbeknownst to him, as he spiralled into his own abyss of sorrow and torment, you could feel his remorse. You sensed his desperate attempt to replace her touch with yours in his thoughts, his overwhelming longing for you and only you. Slowly undressing, you slipped beneath the layers of fur on your bed, closing your eyes as you tried to calm your racing mind, pondering what would happen now. Your hopes crumbled, concealed in the depths of your being, forcing you to tread upon the fragments of your affection for the prince. They cut deep into your core, yet the ache eluded you. Your existence was enshrouded in weariness, with only the faint thumping of a resilient heart beating louder. It refused to succumb to the mere notion of a perceived act of treachery.

#marvel #loki #loki marvel #jotun loki #frost giant loki #loki x female reader #loki x reader #loki x you #jotun loki x reader #jotun loki x you #marvel x reader #marvel x you #loki laufesyon x reader #laufey #thor #loki of jotunheim

[allthatisleftinthedark]

@caustichatred

The descent to darkness is being lit by a crudely constructed torch that a gnome holds in her gritted teeth. Stationed on a stairwell with contemporary seating on a step, Maisie Doscedar's eyes canvas over the intricacies of a map drawn by hands that have long since passed into the next life. Her right thumb flattens out creases, but their lines have already darkened the vellum from time. 

It was several meters until she found the landing; those before who stumbled this deep managed with unfortunate luck. Proof for these unintended explorers' trip, nay their existences, are miscellaneous items left behind. The remains of a campfire lit by tinder, the littering of rations and sacks, and even coordinates etched into the walls by chalk are but a few spottings Maisie found. 

Those who came before, well... Maisie looks above. At the maul of the cave are sharp teeth, stalactites thin and long, dewy from the moisture trapped inside, glisten in the faint glow of torch light. To the fates that came before them, or at least rumored of, what came to them was their sudden and unexpected disappearances. 

How the ambassador of Dewburrow came upon these circumstances in the underbelly of an underground cavern was quite simple. Maisie never knew how to decline someone in need of help. Gossip spread like wildfire, fed by small communities, and the gnome was no stranger to that from her village, but these rumors only grew with the recent sleuth of disappearances. 

A whispered tale of a great beast entombed in a silvery coffin, an act of their god to save the people from the devourer looming in the forest, was reanimating itself. None of the stories clearly described the creature besides ink-black limbs and insatiable hunger for humans. For many, many, many years, it was a fable and myth in the area; the village closest to where the cavern was discovered claimed to be the site of the decisive victory against that beast. 

Elves claiming responsibility or creator to something with only hearsay as proof was not new. Hells, she labors with the Graneyean Empire; their legacy was built on the successes of others they robbed. 

Still, the social unrest and increasing paranoia from the missing (most likely deceased) people in the area warranted concern from Maisie. As the town's mayor heard of her interests, researching eldritch unknowns and ancient secrets, had rushed to query: "Did you hear of the Shade Dweller?" To only say, "It lives in these very woods now, eating anyone who gets lost, one by one." And drop to his knees. 

As it turns out, there was something rather alluring about a hole in the ground that had whispers of holding treasure. It's a shame that it might be the nest of the 'Shade Dweller' that has been abducting people; it must've been an acutely intelligent being to make its dwellings a lure. It does reduce the amount of effort and work of hunting.

Folding the map and returning the pouch resting on the right side of her hip, Maisie dusts off her hands and returns to stand. She grabs the torch again with her gloved left hand and continues down the staircase. Each foot forward is heavier than the last taken; if her assumptions are correct, this may be the last sight her living eyes will see. It was not the most climatic nor satisfying possibility, but there were worse things to live through (and had she not been them enough?). 

Awaiting her at the end of the staircase were tattered remains of something white. She scrutinizes the evidence. Most likely from an airy article of clothing since it was made of cotton. It was reminiscent of several shirts she had seen worn in one of the towns, the one most eastward, that also reported the most recent disappearances.

Taking a deep breath, Maisie's right hand rests above the clipped navy tome clipped on her hip. Gently, the pages of the book rustle as she concentrates; emanating from her palm are ribbons of an opaque mist, a rich purple with differing hues, swirling through the spaces between her fingers, with twinkles and sparks between them. If something awaits her, she will greet them with the same kindness.

Holding out the torch further, but still keeping at a distance, what welcomes her is a large entryway. Something glimmers beyond the doorway, but the gnome keeps her distance well enough. One foot slides before the other, muting her movement to whomever or whatever may be around. 

Was it the gold and treasures unclaimed in the cavern really what awaits here? Did the seekers of wealth have merit in risking their lives?

Maisie's eyes widen, brows raising. 

The light traces over something shiny and small, enough to fit in the palm of her hands. Instead of bounties of coin, it is something else of equivalent worth. Broken silver chainlink scatter across the ground, blending with the mossy cobblestone floor. Vines of roses swathe the buttresses and columns of the room. There was no speckle of sunlight to be found anywhere, but the flowers were in full bloom, their petals healthy and bright like the red flowing in her veins.  

In the center of the room was a coffin of silver slabs. The final seal, meant to inter the dearly departed and keep it closed, was disturbed. A crowbar rests at the foot of the burial site, with said long slab displaced from its initial space from the top. It was pushed outwards, perpendicular to the coffin. 

Maisie Doscedar stands not in a treasure trove of a former thief's hideaway or a nobleman's forgotten treasury but at the heart of a catacomb. 

#⋆ * exchanges with the emissary ; maisie doscedar‚ ic * ⋆ #⋆ * what crept from the shadows was someone unlike any other before ; maisie doscedar‚ verse * ⋆ #caustichatred #[ ooc: HIII KREAT. sorry for the wait! here you go. ]

[harrowharks-iliac-crest]

21

Sixth skull, in two.

RAIN STARTED FALLING ON Canaan House early one morning, and it never stopped again.

Ominous. I don't remember that happening in Gideon's version of events.

“This has never happened before,” Teacher complained at meals, fretfully, as though they were not Lyctors-in-waiting but instead sympathetic building inspectors. “The rainy season won’t be on us for months. It ought to be ten degrees warmer than it is.

Climate change got to the First house too, huh?

All quips aside, this is no ordinary rain, and the fact that it smells of engine oil and blood does not bode well.

There were no witnesses to question, when they found the grey-wrappered figures of Camilla Hect and Palamedes Sextus laid on the stained, brushed-steel slabs in the mortuary

I had a feeling this might happen in this chapter, when I saw the broken Sixth skull in the chapter title. A shame - they were much more important in Gideon's version.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” she said to Harrow, by way of hello. She had a sweet, modulated voice, only a trifle breathy. “It’s a pulmonary drain. It goes all the way down to my lungs.” “I have never seen such a thing before,” admitted Harrow. “You wouldn’t have,” said the Seventh necromancer rapturously. “He came up with it, when he was fifteen.”

He being Palamedes. Is this the real Dulcinea, then?

(Well - as real as can be, given that these are still most likely fake memories.)

“No defence wounds,” Pent murmured. “Just like Judith … I wonder.”

They were stood, backs against the wall, and executed one after the other, without putting up a fight.

That doesn't sound much like the Camilla I know.

“Is this how it happens, Lady Pent?” she asked soberly. Abigail picked up a worn leather strap that must have belonged to a clockwork watch face, and said gently: “No. It’s not.” “Does it get—better than this? Do you know?”

Everyone, even in Harrow's fake memories, wants her to question the reality of the situation. IS this how it happens? Is it, Harrow?

Harrowhark suddenly felt something, in her core, though she did not know precisely what it was. Somehow in Canaan House her ability to feel had been blunted, leaving only a sense of dislocated longing, a bizarre yearning as though flipping through the pages of a book for a proverb she remembered but could not find.

Somehow. Yeah. If only you would investigate that a little more closely.

What's on the flimsy that was in Palamedes's pockets?

HIM I’LL KILL QUICK BECAUSE SHE ASKED ME TO AND BECAUSE THAT MUCH HE HONESTLY DESERVES BUT YOU TWO MUMMIFIED WIZARD SHITS I WILL BURN AND BURN AND BURN AND BURN UNTIL THERE IS NO TRACE OF YOU LEFT IN THE SHADOW OF MY LONG-LOST NATAL SUN

Oh! The first mention of a sun other than Dominicus. Interesting.

Yeah, aside from that, this doesn't make any sense to me.

“You knew,” she said. “You knew the whole time that Mortus the Ninth died at their command.” [...] “Harrow,” he said curtly, “you are not the only person who can add up two and two, and arrive at four.”

For all of Ortus's pitifulness, and inability to fight, he's definitely not stupid.

At least, not this version of him.

#harrow the ninth #harrow the ninth liveblog #htn liveblog #tlt liveblog #htn spoilers #tlt spoilers #the locked tomb