#“divest from ×××” divest from life. die.

[beigale-shtuchim]

The word divest sends me into fight or flight mode but flight died a long time ago

[itspileofgoodthings]

the most flattering comparisons made about me of all time (mostly looks based; a little bit vibes based) are:

1) that I look like Nancy Wheeler

2) that I look like young Helena Bonham Carter in A Room With a View

3) that I look like the girl in this painting

4) that I look British Theater Actress Ellaline Terriss

[yuesya]

Zenin Naoya had always known that Shiki-sama was the rare type of sorcerer powerful enough to shape the world around her simply through her existence alone. She’d single-handedly breathed life back into the withering Zenin Clan, after all, reminding them that a sorcery clan’s roots laid in indisputable strength rather than inane ceremony.

In fact, it was commonly said that Zenin Shiki’s most notable achievement was her reform of the Zenin Clan.

Naoya had always rolled his eyes and scoffed at those words, though. Because wasn’t it obvious that Shiki-sama’s influence didn’t just stop at the walls of the clan compound?

… However, he’s also starting to realize that his clan head’s very existence underpins a lot more than he’d ever expected, even despite that understanding.

Ugh. Naoya can’t believe that a flaky guy like Gojo Satoru is actually the pillar and backbone of jujutsu society in this world. The guy is strong, yeah –Naoya would look down on him and the Gojo Clan forever if he failed to make a name for himself despite possessing both Limitless and Six Eyes– but, seriously. Gojo Satoru, despite his perpetual flippancy, cares way too much about the existing power structure and what other people think to be any good at affecting notable change and getting things done.

Shiki-sama, on the other hand, is far more decisive and efficient.

If Shiki-sama were here, then the situation would never have devolved to its current point. Where Gojo Satoru had stupidly gotten himself sealed and students were the ones thrusted onto the front lines. Sorcerers were always in short supply, yeah, but things shouldn’t be this bad! Seriously, where were all the other sorcerers? Collectively hiding under rocks across the entire country??

From what Naoya has gathered of this world so far, Gojo Satoru set himself against the higher ups without actually having offered any significant resistance the past several years. Idiot. Threats only hold power when people believe that you’re willing to go through and act on them.

So, Naoya is guessing that the lack of manpower is primarily because of two things:

One, Gojo made enemies of the higher ups without having properly divested them of their power and authority. Hence the administration immediately turning difficult as soon as Gojo had been taken out of the equation via seal.

Two, Gojo has a terrible personality and is not nearly as charismatic as Shiki-sama. Only Geto would come running at his beck and call–

Oh wait, except that’s impossible, because Geto was already dead in this world! And currently his corpse was being puppeted by an ancient sorcerer who was sowing chaos across Japan. Plus publicly unveiling sorcery to the world at large, on the international stage.

And while they were at it, Toji and Tsukumo were also both dead. Somehow, inexplicably, Toji had died years and years ago at Gojo’s hands. Tsukumo had recently been killed by the aforementioned ancient sorcerer in a fight.

Are the standards for Special Grade just different in this world, or something? Since when did Special Grades die so easily?

Naoya sighs. “It’s almost impressive how you guys got rid of all your Special Grades.”

“No one ‘got rid’ of anyone,” Kusakabe immediately denies. Which is a big fat lie if Naoya has ever heard one. He gives the other sorcerer a thoroughly unimpressed look. “… Alright, that might’ve been bad phrasing on my part, but it’s not as if anyone deliberately wanted there to be less Special Grade sorcerers.”

It all seems like a long string of bad coincidences, doesn’t it? Shiki-sama never being born, Sumire-san dying and causing Toji to spiral and die at Gojo’s hands, Geto Suguru experiencing a mental break that also led him to eventually die at Gojo’s hands…

“Whatever,” Naoya shrugs. Not his world, not his problem. He’ll do what he can to help, because he’s a sorcery and it’s his duty to do so. But his priority will still be finding a method of returning to his world, where he belongs. Speaking of which, “I need to speak with Tengen-sama. When would you be able to arrange–���

Kusakabe coughs, “Tengen-sama is dead. Tsukumo’s death enabled the ancient sorcerer to reach Tengen-sama with no further obstructions.”

… Seriously?

[carletes]

14 or 36 please

(36: Avalanche/Huddling for warmth. I think this is set in the arranged marriage tsor au)

This would happen to Lando. He would be the one with his entire company wiped out, the fucking Prince of Hiberia almost killed in the process. He would be the one to kill the Heretic ambushers before they got to the prince. He would be the one hauling Carlos (conscious but weak from bloodloss, his breaths dangerously shallow) onto Betty, taking both Dawn and Betty's reins and leading them-

Somewhere. Lando didn't know where they were going. He just knew protocol: pick a safe place, stay put, get a fire going when it was safe.

And pray to the Goddess and the Unknowable One that your life was Weaved to continue.

He had never seen Prince Carlos like this, pale and mute. He doubted Prince Carlos had been so quiet in his life. And while Lando would have made a joke about how his life had finally become peaceful for the first time since meeting Carlos, he didn't feel particularly amused by the situation.

Prince Carlos of Hiberia could die.

The heir-in-obscurity's fiancé could die.

And, as bad as that was, what stung most was this:

Lando's friend, Sir Carlos, could die.

But Lando wouldn't let him. Even as the snow began falling in thick, fluffy sheets around them, Lando grit his teeth and steeled himself and decided he wouldn't let Carlos die.

"I'll get you back for this though," Lando muttered, the resentment in his voice masking fear. "Foolhardy. What made you charge all those heretics?!"

He didn't expect an answer. He didn't expect Carlos, slumped over as he was on Betty, blood soiling her beautiful mane and speckled coat, to laugh weakly and rasp, "Revenge."

Lando clicked his tongue in annoyance even as his skin erupted in goosebumps. Everyone knew how the Rising Sun got his name.

Would Lando have done anything different?

Eventually, the need for shelter intensified as the heavy snow quickly turned into a blizzard. Lando swore. There was nothing for it; he swung himself onto Dawn, still holding onto Betty's reins, and clicked them into a cantor towards the rocky outcroppings in the woods to their west. Blessedly, Lando spotted a cave through the increasingly blinding gales and snow. By the time he managed to pull Carlos down from Betty, he was shivering.

"Carlos," Lando said warningly.

"It's fine," Carlos lied. He was pale, his eyes unfocused. Lando feared he would discover more wounds beneath his plate armor, given the state of his mail.

"I'll fucking kill you," Lando snapped. He began the task of divesting Carlos of his armor, muttering the whole time about hot-blooded Hiberians and unnecessary heroics and the futility of vengeance, believing none of it. Carlos just smiled tiredly, forbearingly.

It wasn't good. There were at least a couple of good gashes that needed stitching urgently. Lando felt the panic rise in his throat; why hadn't he taken Carlos up on his offer to teach him war medickry?! Of all the stubborn–

"Can you guide me? Suturing?" Lando said, swallowing his fear once again.

"Why, Squire Norris," Carlos mumbled, grinning, leaning back against the wall of the cave. The horses were right outside, unbothered by the blizzard beneath a canopy of dense forestry. The smell of horseflesh was grounding, even if it was mixed with the iron of blood. "Are you asking me for help?"

"I will let you bleed out here," Lando growled, and Carlos' laugh turned into a terrifyingly wet cough. Once he had recovered with the help of Lando's wineskin, Carlos wet his lips and began his instruction.

Lando could barely get the sinew through the eye of the needle, so tremulous were his fingers. He poured some wine over Carlos' wounds, making him grunt, and gave the rest to Carlos to drink. Then he began the grim task, hesitant at first, but growing increasingly bold as Carlos held himself still and guided Lando with a voice more even than he had any right to have.

He was doing it for Lando.

Lando hated him for it.

Once Lando was done, and Carlos declared the suturing adequate, Carlos slumped backwards and shuddered.

"I am cold," he said, simply, and Lando found himself panicking. Carlos chuckled tiredly. "No, cariño, not like that. It is just cold."

It was, wasn't it? Lando was too full of adrenaline to feel it but it was cold. And it was too wet to make a fire. Lando gnawed on his lip.

There was nothing else they could do.

"Your clothes are ruined anyway," Lando mumbled, trying not to meet Carlos' eye as he took off his own mail, then his gambeson, then his tunic, his spurs, his chausses, until he was down to his small clothes. But he could feel Carlos' eyes. And he felt warm under the prince's appraisal. "I can help you take them off."

Luckily, Carlos said nothing. He simply helped where he could, hissing softly where the linen of his tunic stuck to other, smaller lacerations on his torso. Taking off Carlos' chausses was an oddly intimate affair, Lando kneeling before Carlos, slipping the clothing down Carlos' hirsute legs (his fingers had grazed the course hairs, and he pretended the shiver was from the cold).

And then they were both of them nude.

They looked at each other, then, for a few moments: Carlos' eyes suddenly more focused than they had been since the battle; Lando fully conscious of his blazing cheeks.

Then, Carlos slid down, slow, wincing, until he was against the bare earth of the cave.

Then, Lando swallowed hard, and sidled up beside Carlos.

Carlos' skin was scorching against Lando's. He shivered. Carlos sighed a shaky sigh. He wrapped trembling arms around Lando's waist and pulled him closer.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, and Lando shook his head.

"It's fine. We have to do this. Right?"

"Right," Carlos agreed, his hands broad against Lando's sides. "Thank you."

"Of course," Lando said.

There was silence. Carlos held Lando, his breathing slowly evening. Lando pressed his cold nose and lips into the dip of Carlos' throat, feeling his pulse quicken at the contact.

"I'm sorry," Carlos said again, and Lando just sighed and pressed closer to Carlos.

"It's war, isn't it?" Lando murmured. "I'm...sorry too. About what happened to your men. And what happened to ours. We...none of us deserve this."

"We do not," Carlos agreed. He stroked Lando's back. It was oddly comforting. "But I am sorry all the same."

"I'm sorry I'm a prick," Lando mumbled suddenly, tears springing to his eyes. The day had been altogether too much. He couldn't be blamed for his emotion. Carlos chuckled, his lips cold against Lando's forehead.

"I don't think you are, Squire Lando, that's the thing. And I like you anyway. You make me feel like an equal."

We are, Prince Lando of Anglosax wanted to say, and we're fucking betrothed.

Instead, he said, "Well, we fought together, didn't we? Guess that really does make us equals."

They fell into silence again. Eventually, Carlos' breathing slowed. And Lando might have thought he was sleeping, only he could feel the evidence of Carlos' wakefulness against his thigh.

He didn't say anything. He had a feeling Carlos could feel the evidence of Lando's wakefulness against his own thigh, too.

Somehow, that was okay. They were to be married, after all.

And if Lando felt some other emotions along with that, emotions that, for the first time, made it feel like his marriage to Carlos might not be strife and anger...well, perhaps he could accept that too.

If, of course, they lived to see their wedding day.

If, of course, Carlos could forgive Lando's lies.

[bring-backup-99]

First Time’s The Charm

Read on Ao3

PAIRING: Tech x Phee

SUMMARY: Some sweet smut about Tech and Phee’s first time together

WORDS COUNT: 2501

RATING + WARNINGS: 18+, very spicy, porn with feelings, PiV, fluff, kissing

NOTES: When I’m not working on my Batch reverse harem “Bad Choices” smutlet series on Ao3, I occasionally write other stuff. I have a long form WIP that will probably never be finished, so you all might as well have the smut from it.

And yes, this is virgin Tech (which is basically the opposite of him in Bad Choices), though I will fight people if they suggest that he couldn’t still be good at sex from the start. The man loves research. He knows what and where a clitoris is. I will die on this hill.

The first night Tech had stayed with Phee, it had simply been a matter of them talking too late and falling asleep on her couch. When they’d woken up in the soft morning light, both had felt sheepish. She’d laughed it off. 

“You’ll fall asleep anywhere, Brown Eyes.” He didn’t deny it.

A few days later, they were in her little workshop, telling each other stories, true stories, while she cataloged and he tinkered. As he walked her home, their hands brushed together until finally their fingers slowly intertwined. He didn’t come in, but they stood in the moonlight outside her door holding hands and talked about everything but what was happening between them.

When they had first met, so many rotations ago, she had liked him immediately, primarily because he was handsome, and then later because he was kind, brilliant, intense, and strong. He was so different from the other men she knew. Bringing them all to Pabu was impulsive, but she’d never regret doing it, giving them a safe space where they were appreciated for their kindness and desire to help, where they flourished, where Omega could have a home.

He began walking her home every night, and they would stand outside holding hands, until finally, one night, she leaned into him and he put his arm around her.

“This is nice, Tech,” she’d said, using his real name to show how serious she was. He’d looked down at her.

“Yes. I would use that descriptor as well.”

Impulsively, she’d risen onto her toes and pressed her lips to his. For a moment, she was afraid she’d gone too far. His body had stiffened abruptly, but just as quickly it relaxed. The kiss was sweet and soft, close-mouthed. He’d pulled away slightly.

“I have never kissed anyone before.”

The words overwhelmed Phee. She had thought it was possible his life hadn’t allowed such things, and she wanted to be careful. 

“Is this okay? We don’t have to.” Tech stopped her by lifting her chin so they could kiss again. She pulled him in, and they stayed on her couch while she taught him something new. He was a fast learner.

He stayed with her almost every night, slowly divesting himself of the various layers that he wore as the evenings passed. First, his utility belt and pouches. The night he took off his gloves, and she had felt his bare hands on her own, against her face and neck, had made her giddy. She spent the next day mooning over him like she was a schoolgirl. She chided herself for it; she was too old and wise for this nonsense, but Phee couldn’t stop.

And it was the night he took off his goggles because their kissing had knocked them askew for the umpteenth time that she knew she’d truly fallen for him. Someone’s eyes shouldn’t have that power over her, yet she’d never met anyone so absolutely honest that it reflected perfectly in their gaze. Phee’d been with other people, of course, but she’d never let them into her life the way she let Tech in. 

Because she trusted him, and she knew this gesture from him was because he trusted her too.

*

“Can this come off tonight?” she whispered, running her hands over the chest of his blacks. Their embrace tonight had been particularly passionate and she wanted him as close to her as possible.

“Yes, I would find that acceptable.” 

"Let me know if you feel uncomfortable, Brown Eyes." 

"Just...proceed slowly." 

Phee was trying to do just that. She’d imagined the first time they had sex, that she’d take him to a field of flowers or a beach at sunset…or the back of a library. But now she knew none of those was going to happen.

She circled him, her hand never breaking contact as she felt the contours of his body under the fabric. Finally, she faced him and slowly pulled up the shirt. She ran the back of her hand against his skin, noted that he was hardly breathing. She waited for him to relax, then pulled the shirt off, leaving his torso fully bare. She could feel his tension as he lay back on the bed, his eyes slightly glazed.

“Are you okay?” she asked as she lay beside him.

“Yes,” but the word was almost inaudible.

Tentatively, she stroked his chest, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. She didn’t know what she expected, but his slim, muscular frame fulfilled any fantasy she had had. Her fingers fluttered over a scar on his shoulder. 

"Droid," he said. Another scar on his side. "Knife wound. Not from Hunter," he smiled. He turned slightly and showed her one on his hip. "Shrapnel, only partially because of Wrecker." She leaned over, kissing each of them. Hungry for him, she kissed a trail from his hip to his chest. Impulsively, she licked his nipple, and he cried out in shock. Phee drew back quickly. 

“I'm sorry." 

"No, no. That felt...intense. I was not expecting it.” He drew her to him, kissed her, then whispered, "Do it again." 

Hungrily, her lips moved along his neck, drinking in every reaction he had to her touch, then down to his other nipple. Tentatively, she licked it, feeling the hitch in his breathing, then gently raked it with her teeth. He moaned. She did the same on the other side, reveling in his response to her. 

His hands began to roam around her body, finding their way under her shirt. On fire, she pulled it off and let him explore her at his own pace. She was desperate to feel his skin against her own, but she did not want to overwhelm him. As she had explored him, his hands did the same to her; caressing the small of her back, the nape of her neck, the curve of her breasts. She gasped at his touch, inflamed, desperate for more. He pulled her closer, and she pressed her body against his, chest to chest. He rolled on top of her, lips locked together, one of his legs between her own. All her control was gone. 

She let her hand slide down to the growing bulge in his pants. 

"I want to touch you," she said, giving him time to stop her, but he was as inflamed as she was. He groaned and arched his back as her hand cupped him. His responses to her were unbelievable, feeding the flames of her desire.

“Please, take this off.” She fumbled at his pants. “Please, if you are ready.”

He stood and pulled them off, as she slipped out of the rest of her clothes. Standing next to him, looking into his eyes, she took his erection in her hand. It took every ounce of his self control not to climax right then, the sensations were so overwhelming. She pushed him back onto the bed and straddled him. She leaned forward to kiss him and look into his beautiful eyes. She took his hand, and together they guided his length into her as she lowered herself onto him. 

He cried out as he entered her. She moved slowly, never breaking eye contact, until he was fully inside her. 

“Tech, if you become uncomfortable or need us to stop—”

“I can manage,” he said, his jaw clenched, his eyes focused on her, fingers intertwined. She waited a few moments, letting their bodies acclimate to the new sensations, then together they slowly began moving, finding a rhythm that suited them both. 

He held her hips and pushed his pelvis up to be as deep inside her as he could. Her gasps and cries excited him in a way he had never felt, his body responding on instinct as she rocked against him more insistently. 

He could see her eyes losing focus, even as he could sense the same in himself, as he felt the build up in his body, a pressure he had never experienced and did not fully understand. This was so different from the furtive, utilitarian fumblings he managed in the ‘fresher when the need arose.    

In a move that took her breath away, he pressed himself up, put his arm around her waist, and rotated both of them so he was on top of her. The absolutely feral cry she gave him as her limbs wrapped around his body nearly sent him over the edge. He held her close, trying to slow down, to make this last longer, this sweet, intense, incredible feeling. 

She refused to let it happen. She rocked her pelvis against him, desperate for him to lose control, to match her passion. He gasped. 

"I need to...Phee, if you do not stop…I am too close," he groaned. 

"We'll do this again," she whispered. "I want you. I want you inside me. I want to feel you." She felt incoherent, but she also felt him let go. He lifted one of her legs, hooking it over his arm, giving him an angle to somehow be deeper inside her. His body took over, his thrusts stronger, wilder. Her hands pressed on his lower back, encouraging him. 

Her moans of, "Yes, please, yes. Tech. Yes," finally put him over the edge. The absolute bliss of the orgasm was almost too much for him. He buried his head in her neck, drowning himself in her essence, as it pulsed over his body. He lay still on top of her for what he thought was an eternity as the sensation slowly drifted away, leaving him tingling all over like exposed nerves. 

Cautiously, she stroked her hand down his back. He shuddered a bit but didn't say anything, then slowly slid out of her as he rolled next to her. 

"That was amazing," she whispered.

“I…quite agree.” He lifted his head and looked at her, "But you did not..." His voice trailed off. 

She smiled, kissed him, "That's not always the most important part of sex. The...intimacy...this closeness I feel with you, right now. This is better. But also, that was still incredible. You're a natural."

"I did do some research before this encounter…Though it did not prepare me for the intensity of the physical stimulation." She laughed.

"Why is that funny? As I do not have any experience in this area, I wanted to be prepared."

"The idea of you doing research about this on your datapad is very funny, but I'm not going to complain about the results." She rolled out of bed to clean up. 

"It will take a little time before I can physically do this again, but.." For a moment he seemed almost shy, "...would you want to when I am ready?"

She got back into the bed, snuggling next to him. 

"Yes," she said huskily.

“You were correct,” he said, pulling her close against him, “This was... special. More than just a physical act.” He felt foolish for ever having suggested otherwise in one of their long conversations. His voice drifted off, and she thought he might fall asleep, but instead they lay in wakeful silence, intertwined. 

“What is going on in there?" she asked.  

In reply, his hands again began roaming over her body. Lightly, his fingertips raised goosebumps on her arms and down her back. She shivered but felt herself opening again for him. His fingers caressed her breasts, tracing a path around them until he moved and his mouth found her hard nipples. He gently stimulated one, then the other, with his tongue. 

Now that his mind had cleared, he was studying her carefully. Every action and response was filed away. His hand stroked down her side, then to her already parted legs. He kissed her as his fingers explored between her legs, and he drank up her moans. He slid a wet finger up until he found her clit and just barely made contact with it, feeling her body tighten at the touch. He rubbed against it and was rewarded with a deep gasp. He slid two fingers inside of her, leaving his thumb to work against her sensitive nub. Her reaction was instant. Her thighs closed around his hand, and she groaned as his long fingers reached deeper into her.

"Tech," she whispered. "I need you...I need you inside me." 

"Yes, but this type of stimulation will help you to orgasm. I want to ensure that first."

She shook her head, "Oh it feels so good, but I...I don't finish like that. I need..." In her state, words were hard to come by, "...the internal stimulation." 

It took only a moment for him to process this, and then, "It does seem as if I am ready to fulfill this need." Her hand had been stroking him to hardness, but he was so focused on her he had barely noticed.

He pressed into her, slowly, each stroke entering her only a little more than the last, until one had a very pronounced reaction. Then he came up slightly on his knees, lifting her legs with him, sure that this angle would allow him better access to this most important spot. He began with short thrusts and was rewarded by her immediate cries. 

"Yes, oh, Tech, yes, right there," though her physical reaction would have been enough for him to know he had gotten it right. Her hands had grabbed onto the covers, clawing at the sheets. He timed himself to match the crescendo of her moans and whimpers, varying his strokes, sometimes deep, sometimes shallow, then returning to stimulate this more sensitive area, watching the build up of tension in her body, noting how her arms moved in spasms, her eyes closed tight, her mouth whispering incoherently. 

Suddenly her fingers were digging into his forearm, her cries a higher pitched staccato than what had come before, and he watched the orgasm overtake her body. She writhed under him, his thrusts against her sensitive inner wall bringing wave after wave of pleasure. As her reaction finally subsided, he lay over the top of her, kissing her deeply, drinking in everything about her, feeling almost more satisfied now than when he had had his own orgasm. He rocked into her gently, feeling the length of himself enclosed in her, enjoying this unimagined intimacy and reveling in the whole of her. 

She wrapped her arms around him, holding him as close as she could, breathing him into her. He pressed his forehead to hers as he let the second orgasm flow through his body, kissing her, needing her, wanting her.

“Good job, Brown Eyes,” she smiled. “Hard to believe that was your first time.” She liked seeing that satisfied glint in his eyes that came from praise.

“Yes, well, there is always room for improvement, especially since there seem to be an infinite variety of positions, techniques, and implements that can be used to enhance—”

She silenced him with her lips. “Slow down. Let’s just enjoy tonight.” 

And they did.

* *

I also write a smutty Bad Batch reverse harem series that can be found here.

Warning: It gets kinky.

[harmonyfriends]

I think JK Rowling is a monster and financial and social support for Harry Potter must not be tolerated. That said, I've come to realize after having a massive meltdown about it last week that I find the discourse about it triggering as hell and have to unfollow people that frequently reblog it for the sake of my own mental health.

To me, Pokémon and Harry Potter were the big kids media fads of the turn of the millenium; the early days of both are forever linked in my memories, and I was a part of all of it. Only one of them left me with otherkin and fictionkin feelings and continues to be an important part of my life, and it wasn't Harry Potter, thank fuck. But it's easy for me to imagine a version of myself that went the other way, or a version of the world where Pokémon's creators ended up being massive bigots instead. Would I be able to divest that shit from being a part of me in that case? I don't think I would. I don't think I'm better.

I have moral scrupulosity crises on the regular about the stuff I do kin. Pokémon, just by its nature as the world's biggest media franchise and one of the world's biggest merchandising juggernauts, is complicit in massive amounts of exploitation and abusive work conditions, not to mention it being a part of Nintendo's greedy sins related to copyright and patents. Digimon is awful about women (and also uses the financially exploitative TCG format like Pokémon). Even Sonic the Hedgehog just did a Zionism on TV. It's all problematic! It's (probably?) less problematic than what JKR is doing in the UK, though I want to take care to avoid doing an anglocentrism here; the exploitation of the global south is worth your damn too.

So yeah, the media franchises I imprinted on are not so much better; it'd be morally scrupulous of me to divest from them. But I can't! I can't and I don't foresee myself being able to stop being otherkin and fictives of these things, and not embracing them or obfuscating them is painful for us! We are Pokémon and Digimon and Sonics; problematic as that may be, I don't think it's the responsibility of problematic introjects to gut themselves or shame themselves out of existence.

So yeah, we're not the ones being talked about when people say "divest from Harry Potter or die" or "people like you need to grow up and get adult interests" or that stuff, but it hits too close to home and encourages that moral scrupulosity about the childhood interests I do have, and I just don't need that fucking with me right now. So I hope you understand if I unfollowed you.

If you saw the post on here a few days ago where I lost my cool about it, I'm sorry; I shouldn't have made it personal, because it's not. I just got particularly triggered by a post genuinely actually saying "you should have moral OCD about this". I can't function in a world where the concept of moral OCD being good to have is encouraged; allowing the potential for any moral OCD to be a good thing gives my moral OCD power and sway over my life that it doesn't deserve and that I've fought too hard to take away to cede any ground in that regard.

My moral OCD, about media attachments and otherwise, has benefitted no one. In fact, it made me miserable in a way that worsened the lives of the people around me. Inversely, learning to change my behavior and thought patterns away from moral scrupulosity, leading to things like opening up about therianism and littleness and fictivity and plurality, has led to me becoming someone who actually brings light and joy to the lives of some people. I must protect myself, and therefore protect that light and joy in my loved ones, by avoiding subject matter that encourages my moral OCD.✌️

[deejwalker]

"Who are the rich?" Stupid, pointless ass question you will absolutely be having with other poor people ad nauseum, forever until we all die and only the rich remain.

What is tangible wealth? A much more based question, rooted in perspective and longevity, not the value of a single item and the privilege it can grant anyone.

To me, a disabled poor person without a vehicle, wealth is absolutely as simple as being able to acquire and maintain household appliances that upkeep your daily life. Or any such stability at home and out and about. Food is wealth to me, then.

And you might be like DJ, this means you think other poor people are wealthy because they can afford a washing machine or can own and maintain a home.

No, actually. The average tumblrite, socialist, anarchist whatever refuses divest their idea of the wealthy from tangible wealth and sustainable welfare. It is the perceptions and actions of people that define class, in my opinion. There is no detailed, described caste or class system most places, only tax brackets, discriminatory legislation and land management, and other social bullshit.

To me, the things that allow individuals, persons, and families to live comfortably are wealth. Any excessive finance on top of that is not the only factor that makes a person wealthy or rich.

Rich is not a number in a bank account to me.

It's a mindset plus numbers that reinforce that mindset, including nepotism. A mindset that has made its mark on the social landscape surrounding those comfortable people, separating them from people like me.

I think that to have and maintain your own washing machine, car or refrigerator is a kind of wealth. I think the ability to heat and cool your home to your liking is an aspect of wealth. I believe that to live comfortably in this world day by day is to have some material wealth. And so I think your "average" person sets out to acquire and maintain some of these little wealths. To survive.

Because they stop being just resources, just human amenities when they are yours and yours alone and you can afford to always have a washer machine, to always have safe furniture, to always have a functional computer or refrigerator.

To not worry about such things being stolen, to not worry for their poor maintenance by others, to not worry about replacing such things and interacting with external social services for modern basic human needs; to me this is what makes such things true personal wealth.

I think your average tumblr user does not see this. They see any wealth as like a Lamborghini in their minds eye. That's the rich that put that image there. Those things are not necessities nor easily maintained by the rich or poor.

You actually have to dig deeper into what wealth and human comfort actually are and how the rich weaponize their own given senses of stability against others who cannot achieve such prosperity through anything but suffering.

They don't want you to have the stability they inherit. They just want you to kill yourselves ensuring the stability of people who have only known economic comfort. And so yeah. So many of the "poor" are rich to me, because of how they view any aspect of modern human stability as a given. And how they weaponize their own stability to try to make others complacent to their own suffering. Anyway.

As far as I'm concerned, eat the rich means fuck anyone in the entire world regardless of monetary heights who think just like them, upholding what is and isn't class in the faces of those who are obviously worse off.

[wise-rainfalls]

Having never watched any iteration of Jesus Christ Superstar, this was my first viewing, my first live viewing, and my first listen all at once. I entered the theatre with mild curiosity and a willingness to be entertained, having bought the tickets six months ago on the premise of leaving future me something to look forward to at the end of the year.

Two hours later, I left the theatre feeling like every wire in my brain had been struck by lightning.

The set was a marvel: industrial, rusty towers looming over an almost-bare stage, bifurcated by an elevated platform shaped as a cross. Creative use of spotlights could make it a shadowy place of horror, or a bright-lit street. Almost immediately the tone was set: the cross was already there, waiting. The costuming was bombastic when it had the incentive to be: the statuesque Herod within his golden cloak was incredible, as was the rhinestone-studded codpiece he wore beneath it. The priests with their bare chests bejewelled to draw attention to their nipples, all under traditional prayer shawls, was another example of camp used to strong (if somewhat comedic) effect. However, for the most part it was pared-back, simple, with a palette of muted, solid colours more suggestive than illustrative. Mary, for example, was draped in the second act in a blue wrap – a choice tying her closer to the Virgin than Magdalene.

Microphones were perhaps one of the key props throughout the show. Characters with ‘voice’ at any given moment passed between each other or fought over a literal microphone on its stand. As the musical progressed, it became a powerful symbol of a character’s ‘life’, so to speak, or at least their ability to define their own life. The microphone was the vehicle through which the character spoke their story as loud as they could over the grind of the larger story and the voices of others: Judas snatched the microphone stand from Mary after her iconic song while they glare hatefully at each other; on arrest Jesus is divested first of his microphone, and on reappearance a microphone dangles between his handcuffs. Judas hangs himself with the microphone’s cord. Jesus is literally crucified on the microphone stand.

Another standout area was the dancing. Frenetic, repetitive gestures in perfect sync by the ensemble as they prowled around the stage, somewhere between symbol and atmosphere. Even at its most peaceful and encouraging, the edge of potential violence within the mob was never truly lost on account of the energy of the dance. Demanding physicality became almost orgiastic, lending an erotic edge to every mob scene centred around Jesus that reached its metaphorical climax upon the crucifixion. Somewhere between a Greek chorus, a crowd of shades, the voice of Fate, and literally just some guys/Jesus’ deadbeat apostles, their undefined slipperiness introduced a faceless floating lack of identity to both those who followed Jesus and those who killed him, conflating the two into a singular non-entity, a being of actions alone.

But this was all set dressing. It would have made for fine entertainment, but passion pieces were a dime a dozen. Jesus, having the dubious honour of being one of the most discussed guys of the last few centuries, had no shortage of theatrical dedications that ranged the gamut from hilariously posh to throat-pulsing grunge. What made this production different? What part of it touched my soul? I think I would say: the interiority of Jesus himself.

There is no shortage of answers to the question of who Jesus is; as mentioned, he’s a talked about guy! But the subset of answers to the question of who Jesus is without the addition of humanity seems to be much smaller. Perhaps interest isn’t as strong in Jesus outside of ‘what can he do for us’. It’s unfortunate that it’s this exact question that has occupied my brain for years. Who is Jesus without the trap of the Saviour, the Messiah, the guy who’s got to die? Where does Jesus exist outside of what we need for him to do, what we want for him to do, indeed, outside ourselves at all? What sort of personality might have sustained the life we attribute to Jesus Christ, when we strip away the self-soothing impulse to have unconditional acceptance, acquiescence and serenity from a guy who died – as the Christian doctrine teaches, for our sake? What is, I suppose, Jesus’ perspective? Does this guy have hobbies, come on!

Obviously, Jesus Christ Superstar is strongly concerned with the question of who Jesus is from the eyes of humanity, the entire musical is a debate from various concerned parties on the purpose, the nature, the consequences of Jesus as an existence. However, instead of an eternal cipher of conceptual ambiguity, Jesus exists as an actual presence buckling against the relentless probing/shaping effort that bombards him from all side, including above. A visible struggle for selfhood takes place onstage that ends in annihilation, from the initial tussle over his ministry in the triangle of Judas-Jesus-Simon (rip Simon you’re there for one song but TO ME you are a thematic cornerstone) to the various attempts to place Jesus within different frameworks of understanding; political (priests, the continuous references to the King of the Jews), personal (Mary, to some extent Judas), divine (God).

The Jesus we see cannot fulfill everyone’s expectations, more to that point, he is not what each of these predefined images are: what he is hovers, futilely resistant, beyond the ken of understanding and indeed almost evoking fear. Both Mary and Judas, in their songs of trying to understand Jesus, expose a deep fear: that of Jesus’ reciprocation. It speaks to an understanding of divinity that’s almost passive; God as a receptacle for human ideas, God as invocation as opposed to personality. The agency-destroying imprint of divinity leaves Jesus’ selfhood crimped even with those who get the closest, who profess the deepest understanding. It’s that resistance, that frustration, that defines a ‘core’ to the character of Jesus. In his evasion of the boxes pre-filled for him, he marks out the space of what he is. He pins himself down, so to speak, into something more than an ephemeral concept of sacrifice, inhabiting the clouded fairy-realm of fable with a body.

It's this that fascinates me. The trail of vulnerability Jesus leaves, his frustration, his deep abiding loneliness. The way his existence cannot be accepted on its own terms, is continuously twisted and reshaped to be palatable, understandable, while his attempts at self-expression are met with almost invariably shutdown, incomprehension, and mockery pings a deep chord within me: both in my understanding of myself and my understanding of the divine. It feels like Jesus is saying an endless repetition of “that’s not what this is about” and “that’s not who I am” to a million assumptions/accusations flying at him. At the end of the musical I too felt the full three-feels-like-thirty years of his ministry because Jesus (used in an exclamatory fashion) dealing with that on an exponential basis sounds soul-destroying. Which it did in fact turn out to be.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #18: Hackneyed

Locke slouched in the rickety chair in the corner of the room and scowled at the Miqo’te brigand and the old Hyuran man, embroiled in an argument that they had doubtless navigated a couple dozen times with different people in different places. “You can live a different life— a better life! The wood will provide for you, you need only listen to it!” “Better to die our way than to live according to an unseen spirit’s!” “You won’t have to give up your culture!” “No, we would only have to change a select number of our beliefs to better suit your masters, our own ideas be damned!” And so it went, as they treaded and retreaded their tired justifications and their stale rebuttals. The feud had gone on for generations. It was unlikely to be solved in a two room hut by a hermit and a thief.

“Can we bring her in already?” Locke groaned. Their noise had done his headache no favors. “They’ve probably got a reward posted by now.” “Of course, your reward,” the brigand snarled behind her mask. “You don’t stand for anything, you whore your ideals out for coin.”

“Not my forest, not my problems,” he said drily. “Besides, you stabbed me.” “And I regret that it wasn’t fatal,” she snapped. Locke looked at the hermit and waved his hand in the direction of the brigand. “Does she seem reasonable to you?” “I believe there’s a way forward for all of us in the Twelveswood,” he said. “We just have to find it.”

“Yes, you believe so strongly that you’ve tied me up. Your faith in me is awe-inspiring!" “Word help me.” Locke leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling, though he rested his hand near his revolver, unholstered and set atop the table beside him. Maybe the hermit genuinely believed what he was saying and didn’t want her to come to harm, despite everything. But Locke didn’t trust the brigand to feel the same. She was divested of her bow, arrows, and knives, and her hands were bound. She shouldn’t be a threat.

All the same, Locke wasn’t leaving anything to chance. "Even now, your rabbit friend waits for an excuse to attack." A humorless laugh reverberated behind the Keeper's mask. "How can you claim there can be cooperation between us all if it is only offered at knifepoint?" “Perhaps you have a point." The old man's voice turned gentle, thoughtful. “I have not put my trust in you as I should.” Locke righted his head in time to see the old man walking toward him. The hermit stopped at the table, fingers hovering, then collected the brigand’s knives and walked to her side. “Got to be kidding me,” Locke grumbled.

The old man cut the brigand’s hands free, then he extended the knives to her, as if they were some sort of peace offering rather than weapons she’d been wielding not a bell ago. Her yellow eyes flicked between the knives and the hermit, as if searching for any sign of deception. She spared Locke only a single glance before tentatively taking the knives into her clawed fingers. Locke set his hand on his revolver and watched as she slid the knives back into their sheaths.

“The merchant’s belongings stay with us, so that we may return them,” the old man said, a stern expression on his face, as if he was scolding a student. “But you can go. I won’t tell the Wailers about you. Do you agree, wanderer?” Locke met the old man’s gray eyes, then the brigand’s gold ones. Did his opinion really matter? He shrugged his good shoulder. “Whatever.” The brigand looked between them, glowing eyes in her mask narrowing to slits. She took several tentative steps and grabbed her bow from where it rested. Locke’s fingers tightened on his firearm until she slung the bow over her shoulder and collected her quiver to return it to her belt.

“Why?” the brigand asked, her voice no louder than a hiss. “If the Wood Wailers take you, you will either nurse a grudge or not be given the chance to even hold a grudge,” the old man said slowly, seemingly measuring each word. “Like this, perhaps you’ll see things can be different. Not easily, and not quickly. But it’s possible. We can coexist.” “Until your people feed me or my kith or kin to your elementals in appeasement,” she scoffed.

“I hope that never becomes necessary.” “We both know it will. It always does.” The brigand strode to the door, head high, and stepped out. The door thumped back into place behind her. “Regardless, I owe you thanks,” the old man said, taking his seat across from Locke. “For putting your trust in me and restraining yourself. Would you have killed her, had I not interfered?” “Sure. Killed three Elezen just like her up north a few sennights ago. Wouldn’t treat her any different.”

“I see.” The old man looked around the little hut, toward the doorway to the other room, out the broken window. “Well. If you don’t mind one more task, would you return what that woman stole to its rightful owner? I fear you’re more suited to the trip than I.” “You paying?” The hermit considered that. “I don’t have much, as you can see. Not unless an old staff would be of use to you? Perhaps you’d take to conjury?” He lifted his cane, holding it out towards Locke.

“Not likely,” Locke said, and the old man returned the cane to his side. “Pry my reward from the merchant’s hands instead. Here, trade you for his stuff.” Locke produced Odranne’s parcel from the bag and set it on the table between them. A small smile flickered across the old man’s face. “It’s much appreciated. I hope she didn’t give you too much trouble.” “Whole forest is too much trouble, potionmaker included,” Locke answered. He set his hand on the table, steadying himself, and stood. “But I said I’d do it, so it’s done. Hope the medicine helps.” “I’m sure it will. Thank you. Ah, let me get the merchant’s things, they’re in the bedroom.” The old man began to rise, but Locke waved him back into his seat. “I’ll get it. Getting ready to leave anyroad.” Locke stepped through the doorway into the bedroom. The room was sparsely decorated, not much more than a bed, a dresser, and a trunk. It wasn’t difficult to locate the wooden box on the ground, about the size of Locke’s backpack. Once he managed to get the crate under his good arm, he wobbled back into the other room. “Get the door?” Locke asked. The old man opened it, and Locke stepped through. He walked around to the back of the hut and, to his mild surprise, found the chocobo still there, getting to its feet to greet him. “It seems she left you the merchant’s chocobo as well,” the old man observed. His gray eyes crinkled as he smiled. “How generous.” Locke handed the box off to the hermit and untied the bird. After giving it a couple consolatory pats and convincing it he was a friend, he clambered on. Despite a hesitant kweh, it didn’t fling Locke back to the ground, which he took as a good sign.

The hermit passed the box up to Locke. It took some doing, but soon enough Locke had managed to situate the box so it was cradled between him and the chocobo. Not at all ideal, probably not great for the chocobo’s back, but it was working so far. “Thank you again for your help. Both with the medicine and the Keeper,” the old man said. He dipped his head in a small bow. “Should you be in the Twelveswood and in need of a place to stay dry again, don’t be afraid to seek me out.”

“Sure. Good luck with changing the world.” Locke flicked the reins and gave the bird a softly-spoken command. “Go.”

It set off at an easy canter, through the trees and onto the well-traveled road. Locke could only hope they were heading in the direction of problems more easily solved by swords and guns.

[funpolishfox]

Siblings berefit of grace

Long time ago, Queen Marika said:

My Lord, and thy warriors. I divest each of thee of thy grace. With thine eyes dimmed, ye will be driven from the Lands Between. Ye will wage war in a land afar, where ye will live, and die. But one warrior said "no". Why wage war for Land that reject them? And so, warrior diverged from their roots, their god, their lord, to make living in distant land, land of grain and poppies. There, warrior would lead a life on humble peasant, using their strength for working within their new community, forgetting about ever using a sword or a shield. But stories about powerful lords, mystical gods or whimsical lands would be passed down to their children, and their children too. More and more magical tale of brave knights and magic use. And many years later, last generation would be born- siblings, a boy and a girl. Both with a great call awaiting them, but none that they ever wished for. Plague would hit them, forever setting their fates. Young woman, no more just a little girl, would travel afar to town where blood was worth more than money; where she would don a hunter's garb, all night hunting beasts and kin alike, in place and position of no honor or grace, only sensless purge and hunt. And once, morning would come, nothing would be the same about her. Once little girl, then young woman, until the only thing left, was blasphemous divinity. Young man, more than just a little boy, would meet his end- with plague taking life too fast, too early. But death wasn't his fate; as call of old grace would call back to him. Said grace would lead him through journey long and hard, right back to family's roots, back to Erdtree, to their god and lord. And once long journey would end, awaiting for him was completely new world right at his mercy. From little boy, to young man, right until lord berefit of light. Graceless siblings would still look for eachother, no matter what would change in them. But, could their new positions allow them to still love the same?

I'm still thinking about Tarnished and Hunter being siblings, so a little post about it! I was trying to write it like legend, but I don't think it sounds that epic! I'm gonna write much more about it.

[apollo-zero-one]

Oh I'm feeling so emotional about an idea I just had about Hazbin Hotel

What if it's like.... Sinners could always be redeemed, nobody ever tried it before but it was part of Hell's design, something God had intended for Lucifer to figure out and be capable of. He didn't banish Lucifer to Hell in the sense of grounding him to his bedroom, He assigned him community service to manage the situation he brought into the Universe. But God is eternal and patient, so even though it took thousands of years and the help of his daughter, God is still so proud of them for finally figuring it out. God loves all of His creations and wants all of His children to join Him in the kingdom of Heaven, and what he wanted for Lucifer, his beloved child, was not to have his spirit broken by bearing witness to man's sin, but for his light and hope to inspire the sinners and bring out the good in their souls. The consequences of Lucifer's actions were never meant to be so harsh, he just wasn't strong enough to see it. His task was not to watch man suffer, but to help the lost sheep return to their shepherd, watching each soul learn and grow even after living a sinful life before.

Oh man imagine the crazy systemic changes throughout the entire damn pentagram that would take jfjsjdh it would take centuries if not millennial to turn all of Hell from a dumpster fire into the universe's biggest rehab/psych ward lmfao oh that would be so damn funny you fuckin die knowing you're going to Hell and expecting fire and brimstone and murder sprees or at least demons with whips, but then you get there and you like. Spawn in on one of those hollow plastic chairs with no metal parts that are too lightweight to bludgeon someone with. A fuckin imp is saying hello to you in that special soft tone therapists use when someone's crying. There's a fuckin furry (hellhound) in scrubs in the corner scanning bracelets and passing out little kits to recovering addicts. You are being divested of your shoelaces and asked to step through a metal detector. Vox is there,

[childhoodmeetsfromsoft]

All Will Care

To the tune of "All Is Fair" from "Snow White"

(MIQUELLA has just entered the Land of Shadow)

MIQUELLA Marika was not the brightest Into war the land's regressed So who, of course, is left to divest His body? One guess Now is the time, it can't be later I will get power with this plan For me to be A deity Because well, I can All will care When I take the crown Then there will be no more war and no sides None will dare To argue or frown Free will? It only divides Blessed with grand powers like these All will bow to my decrees Or they'll die Yes, my mother's lie I will now erase All will care When the world's a gentler place (As RADAHN is raised) Perhaps I've been a bit confusing But I've no need for your consent When to my sister you were losing Now your power is spent I've spent my life approaching Godhood I've no pity for a prop Seditious Gods Must be vicious Gods So I'll be on top Yes I like it on top All will care When I take the crown To be a God means you do as you please I won't share The love or renown You can have me or Scarlet disease Now I could reneg, even regret If you beg like a good pet But why start? I can steal hearts There's no need to chase So darling, all will care When the world's a gentler place Now, perhaps you have heard that a virtue not chosen's not virtue at all But when St. Trina said that, she took a fall Every soul is my servant And the Tarnished are tools Kindness means killing Til I write the rules All will care When I take the crown It's lucky my brothers are gay If my snare had not brought Mohg down Down, down, down, in the sewers he'd stay And when I get the deed Finally done I'll proceed When I have won To rip out All my mother's clout And the glow of grace Then the world will care They will care or they'll despair And then it's the ring that I'll repair All will care When the world's a gentler place!

[evita-shelby]

National Anthem

Chapter 8

Cw: mentions of violence, murder, sex, nudity, basically same old lol

Taglist: @thegreatdragonfruta @zablife @call-sign-shark

Autumn 1920

Jack had involved Eva in his business before, but always at home where he could go on to claim it was his genius that led to his success and never his illegal ones.

“No. It wouldn’t benefit us for him to die so soon.” The witch comments after he, his right hand and Wild Bill of the White Hand Gang discuss the best way to deal with the Italians.

They had been offended by the woman sitting on his lap until she showed off her talents by making the glass in Bill Lovett's hand shatter with just her eyes.

She was his secret weapon and while the glass shattering would still have them doubt her ability, they knew better than to try and find out.

Good thing they had come home from his club. If they knew Jack allowed her to speak to him like this, they’d lose their fucking mind.

“Us?” the gangster asked, trailing his hand up her chest, caressing the soft tan skin and wrapping his hand around her neck knowing she cannot stand that. A small payback for when she called him Jackie as she goaded him into chasing her around wearing nothing but his shirt earlier.

He cannot back out of this like that, not after they threatened his family and his life a month ago. Things with Eva had improved, including her as an advisor in these things had given her a purpose beyond pretending to be the perfect American wife.

She had learned business from books, from her family and hired professors to teach her. Eva had also learned strategy during her time in the war, using her gifts to their advantage at every turn. A useful thing when it didn’t contradict him, like now.

“Changretta didn’t just come for you, he came for the both of us. If you want to win, you gotta let me play the game with you.” The witch answered masking the discomfort of having his hand on her throat with a sultry breathy tone before dropping it entirely. “Besides, the White Hand made its deal with you through Dinny Meehan not Lovett, Lovett knows you’re a threat to him and will sooner frame the Black Hand for your murder than let you run the Irish Mafia like you intend.”

No wonder the president and Pancho Villa had gotten tired of her, who wanted a girl telling them what to do. Jack already fights the rumors that he’s gone soft now that he’s a husband and a father.

Though if you ask him, they're just envious that Jack’s got a woman who makes Beauty Queens feel dowdy.

The Irish of New York had posed less of a threat, choosing to ally with him than fight him. They’d agreed to join in on erasing the Black Hand out of the picture for a cut of the cake.

Especially after Sadie Meehan correctly guessed it was Bill Lovett who orchestrated Dinny’s hit and had him murdered right next to her in their own bed.

Jack would be lying if he didn’t fear his Evie suffering the same fate.

“Then what do you suggest, oh holy Pythia?” Jack didn’t trust Wild Bill nor his brother-in-law anymore as far as he could throw them and this plan to strike the Spinietta Family now that Luca’s back on American soil required a whole lot of trust.

“We wait. Solidify your gangs so when the blessed day happens you won’t even break a sweat or have to watch out for knives in your back.” She moved his hand off her neck and let it wander down the half-buttoned shirt, daring him to divest her of it entirely. Nakedness wasn’t something Eva ever felt bothered by.

Her beauty was as much as a weapon as that diamond encrusted knife she straps on her thigh.

“What did you see?” Jack’s fingers undo the first of the buttons, letting her think she’s won.

She uses sex to manipulate him, doesn’t take a genius to know it.

But he lets her, knows the witch does this to secure some power for herself. She has whatever power he gives her here, where she cannot wave her name or money around to exert her own.

Not yet anyways, the day will come when society will just have to bend its knees and realize how wrong they were to discount him.

Us, the witch’s voice seems to correct him even in his mind.

“Lovett’s getting killed by his brother-in-law in three years and Lonergan will lose the waterfront a year after that, Luca Changretta gets his brains blown out by the man Grace will kill Clive for and New York ripe for the taking that same year.” His wife leaned back on her hands and uncrossed her legs giving him an unobstructed view of herself as the shirt fell open. “I have seen all that and so much more, and if you want it to come true, you have to let me play.”

Jack snaked his arm around her waist as he slotted himself between her long legs cutting off any chances of her bolting when he reminds her what the agreed on.

She’s done it before, when he does something to displease the spoiled goddess she runs off leaving him to use his hand instead of her for release.

“You drive a good bargain, doll. But we agreed, my game my rules.” Not that he won’t take her sage advice, just incorporating it into the plan. “I will keep my plans and take your advice, I will give Changretta a reason to run back to his old man and meet his maker there. Don’t you worry about it, darling.”

March 1921

They’d lost but somehow come out on top.

There’d been some losses in the New York Mob, Luca and his men lived to see another day and yet Jack had gotten the Spinietta Family to call for a truce when he got the last Sabinis in New York to high tail it back to London.

Luca had been given the same treatment he gave Jack six years ago before Jack let him go.

Election night seems to reflect Jack and the White Hand’s offensive on the Spinietta Family.

The Republicans had won the presidency and the gubernatorial race, and yet these cocksuckers had their wives eating out of her hand.

The First Lady had been told about her clairvoyance and Calvin Coolidge had been so impressed about his future as the 30th president of the United States, that the Nelsons were becoming the must know couple in the state, if not the entire region of New England.

Everyone knew who she was, loved her so much they forgot she wasn’t a white woman and now hosts a ball for the man who thinks balls are too frivolous to have.

Jack doesn’t know why taking over society isn’t enough for her.

“Same reason you keep your gang even after no longer needing it, because it’s just not enough.” The witch whispered as they arrived at a charity ball she'd done to replace the President’s Inauguration Ball. “I am so much more than your damnably charming wife, Jack.”

As he remembers with great fondness how he made Luca beg for his life as he taught Eva how to wrap the garrote around his cock and balls, he cannot help but agree. “That you are, doll, that you are.”

The feeling of her silky hand in his as Luca held back his agony was something he’d never thought he’d enjoy so much. They’d fucked there as the Italian laid there in agony and ,God, Jack wants to bring her with him when he's reminding people not to fuck with him.

Perhaps, it was a good idea to make her a fellow player in his games for power.

A/N: Dinny Meehan was the leader of the White Hang Gang, a group of Irish gangs in New York who cretaed themselves to fight of the Italian Mob, the Black Hand.

Luca and the black hand family he worked for are fictional so in this fic they take the place of the real gang.

Dinny Meehan was murdered in his home in 1920, his wife Sadie in 1923 told the fbi she believed his right hand Wild Bill Lovett had him murdered, Wild Bill in 1923 was then murdered by the Black Hand in a hit orchestrated by his brother in law Richard 'Pegleg' Lonegran. In 1925 teh White Hand lost their territory to the Black Hand.

Jack is looking into taking New York as he has secured the gangs of Boston just as Tommy sought out London after taking over Birmingham.

William Hardying was president from 1921 to 1923 when he died of a heart attack, he was a republican and succeeded by his vp, Calvin Coolidge who had been the governor of Massachusetts until 1921

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

Source

And from the Cornell Daily Sun:

Editor’s note: The Sun is choosing to blur the faces of participants due to safety and doxxing concerns.  Pro-Palestinian students occupied Day Hall on Friday, Dec. 1, demanding the University adopt policies against doxxing, a new definition of antisemitism and commit to divestment in companies that support Israel’s military. After speaking to Vice President of Student and Campus Life Ryan Lombardi, their first demand will be addressed, but the others are up in the air, leading to a continuation of the occupation into the night. Starting at noon, organizers began a “mock trial” for President Martha Pollack outside of Day Hall, accusing her of complicity in “genocide against Palestinian civilians.” The Cornell Coalition for Mutual Liberation — an on-campus group advocating for the Palestinian cause — organized the demonstration. In an email to the administration, CML demanded protections for pro-Palestine speech, recognition of anti-Zionism as an ideology distinct from antisemitism and revisions to the University’s endowment that divest from companies with “involvement in human rights abuses” in Palestine.  They demanded Cornell work with them to make determinations about environmental, social and governance policy around investments. They also demanded that the University agree to a Wednesday, Dec. 6 meeting between President Martha Pollack, Vice President for University Relations Joel Malina, Provost Michael Kotlikoff, a representative from the Board of Trustees and group liaisons for CML to discuss these policies. This demonstration comes after several events in support of Palestine over the past week. On Wednesday, Nov. 29, CML held a rally for Palestine and Sudan outside of Willard Straight Hall, and on Thursday, Nov. 30, advocates staged a die-in on the floor of Duffield Hall. 

While the spineless Cornell administrators allow campus Jew haters to run the university and trample the rights of all Cornell students, The Cornell Daily Sun works to protect campus Jew haters from consequences.

[readingsquotes]

"

Since we last spoke, 500,000 people marched on Washington. There, parts of the Palestine movement called on organized labor, the student sector, media workers, healthcare workers, and all of civil society to engage in a variety of tactics to disrupt and escalate until ceasefire is achieved and the siege on Gaza ends. Protesters have shut down highways, train stations, and bridges in the United States; in Canada, hundreds of Indigenous activists and rank-and-file trade union members shut down arms factories; some of the largest Belgian and Italian unions are refusing to transport weapons; South Africa, Bolivia, Chile, and Colombia have recalled their ambassadors or cut diplomatic ties; and thousands have protested outside of embassies complicit in the genocide. We have seen organized student walk-outs, sit-ins outside political offices, and direct confrontations with leaders supporting the genocidal violence, which have intensified political contradictions as well as consolidated relationships between organizations and sectors. Labor unions have passed ceasefire resolutions and continued the necessary work of divestment and sanctions. Community groups have popped up in every neighborhood across America. They are animated by Palestine because they are animated by their own struggles: to live a dignified life free of interference from everything that wages war on human dignity. A cop in New York tells a passerby that they are exhausted, that the protests are never-ending, that the cities are hemorrhaging money trying to keep up. We, on the other hand, will not tire. It gets colder and still we march outside; it gets colder in Gaza and still they sleep outside.

The story is unity, just as the story is “not enough.” The story is the will of the popular masses summarily ignored by the ruling class. The story is of Gaza’s people forming a revolutionary north star. And yet, that is not the story you will read in the mainstream. We maintain that the total and complete journalistic malpractice we are witnessing is shocking, even by the standards of dehumanization and lies that have historically marked coverage of Palestine. What is clear is that the Western imperial powers desperately want you to believe that this collective punishment is justified; they want you to hate the Palestinian, from fighter to infant, so that you turn away and shrug. They think you are stupid and they think you are disposable. They have decided their policy or their policy has decided them, but now the mission of the apparatchiks and stenographers is post-hoc justification and self-preservation. The money continues to flow, the bombs continue to rain down, and you either make it their problem or they’ll be coming for you in the morning."

DISPATCH Two Months By PALESTINIAN YOUTH MOVEMENT

DECEMBER 8, 2023

[capsensislagamoprh]

"You know," she said as I turned the corner, "you're dangerously close to something."

"Is it your liver?" I asked, pressing my knife in deeper.

"Not quite. Good thing too. The god of medicine is a buddy, and pal, he do get mad when I show up with random holes I didn't previously have."

I admit, I was taken aback. "Say what now?"

"Oh yeah. Lives over on 3rd and Pine."

"There's a god. Living on 3rd -"

"And Pine, yeah. So anyway," she smiled, dusting off her robes. "I work for the messenger god - fabulous health care, pension, I mean how could I not? He says to watch it. You're dangerously close."

"To what?"

"Becoming one."

"I'm going to need clarity." Perhaps demanding was a strong word, but it was heavily implied I should put away my knife as she pushed her rather pointed boot into my groin in the most unpleasant manner.

"That should help."

By the time I recovered enough for the letter she'd dumped on me to stop swimming through my vision, she and her burgundy trench coat were gone.

Three hours latter there was a knock at my door. The sun set and so did my senses. She was back with pizza and a twelve pack. By the time I'd decided I was to intrigued not to let her in, my small apartment was full of people literally crawling in through the fire escape. Except that one guy who walked in through the closet door like it was Tuesday. There were more than a dozen of them taking over my living space, raiding my fridge. One guy pulled out things I *knew* weren't in my fridge. All I could think was 'what is happening'?

"So, you're the new kid," a particularly buff old gentleman with the sort of beard one can only describe as a cloud said as he sipped from an IPA, bright eyes taking me in. "Interesting."

I was so off put all I could say was, "What?"

"Don't mind him. He's new," said the messenger's assistant, divesting her burgundy coat. "So new he doesn't know what he's done yet."

The room stopped. Glances were exchanged. "At all?" asked one particularly colorful being, his heart shaped shades some how clashing violently with his Hawaiian shirt and cacky shorts while completing the image at the same time. She set down the six pack and grinned.

By the next morning I knew what I did. I knew what I'd done. And I knew what I was in for.

Old gods exist, sure. Saw a few myself last night. (Don't ask the guy in the loud shirt to take off his glasses. Just an F.Y.I.) But so do new ones. They exist for a thousand little things. And they have a portfolio or radius. Mine? I'm the 'generous god'. The giver. Some praise me by words. 'What a lucky day!' Some sigh in relief or look confused and pleased. But what matters is that they have started talking. And I have become.

Right now I am an urban legend. If I keep doing what I am, I will become part of the fabric of this place. And from there I can gain power, followers, more. If that's something I desire.

It comes with perks. Immortality based on gathered belief and those who warship - even if warship isn't in a structured temple thing - and the ever present stuck-at-the-age-I-am-now-forever bit. The down side? Power comes and goes. You do tend to out live everyone else. It leads to a tight net community of small gods. And they will randomly show up on your couch to crash for a few days.

But the thing they thought was great was that I came with my own built in set of moral codes. Most people have a hard time not letting power like this go to their heads. That's why they seem immortal in life but die tragic or forgotten. I'm not Robbin Hood. I'm not a saint. I'm a new god. A small player on a cosmic stage.

I think I'll grab a couple of friends and film them handing out flowers to people to make their day. You have to start your following somewhere. Might as well do with with a smile. We'll get coffee on the way.

You’re a rogue with enough gold to last ten lifetimes. But old habits die hard—you sneak through crowds, slipping coins into people’s pockets. The kingdom is buzzing about the mysterious, generous "thief."