#chapter 501

[algumaideia]

Why do they want to fight with white beard?

Does Garp have any opinions on Ace being executed?

They will try to buy Camie

But I see a mess starting

[chickenstilldancing]

He sounds just like a rejected lover

[n3on-graveston3s-calling]

The HIGHLIGHT of 501 for me was seeing Marco.

Hi pretty bird.

And now, spoilers below the cut.

Ace got his mommy's looks but his daddy's smile wow.

So, Rogue died after childbirth. Which leads me to believe that she died of pre-eclampsia, considering the blood splotch we see & the panic in calling out to her. Along with, yknow, carrying a fucking baby for 20 months.

Who is Dadan?? But also, BABY LUFFY. BABY BOY. SWEET ANGEL.

"I owe the name Portgaz a great debt. I got it from my mother." Rouge if you survived your son would've been the biggest Momma's boy alive I promise you that. He already is. [ Rouge survives AU????? ]

This is... the least solid reasoning to kill someone. Even for the Marines. Y'all. This is a plot fuck up. Not even a hole. This isn't sound reasoning.

Insert dick joke here.

[ tryn'a get ur baby mama full of this dick- ]

DADDY'S HOME.

Ace's face hurts me, the distress, the panic, the relief- ugh, Oda.

[pttucker]

[Will you be inheriting <Eden>?] Uriel didn't reply, but looked back at her Incarnation, instead. A certain faint smile seeped into the noble expression of this Archangel. Jung Heewon called out, but her voice couldn't reach its intended target. The moment Uriel nodded her head, Raphael loudly proclaimed. [Uriel, from henceforth you are our 'Great Good'.]

Ohhhh so Uriel is now the leader of the Good side but Heewon has the Good fragment of the Wall Dividing Good and Evil? Unless the fragment wiggling inside her actually also comes from Uriel.

Hmmm

Gilyoung and Uriel/Heewon? Not the pair I was expecting.

I thought for sure if Gilyoung had the Evil side Yoosung would have the Good side, though maybe making them eternal enemies would have been rather cruel now that I think about it. 😅

[calekinnieplus]

Well... today I read around 2 hours. Yeah, a downgrade from the consistent 5, 6, 7 hours per day, but. What can I do, life is picking up again, so I can only read in the downtimes ://

On the other hand, I reached chapter 500 today! And it was Fun!!

What happened, you ask? Well! Not only is Klein getting into his Gehrman Sparrow persona (which... is badass af, ngl. He's so cool), but we're also joining the seas lore! We've been introduced just a little to all the Pirates and Admirals stories since the beginning. Now, Klein is gathering info ans we're diving headfirst into the bounties!

(Hell yeah, Klein! Get that cash !!)

We also met Danitz, who I saw some memes with, but I don't know anything extra about him lmao

We're still at the beginning of the third volume, with stuff getting introduced and shit. Not much to talk about specifically.

...other than how Gehrman Sparrow was an ABSOLUTE BADASS HOLY SHIT-

*cough* yeah, I get your enthusiasm for him. I fully agree. Can't wait to read more :))

Until tomorrow, then? If I manage to read enough to make a post hah

[hehearse]

orv b&w chapter illustrations masterpost ^^ in novel chapters of course

ch. 66, 110, 138, 142, 151 ch. 168, 180, 187, 188, 192 ch. 205, 212, 218, 226, 237 ch. 250, 255, 268, 269, 272 ch. 276, 280, 281, 287, 292 ch. 327, 330, 332, 341, 352 ch. 355, 367(*2), 371(*2) ch. 377, 381, 388(*2), 389 ch. 391, 393, 397(*2), 405 ch. 407, 408, 413(*2), 415 ch. 416, 419, 421, 422, 437 ch. 439, 448(*2), 451, 452 ch. 453, 455(*2), 456, 458 ch. 464, 465, 470, 480, 483 ch. 484, 487, 489, 491, 492 ch. 494, 495, 497, 498, 501 ch. 503, 504, 506, 511, 512 ch. 513, 514(*2), 515, 517 ch. 518, 524, 525, 530, 533 ch. 534, 535, 538, 539, 540 ch. 544, 547, 548, 549, 551

[hetascanlations]

Hetalia World ☆ Stars - Chapter 501 Original

Translation: spaghettifelice // donamoeba Scanlation: nekotalia // eosonera

[gemmahale]

Okay, I'm home, I've been on the road for the better part of 4 hours today due to a miscommunication and a cancelled event, and I've had this rant brewing.

Being Anti-Military and Pro-Veteran are stances that can mutually exist.

Games like CoD and whatever other FPS/Military Simulation game is out there is propaganda. It’s meant to make you want to sign up or support military action.

The military (I’m speaking specifically to the US, as I am most familiar with them by proxy) uses some incredibly underhanded techniques to ensure they have the warm bodies soldiers they need to keep the system working as intended.

This includes but is not limited to: promises of paying for education, aspirations of “seeing the world”, provision of job security, access to healthcare, a stable job and housing, etc. They use things like “patriotism” and “glory” and “security” to lure people in.

And then, when that person is wholly and completely reliant on the military - for a paycheck, housing, healthcare, you name it - they spit them back out into the world with a "thanks a lot and good fucking luck."

Into a world where:

Financial support for care has been axed and axed and axed again under "budget cuts"

Care is secured with red tape so thick you can tightrope walk across it

Care is denied for things the military caused (by saying "it didn't happen while you were serving".) *Yes, that's a direct quote from a doctor to one of Kallen's peers. When assessing a life-altering injury sustained while they were in country overseas, it was deemed as "non-service related injury”.

In comparison to civilians:

Veterans are ~40% more likely to be homeless.

Veterans are ~80% more likely to suffer from untreated mental and physical health issues - PTSD, hearing loss, nerve damage, etc.

Veterans are ~60% more likely to turn to addictive substances - alcohol, drugs, etc.

Veterans are ~70% more likely to commit suicide.

This isn’t limited to combat vets. Logistics specialists, administrative specialists, IT specialists all get screwed when they leave.

Ask just about any veteran that has served, they are incredibly likely to be staunchly anti-military.

The military causes a tremendous amount of damage to every person involved, even if they aren't aware of it at the time.

It’s a cult, it’s an abusive relationship, it’s predatory. Treat it as such.

Support veterans, advocate for their care. They made choices you may not agree with, but they made them because of what they thought the military was offering to them. Many thought they were doing the right thing for their country - that was the lie they were fed from 9/11 on (in the US). Then they were chewed up, spit out, and left for dead by the same people that made all those promises to them.

Here are some US-based, apolitical Veteran Support groups (many have International chapters/members):

22 Until None - 501-C3 that provides support to veterans by veterans. There are local chapters on Facebook that are all active and are listed on the website

Disabled American Veteran - Veteran help association; involved in legislation and local assistance, connections to VA advocates to help navigate the VA

Wounded Warrior Project - 501-C3 charity supporting disabled veterans.

Note: I am absolutely not doing the "not all servicemembers" thing here. I'm saying "veterans are living with their choices, and still deserve access to care."

[everydayspamton]

day 501 of drawing spamton every day until deltarune chapter 3

[five-oh-first]

putting anakin skywalker into situations is my bread and butter so you know what? today we’re doing wings.

now, this au isn’t an ‘all force-sensitives have wings’ au, this is literally just anakin has wings. but he doesn’t know it. lets say the force was like ‘you are old enough, fly my child’ when he turned 21. height of the clone wars and anakin is like ‘damn my back hurts’. he’s probably teased like ‘oh lol, are you that old???’ kind of thing and he laughs along, probably brushes it off. but the pain keeps getting worse. he sees kix, finds out he has two long rashes on his back, gets creams and exercises to relax the muscles and heal the skin. but it doesn’t work. the pain keeps getting worse. the rashes turn to sores. but, the 501st’s next campaign is coming up - a droid factory has cut off supplies to a small sentient village and is poisoning their water supply with the waste from the droids’ construction. so, what does anakin do? binds the sores and marches on. he has a battalion to lead, he isn’t hiding in the medbay and letting rex do his dirty work.

i’m thinking this is set post-season 5 of the clone wars, so ahsoka has already left the order. in this au, echo and fives are both fine and with the 501st too because i love them dearly.

badda bing badda boom, some drama occurs, anakin’s wings spurt out mid-operation and rex, my beautiful darling boy, would probably panic for all of 10 seconds, realise the general is panicking, then save the day. their asses do Not make it to the post-mission briefing with obi-wan and cody. instead, rex is like “whOA that’s a lotta blood” because i imagine it would be. sprouting wings, force-blessed or not, must be messy business. so, he goes to get kix. kix is definitely followed by jesse and appo who in turn is followed by echo and fives. so, what should’ve been just the captain and kix, turned into six clones and the general.

they clean anakin up (he’s fine) but now he got bald little wing stubs. Wings! this throws them through a loop for a second (“is it a jedi thing??” “????no???”) but it’s fine. they’re fine.

i really want to write this so we’ll see, but some more scenes for you under the cut:

the clones-who-know playing with the soft down once anakin starts to grow in his feathers

explaining to the rest of the 501st why their general has a hump-back all the sudden (the 501 love their general’s wings)

explaining it to kenobi. and cody. obi-wan takes it in stride, cody… does not.

explaining it to padmé. she loves them because anakin was a space-heater anyway but now he has fluffy pillows on his back too.

learning to fly. it is not as streamlined as one may think.

crack chapter where the 501st brainstorm which bird/mythical creature anakin’s wings look most alike. i’m thinking peregrine falcon, but some answers would be interesting. powerpoints galore, folks.

alright, there may be more later but i’m currently sick and i’m going to bed <3

[intheorangebedroom]

The corner deli

Summary: You take a night trip to the corner deli and meet this handsome guy, but shit turns out weird.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!reader

A/N:  This is what happens when I can't sleep. Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡

Word count: 1.8k

The corner deli

And here you are, another Friday night on your own, reading a book you can barely focus on, scrolling mindlessly in between chapters, slouched in your couch and feeling sorry for yourself. Those stupid, evil thoughts starting to whisper some nasty shit in the back of your mind, and you’re letting it happen. 

It’s on you, though, because some of your coworkers, the younger ones, offered you to go out with them but you said no. You’re too much of an introvert, but not enough that you don’t feel miserable now, sitting here alone while the city’s buoyant life unfolds without you behind your closed windows. What difference does it make, anyway. It goes on, whether you decide to join or not. No one misses you, so there.

Fuck it. Tonight, you’re gonna eat your feelings. You slip on your jeans and your shoes and go out to the deli on the corner, it’s open all night. You’ll get some Pringles or ice cream, whatever comes first. 

You’re walking down an aisle, hesitating between two flavors of Chex Mix, when you catch sight of THE most handsome man you’ve ever seen in your entire life. 

He’s tall. And so fucking broad. His denim shirt is working hard containing the breadth of his solid shoulders, his jeans are tight on his thighs. He’s got a scruffy, patchy beard and strands of brown hair curling at his ears underneath his trucker hat. He’s all sharp profile, solid features, plush lips, oh! his lips are just… generous, and his eyes… god his eyes are dark, deep and soulful. Wait, did you just use the word soulful? Well, he’s that fucking handsome. There’s a stern crease splitting his brow, but it’s tempered by the small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the kind you get from laughing often. 

You look down at yourself and… fuck. Your mascara has run off because yeah, maybe you cried a little, earlier. Your hair is dirty, pulled together in a messy bun that looks nothing like those supposedly effortless hairdos thrown at you in Instagram reels. The ones that make you feel unworthy of the air you’re breathing. You're wearing a dirty pair of 501 with your pajama shirt tucked in, there’s no way you're getting anywhere near him, even if you had any self-confidence to boot. 

You walk over to the back of the store. Not that it’s a good hiding spot, it’s just where the fridges are. And of course, they’re out of the one ice cream flavor you like. Wow. It really ain’t your day, is it? Craning your neck to scan the empty top shelf, you spot the very last Netflix and Chill’d all the way to the back. Opening the door, you stand on tiptoes, fingers scrambling over the icy shelf to grab it, but you can’t reach that high. 

That’s when you feel him. His chest barely brushing at your back. You get a whiff of his scent and you swallow a gasp. He smells like leather and warm skin and laundry and you can’t even move anymore, you just stand there like a Roman statue in a museum, with one arm up. Your gaze follows his arm as it extends toward the shelf, reaching it with ease. As his large hand grabs the last tub, the whole sequence of movements completely effortless and well, graceful.  

He takes a step away from you, and your body’s responding again. Your heels meet the ground, and you turn to face him. There’s the promise of a smile curling his lips, fuck he is stupidly handsome, Jesus fucking Christ, are you still breathing? He hands you the tub and all you can think of is how thick his fingers look around it, and how they would feel buried inside you, or wrapped around your throat, and… oh wow. That escalated quickly. 

You swallow hard, blinking the filthy thoughts away. There’s something in the way he looks at you, a glimmer in his eyes. You feel… warm. He flexes his jaw to the side, he’s smiling at you, still holding that goddamn ice cream, you gotta say or do something, but your body has bailed on you, yet again.

Eventually, you take the cold tub, careful not to touch his fingers. But he’s not letting go. Your breathing turns shallow, you can barely hold his gaze. Why does he keep looking at you with those soft brown eyes, why is he smiling like that? He can’t possibly be… what? Interested in you? No one can. No one ever is. That’s why you’re in this deli, alone, in the middle of the night, wearing last week's dirty laundry. 

Oh. Of course. He’s waiting for you to thank him. Jesus you’re stupid.

“Thanks. You. I mean, thank you.” Oh, great, that went well. 

There’s a beat before he releases his grip and lets go of the tub. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, and of course, his voice is velvet. Round and husky and low. 

There’s an easy confidence about him, like quiet assertiveness, is that a thing? Like he knows his worth, but he doesn’t need to step all over people’s toes to show it. 

You’re raking your brain for some smart quip you know will come to you tomorrow morning in the shower, when you hear a commotion at the cashier. Somebody’s shouting orders, a dude holding up something in his hand, pointing it at the employee behind the plexiglass. Holding a fucking handgun, Jesus fuck the place is getting robbed.

Your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out. There’s pressure around your elbow and you’re yanked down onto the dirty tiles. 

The man in the trucker hat is crouching next to you. He holds his index finger pressed to his lips. His face looks different, his jaw tensed, a deep frown darkening his face. His eyes are pitch black, is it even the same man? A minute ago, he looked like the friendly next-door neighbor you’re daydreaming about fucking in the basement laundry room, and now he looks like someone who’s about to shoot you in the face.  

“Be quiet,” he mouthes under the noises coming from the front of the store, “stay here, everything’s gonna be ok.”

You don’t want him to leave you here on your own, no matter how threatening he looks, but he’s already moving toward the front and anyway, it’s not like you can move.  

Shouldn’t you call 911? He told you to be quiet, what the hell are you supposed to do?

It all happens so fast, and you’re so scared. You’ve never been this scared in your entire life. You hear a thud, followed by a gunshot. You clasp your hand to your mouth, you’re sure you’re gonna die. You hear the sounds of a struggle, a loud, piercing yelp, and another, louder thud. There are a few more noises, fabrics rustling, muffled groans and nothing. Deafening silence. 

You can’t feel your legs and your heart is beating in your throat when you finally hear him, the guy in the trucker hat. His voice is firm and his tone commanding as he addresses the deli employee. 

“Hey, hey look at me, you’re ok. Can you call 911? Hey! Call 911. You’re ok.”

Your legs won’t carry you. You have to crawl to the front of the store on your hands and knees, and your eyes grow wide at the scene you find there. A tall, young man with a shaved head is lying on the floor, wrists in a zip tie, he’s passed out, or dead, you’re not sure and you don’t wanna know. And anyway, you don’t have time to see more. He’s here, in front of you, the guy in the trucker hat, blocking the view with his massive silhouette, helping you get up and walking you outside. 

“You ok?” he asks you. 

He’s got one hand in the small of your back, the other one is gripping your arm. They’re warm, and that’s how you register how cold you are. In fact, you’re shivering in the warm city night, teeth chattering and all. 

“It’s over, I got you,�� he says, cupping your face and you look up at him, nodding, mumbling, “I’m ok, yeah, I’m ok,” trying to focus on his warmth radiating through your cheeks. 

When they arrive, the cops instruct you to stay to make a deposition. Uncomfortable doesn’t cut it to describe your state of mind throughout the entire process, but he stands near you the whole time, his shoulder against yours, and you don’t think you could stand straight without it. 

Eventually, the place clears up. The perp came to, they handcuffed him and took him away. As he passed near you, you saw a purple bruise blooming on his neck. 

You’re told you’re free to go, and there’s really no reason for you to stay. 

Except there is. 

“So um… you’re a cop, or something?” you ask, looking intently at the fascinating tip of your Van’s, bumping against the curb. 

He shakes his head. 

“No. US Air Force. I’m a pilot.”

Your head shoots up, mouth falling open into a silent oh. 

His smile is so fucking soft you want to kick the curb and break all your toes. 

“Well, thank you, anyway. That was really scary. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Now, there really isn’t any reason for you to linger. But he’s not moving, standing tall and broad and solid before you, hands propped on his hips, with that easy confidence about him. And that thing happens again, that thing where he looks at you with those gentle brown eyes and that promise of a smile, and you feel like you’re the center of the goddamn universe. 

“I’m Frankie, by the way,” he says, offering you his hand. 

From all the scary shits that went down tonight, this one has got to be the scariest, by far, because you know that if you take his hand, you’re not gonna let go. 

You hear your name coming out of your mouth, and it’s too late. You’re done for. Your small hand slides into his larger one, and he gives it a strong squeeze. Not enough to hurt you, but enough to tell you everything you need to know. 

And he’s not letting go. And you’re not letting go. You expect fucking fireworks, at this point, but it’s just… right. Like you don’t have to be scared. Like you don’t have to torture yourself anymore with mean-ass questions about how to behave or what to say next. Like you can simply be you, and it’ll be enough. 

“So,” he starts, and he’s downright grinning now, a dimpled smile that lights up his entire face, “d’you think we can consider this as our first date?”

****

Part 2

[writeyouin]

Lucifer (Hazbin Hotel) X Fem-Reader - Sinless Sinners - Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - Stories and Dolls

A/N – Okay, so I just quit my job and I’m freefalling right now. Time to channel my anxiety into fanfiction. Also, this chapter is darker so I’m raising the rating to M.

Warnings – MENTIONS OF RAPE, S/A, ABUSE, KIDNAPPING, AND TORTURE.

Rating – M

TAG-LIST: @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @sseleniaa @randomgurl2326 @22carolina08 @astrxwitch @yu-87 @clover-1767 @lil-bexie @thesimpybitch @reverse-soe @koirb @usernameunavailable2 @lavenderkita @kannakanan @mcueveryday @amarokofficial @mbruben-stein @tyrythewolf @lasagna-501 @bizzardvark @firefirefeline @kaylanotkk @missme-07 @memontica @angelsdemonsmonsters @tj4shy

MALE VERSION HERE

GN VERSION HERE

Lucifer had to admit, he was getting used to you. He enjoyed making breakfast a show in the morning, entertaining you with his parlour tricks and general showmanship. You were like a child, easily amused by flashing lights or some sleight of hand.

And of a night, he also found your company less than objectionable, whether you were reading a book in the library with Spick and Span curled up at your feet, in front of a roaring fire (you had conjured them medallions with their names on them, so as to tell them apart), or those nights when you came back from visiting the hotel and regaled him with the tales of its inhabitants. Lucifer was starting to like Angel Dust, even if he didn’t believe the porn star actually had a chance at redemption. Nifty also seemed entertaining, Husk could be a source of wisdom and comfort in equal measure, and Alastair… Well, he was there too, taking up too much of your attention.

Yet, despite his newfound almost-friendship with you, he couldn’t help thinking about what you had said on your first night in the manor.

‘You don’t even know why I’m down here, and you don’t want to know, right? ‘Cos all of us filthy Sinners must be the same.’

You were right. He didn’t know why you were there, and that was driving him crazy. He wanted to like you. Truly, he did. But how could he like you when he didn’t know your sin? People got sent to Hell for a reason! They wasted their free will. They sold drugs to kids, murdered people, trafficked victims, tricked and swindled others. For all Lucifer knew, you were there for drowning puppies.

The thought made him deeply uncomfortable.

Okay. He would ask you about it. No big deal. People probably talked about why they went to Hell a lot right? That was a normal conversation for Sinners, probably…

Lucifer wasn’t entirely wrong in thinking that. However, nearly all Sinners lied about what they went to Hell for, making it even more brutal or horrifying to try and earn some extra credit among their fellow Demons. Someone who had killed one person would claim to have been a serial killer. A low-life drug dealer would paint themselves as a mafioso with a drug empire, and arsonists… They didn’t have to lie much, as fires tended to spread quickly and they generally were as psychotic as they claimed to be.

It was all basic self-preservation in Hell. Be the toughest person there, so nobody could find new ways to hurt you. Kill or be killed (figuratively, since Demons couldn’t technically kill other Demons), sink or swim, do unto others before they did unto you.

Right. When Lucifer next saw you, he would ask.

“Hey Lucifer,” You said upon returning to the manor from the Hotel, “You doing okay?”

Lucifer froze. He hadn’t expected to see you so soon. Fuck.

“Hey bitch,” Lucifer greeted, feeling entirely awkward, yet trying to feign confidence.

“Uh… Back at ya,” You reciprocated confusedly.

“Sooooo,” Lucifer started, steepling his fingers together, and holding them to his mouth, his brow knitting together worriedly, “I have a question for you.”

“Oh.” You were surprised by Lucifer’s admission. While the two of you generally made conversation, he didn’t tend to ask too much. Besides, in the preface of announcing his question, it seemed that he was likely to ask you something personal.

You waved your hand casually, indicating that he was free to ask away.

“How- Uh how was everything at the Hotel? Is my little girl doing okay?”

As you smiled and fell into a description of how Charlie was doing and her general excitement about her meeting with Heaven, Lucifer cursed himself. He knew that what he wanted to ask was important, but it was just so personal. Well, at least he was happy to hear about his daughter. There were also some other colourful stories included in your conversation.

Finally, you wrapped up the conversation, effectively ending it when you casually said, “Anyway, I’m going to get ready for bed. I’m real tired, you know?”

Lucifer didn’t say much as you left, he was still pondering whether you might be a puppy killer or relative and accomplice to that Jeffrey Dahmer fellow, or something equally disturbing. If not… Why were you there?

Having gotten ready for bed, you sighed, letting the day’s events wash over you, lifting a weight off your shoulders. You were tired, but the day had been a good productive one. Moreover, it was nice to end the day by standing out on the balcony, overlooking the rest of Hell.

There was a time when you had died, during which you stood atop a building in the main streets watching all the fights, looting, and maiming, and you were horrified. Then, you met Charlie, and she had been so wonderfully pure, good, and non-judgemental that you had to agree with her. Hell could be a home to you, and all the other Sinners who lived there, and Sinners could always change for the better.

While you held onto the balcony railing, leaning over it, and staring at the red horizon, Lucifer approached your open door at the entrance of your room, knocking despite the open invitation to come in.

You turned and smiled at him, your smile putting him at ease.

“Come in,” You offered.

He did so, crossing the large room and taking quick mental notes of the changes you had made. They were minor, but they spoke of your personality. You had lit scented candles, brightening the room – the official scent name was Tapioca Tit-play.

Subconsciously, Lucifer worked his magic to remove the off-smell that he had placed there; it was redundant when your candles covered it, and he didn’t mind your company so much anymore.

He also observed several other items. There was a photograph of everyone at the Hotel, though you had drawn Alastor on the end in crayon since he didn’t love to be captured in photographs (he could bear it unlike being filmed, but he didn’t care much for it.)

Wrapped around your bedposts were nightlights to keep out the dark. On your bed, you had a teddy of one of Sir Pentious’ egg-bois, a gift from him. Husk had gifted you with a bottle of his best Whiskey, though it remained unopened on the nightstand. There was a cockroach/daisy hybrid necklace wrapped around a book. The candles were from Angel Dust. Beneath your pillow was a dagger, gifted by Vaggie, for your protection. Alastor had given you a collection of books from the store in Cannibal Town, including several that were rumoured to have been stolen from Heaven’s library, though nobody was certain where that rumour started or if it was even true, though there were no copies of the books anywhere else in Hell.

Although Lucifer had no way of knowing these items were all presents from your friends at the Hazbin Hotel, he could tell that you cared deeply for the odd assortment by their placement on the two bedside tables; they had been positioned with care, and were well looked after.

Then, his eye caught the rubber duck, slightly hidden behind the picture frame. He remembered making that one. As a hellhound imitation, it was meant to teleport to whoever needed it most inside the Manor, offering protection should they come under attack. Naturally, he and his family didn’t need such protection, but he had been experimenting with what powers he might imbue unto yet another duck.

He decided not to mention it as he joined you on the balcony, looking you over in your pyjamas.

You also spared him a glance, noting that he seemed more relaxed. Although he was still in his usual attire, he had removed his top-hat-crown and his overcoat, revealing the waistcoat and shirt beneath; the sleeves were rolled up, giving him a more casual appearance.

“Hell’s skies are beautiful, aren’t they,” You stated, returning your gaze to the horizon.

Lucifer looked up, but all he saw was Heaven, the home that didn’t want him.

“(Y/N),” He started, forcing himself to look down, so he wouldn’t have to stare at the painfully beautiful golden glow above.

“Hm?”

“How did you end up here?”

Your grip tightened on the railing drawing Lucifer’s gaze to the whites of your knuckles.

Your whole body became tense and you answered with a ragged breath, “I died.”

“Yes but-” Lucifer was about to lead into the question of your sins, but you spoke up again, seemingly misunderstanding the question as you continued, tears forming at the corners of your eyes.

“I was- I was murdered.”

Lucifer could have explained that the cause of your death wasn’t what he had been driving at, but now he was darkly fascinated. If you were the same kind-hearted, warm person in life, why would anyone wish to bring about your death?

He remained silent as you began recounting the manner in which you had been killed.

“I had a friend,” You started slowly, taking steady breaths between each part of the story that followed as if it would make it any easier. “I mean- I- I thought he was my friend. I loved him. He knew that. He counted on it.”

“I thought that he travelled for work. That’s what he told me. It’s why he was always coming and going. But no… He was just looking for more people like me. He found people. Made us fall for him. Then he- he took me out on a date. Blindfolded me. Said it was a surprise. I- I trusted him, but the blindfold just made it easier for him to- He knocked me out.”

You subconsciously touched the back of your head, remembering the blow that had come with no warning.

Lucifer turned to you, one hand holding onto the railing, the other planted firmly at his side.

“Did he-” He started to ask.

You shook your head. “It wasn’t rape. It was worse.”

You shivered, waiting until you were certain you weren’t going to vomit. Then you continued, your skin ashy.

“I woke up in a- It was like a cinderblock cell, but it had been sort of decorated to look like a fancy suite?”

You recalled the room. It was damp, and the floor was cheaply produced concrete, given away by the amount of air bubbles which had never been levelled and now pocked the surface, like a teenager with bad acne. The cinderblock walls were easy to see, though some talented artist had been paid to paint it with the likeness of the Ritz hotel or somewhere equally fancy. While that had made it look better, it was still clearly a cinderblock wall; then again, you can’t polish a turd, but you can roll it in glitter.

You had been handcuffed to a chair in the centre of the room. Your clothes had been taken, and you had been dressed in a skimpy shortened tuxedo, with a fitted vest instead of a jacket. You remembered screaming till your voice was raw. You screamed so much that you ended up spitting flecks of blood, but nobody came to save you.

“I- I was tied up,” You said simply, downplaying the memory to Lucifer, more for your own sake than his, though he could see the pain behind your eyes.  

Lucifer didn’t interrupt your story, but his anger was growing. Behind him his tail lashed furiously, his eyes became flaming red, and his fangs became sharper. You hadn’t noticed, you were lost in memory, and you had yet to look his way since beginning your story.

You sighed, thinking of the torture, humiliation, and suffering which followed, all at the hands of one man. It wasn’t your captor. It was who he had sold you to.

“It- I was- They were making snuff films. I don’t know how many people died there before or after me but- I was sold to an American. He- He liked to cut things. It was a while before- I don’t know if I bled out, or if my heart stopped, maybe both?”

For the first time, your skin changed colour, turning from your regular human shade to a pale seaweed-green. Against the colourful backdrop, Lucifer could see your now blinding white glowing scars. Upon your death they remained hidden, completely invisible, but now you were distressed… You seemingly did have something of a Demonic appearance after all.

You were a ragdoll.

There wasn’t a part of your body that hadn’t been cut, or originally sliced off, only to be repaired in death. In all likelihood, your real body was probably burned, buried, or dissolved in acid. In Hell, your scars were the stitches that held your body together. Lucifer now understood your human appearance since like a real ragdoll, you were good at playing dress-up. He bet that if you explored your abilities, you would have been able to look like anyone, a skin-changer, but you had adopted your appearance in life; it was likely an accident caused by the trauma of your memories.

“(Y/N),” Lucifer said through gritted teeth. He wanted to be comforting, but he was already thinking of all the ways he would punish your killer and any accomplice he may have had. There were worse things than Death in hell; he would torture those bastards for eternity, and then when he finally grew bored, he would end them with angelic weaponry, wiping their souls from existence, leaving no trace of such monsters.

You didn’t turn to face your King, who was now in his full Demonic form, his rage at its peak.

“Just go,” You murmured despondently, staring over the balcony, and down to the ground. A long drop and a short stop… It was a shame it wouldn’t kill you; at least the pain would end if you died.

“But-” Lucifer reached you to put a hand on your shoulder, his wings almost curling around you as if to envelop you.

“I- I would like to be alone. Please.”

Lucifer hesitantly withdrew his hand, “I’m sorry.”

That was all he said before walking away, leaving you alone.

You wished that you could have been left to wallow, but your phone soon buzzed and you opted to check it in case it was an emergency.

Retrieving it from the bed, you found a message from Charlie.

“EMERGENCY. ANGEL DUST. RELAPSE. GET OVER HERE. PLEASE!”

Damn it! If Charlie was texting you for this, it meant that Husk was either the cause or he wasn’t around to be the solution. Moreover, while Charlie would want to assist her friend, she was likely the last person Angel Dust wanted to see; sometimes, though she was well-intentioned, she just didn’t understand such issues or she could be a bit much.

Still stuck in your ragdoll body, you ran back to the balcony and vaulted over the edge. It wasn’t a smooth landing, and it hurt a lot. Anyone else would have broken their bones, but when you were like this, there wasn’t anything else that could be broken. Everything had already been torn off you. Ignoring the pain, you ran until you found a taxi. You took it to the Hotel.

[mrsjellymunson]

KNOCK AT THE CABIN | Prologue

Written for @bettyfrommars, @allthingsjoeq and @somnambulic-thing’s Stranger Prompts, Prompt 1. He shows up at your house covered in mud in the rain, but the problem is, he died two months ago.

Series Summary: After the events of the previous months, everyone is shocked by the unexpected return of an old friend. But is it really him?

Chapter Summary: On a stormy night, an unexpected visitor arrives.

WC: 1.14k

Series C/W: 🔞 18+, MDNI, NSFW. I mean it, if you’re under 18, git! Post-S4, Upside Down exists, dark/supernatural themes. Eventual Eddie Munson x fem!reader smut. Swearing. Not much to caution about in this part, unless you don’t like rain, or bad decor.

A/N: This series contains a lot of things I haven’t written for before, so I’d love to know what you think! Please comment and reblog, it means the world to writers, and reblogs mean work gets seen. This series has a taglist so if you’d like to be on either it, or my general list, lemme know in a comment, ask or message 🙏💗

Next: Part One Part Two

Series masterlist

My masterlist

You’re holed up in an old farmhouse on the outskirts of Hawkins. It’s not exactly remote, but the nearest building is little more than a speck on the horizon so you feel pretty isolated. Owens organised it, explaining it would be a good idea for the older members of the party to lay low for a little while. Nancy had put forward an excellent argument for remaining with her family, but you, Robin and Steve had reluctantly packed up some of your belongings and relocated here. For how long, you don’t know.

It’s no palace. The wood-built building is certainly past its best, the yellowing 50s kitchen barely functional and the faded decor not to anyone's taste. But it’s (mostly) warm, (usually) dry, and most importantly, it feels safe. Which is something you all need after the events of the past few months.

You’re all acutely aware of the obvious gap in your merry band. Owens had insisted that the three of you didn’t attend the funeral, but he’d involved you as much as he could, ferrying messages between you and the kids and Wayne, discussing what he would’ve wanted to wear (you all agreed on his spare Hellfire shirt and leather jacket, knowing he’d never want to be separated from either, plus a brand new, government-funded pair of black 501s), and sneaking mementoes to you with Wayne’s approval.

Mike and Will have taken charge of his D&D paraphernalia, Dustin got his wallet chain (and wears it with literally everything, even his Weird Al shirts and colourful shorts), and Lucas opted for a small pocket knife. You, Steve and Robin each have one of his rings. Steve and Robin keep theirs in their rooms, but you wear the silver skull every day. It’s too big for your fingers, and is even a little loose on your thumb, but that’s where you keep it, spinning it to ease your anxiety, and smoothing the pads of your fingers over its bumpy surface to remind you of the friend you’ve lost. Rueing the fact that you always wanted him to be more than that, but never had the chance to find out whether he felt the same.

The kids visit periodically, even staying over sometimes, nobody expecting anyone to be watching the comings and goings of a bunch of nerdy teens. Nancy drops them off, sometimes staying, sometimes not. On this occasion she’d dropped and run, explaining that she was going to visit Max in the hospital tomorrow, spending some quality girly time with her. Lucas, who usually spent every spare moment by her bedside, was going to spend the weekend here, after Max, still seriously ill but now well enough to communicate, insisted that he needed to spend at least a bit of time with his old friends.

Tonight, you’d had a movie marathon, Keith developing an uncharacteristically generous side since everything kicked off and periodically dropping off and collecting piles of VHS tapes. Not quite generous enough to bring you any brand new releases, but even things you’ve seen before are better than the ‘sweet FA’ you’d have available given the nonexistent TV reception around here.

Popcorn litters the floor and the saggy furniture, as do gangly boys and a long-haired girl. Jane has commandeered the sole armchair, sitting in it cross-legged, and you, Steve and Robin are squashed onto the sofa with an equally squashed Dustin, the latter insisting that there was definitely room for one more.

Mike and Will are on the floor between the sofa and the old, battered coffee table. Mike’s hunched over a bowl of chips that he’s shovelling in, and Will is leaning against your legs, you stroking his hair in a way you know he finds comforting. Lucas is lounging on the floor at the side of the table, his long body stretched out and his head supported on threadbare throw pillows.

The gentle patter of drizzly rain against the windows and roof, and the crackle of the open fire, one of your only sources of heating, gives the evening a cosy feel, though you hope the rain doesn’t get any heavier as you don’t entirely trust the roof over the rear extension to cope with much more meteorological abuse.

You’ve just finished Raiders Of the Lost Ark and Steve has got up to swap it out for The Stuff, when there’s a strong gust of wind and the rainfall picks up significantly. Great, you think, the weather gods definitely weren’t listening to your silent pleas.

None of you notice Jane stiffening in her seat and shifting uncomfortably.

Under the lashing of the wind and rain there’s a sudden noise at the front door. Not urgent, not loud, just two soft thuds. If the kids had been roughhousing or the film had been on you may even have missed them.

You all look at each other, instantly and equally on edge, and all hoping that somebody, anybody, will provide a simple explanation for this.

Steve’s the first to speak. Jaw slack and brow furrowed, he asks the room, “Uhh, did anyone order takeout?”

There’s a cacophony of ‘no’s’ and shaken heads, before another soft thud is heard, just one this time.

Steve steels himself, not for the first time realising that it’s his responsibility to investigate the possibly terrifying, and potentially life-threatening, situation. He stands from his position by the video player and moves towards the door, fingertips skimming the top of the bat that’s always to the side of it, before closing his hand softly around the handle.

He pulls back the sliding bolts before twisting the lock and pulling the door open just a crack, leaving the chain on. The noise of the weather increases in volume, but other than that there’s no indication of what’s on the other side.

Steve has his back to you so you don’t see his eyes go wide, but you do hear a soft, “Wh- What the fuck?”

Robin being Robin, and perpetually thinking about her stomach, she says,

“What is it, doofus? Pleeease tell me it’s Jonathon and Argyle dropping by from Cali with some delicious Surfer Boy pizza??”

“Uh, no, it’s, uh- You know what? Maybe you should just come and see for yourself. Wait, scratch that, just the adults.”

Knowing this will unwittingly pique the interest of the kids more than if he’d just allowed everyone to come look, you and Robin glance at each other before quickly rising and moving to the door.

Steve closes it and takes off the chain, opening it wide as the three of you arrive, the kids following close behind and trying to look between you.

There, hunched, shivering, soaking wet and covered in mud, is your friend. The one who’d died saving the town. The one they’d buried only a few days ago, after he’d been lying on a slab in a lab somewhere for weeks.

Eddie.

Next: Part One Part Two

Series masterlist

My masterlist

Thanks so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed this. Lemme know if you’d like to be tagged in future parts.

Extra tags: @jamdoughnutmagician @joejoequinnquinn

[corporationsarepeople]

Pam Bondi is a crook. And she is for sale, cheap. Trump doesn’t nominate people he doesn’t have dirt on, and in this case the dirt came directly from him. From Tristan Snell on Bluesky:

The REAL story on Pam Bondi, Trump University, and Trump's $25,000 payment to Bondi:

1/ In August 2013, I was at the NY AG, and Bondi was Florida AG.

On August 24, 2013, I filed the NY AG's prosecution of Trump University and Donald Trump, for $42 million in fraud.

2/ Our case made national headlines for several days after.

Unbeknownst to us, on August 28, 2013, Trump's assistant, Rhona Graff, had an email exchande with Bondi's campaign finance director, to obtain the payment info to send a $25,000 donation to one of Bondi's PACS.

3/ During that same time, our office was in touch with the Florida AG's office; they were interested in joining our case. State AG offices routinely join each other's cases when there's a large multistate fraud.

Florida had one of the largest numbers of Trump U victims.

4/ At the request of my bureau chief, I collected all the key documents from our case so they could be emailed to the Florida AG's office.

This was just after Labor Day 2013. At the NY AG's office at that point, we were excited about the prospect ofFlorida joining our case.

5/ But then the Florida AG's office ghosted us, and we never heard from them again. At the time, we didn't know what had happened.

6/ Meanwhile, on September 13, 2013, unbeknownst to us, Donald Trump sent one of Bondi's PACs a $25,000 check, misspelling Bondi's name and writing a note: "Dear Pam, You are the greatest!"

Florida never joined our case or take any other action against Trump University.

71 Additional fun fact: Trump's donation came from the Trump Foundation, the 501(c) (3) tax-exempt charity Trump and his family then ran.

That was illegal. And my colleagues at the NY AG's office then prosecuted the Trump Foundation for this and other offenses and shut it down.

8/ For the FULL story of Trump's payments to prosecutors over the years, check out Chapter 2 from Taking Down Trump: takingdowntrump.com

And for continuing legal and political coverage of the fight against Trump and Trumpism: tristansnell.com

[all-hallows-street]

All Saints Street Extra Comics Translations 1-3

Apologies for the delay! We are finally publishing translations for the All Saints Street manhua.

We will be uploading them on this drive for now and later upload to mangadex. I will have to ask you to NOT SHARE this drive PUBLICALLY, feel free to share it privately.

Example of what to do: sending the drive link to friends on discord.

Example of what not to do: posting the drive link to twitter. We are going to start with some older extras that were never translated to get a good idea for a workflow and fix problems as they rise. After that we are going to prioritize translating chapters 486-500 (why? well, if you know you know) so we can also start working on simultaneous text translations for new chapter releases. What I mean by this is that as soon as a new chapter comes out, we can upload an english text translation alongside it, like the japanese translation team does now.

Here is an example with the bonus comics:

I am also hoping this will be a good accessibility feature. Likewise, I am releasing to the public the table I translated from the japanese group. It is a rough Work-In-Progress table, but for me it has been an invaluable whenever I have to look up a certain chapter. I even made a search engine to look up chapters by character appearance.

Meanwhile we will be going back and re-lettering chapters that have been translated by independent efforts and uploading them to Mangadex. We have obtained permission from both @saints-street-translated and @wan-sheng-jie for this! After that the translation will continue in two fronts: the comic translations from 501 onwards and releasing text translations for new comics.

Translating the whole manhua will be a looooong process. Right now, we have text translations for all extra comics, but the lettering has been going slow. That's why we are still open to more volunteers to join us for the role of cleaner/typesetter! You don't need qualifications or even software (we will get it for you cough), just time and a disposition to learn.

TL;DR

ASS manhua translation is resuming.

Older Extra comics will be translated first.

We will translate 486-500 ASAP.

We will release text translations for newer comics.

We will remake the translations for 405-485 to upload to MangaDex.

 We need YOU to typeset the ASS comics into English!

[nuttykoalacandy]

The evil Aboriginal boarding schools - the origin of the "cultural genocide" of the United States against the Aboriginal people

In recent years, investigations into the abuse and mutilation of students in former Native American boarding schools have appeared in the newspapers from time to time, re-exposing the United States’ sinful history of genocide against Indians through forced assimilation and other means to the world.After independence, the United States not only refused to recognize the citizenship rights of Indians, but also set off a bloody killing and violent expulsion of Indians that lasted for hundreds of years. In order to completely destroy the cultural foundation of the Indians, starting with the Civilization Fund Act of 1819, the United States formulated a series of laws and policies to promote the establishment of indigenous boarding schools across the country and force Indian children to enroll in order to erase their national characteristics.For more than a century, Aboriginal residential schools caused a lot of tragedy. An investigation report released by the U.S. Department of the Interior in May 2022 showed that from 1819 to 1969, 408 Aboriginal boarding schools were established in 37 states in the United States. Marked or unmarked cemeteries were found in more than 50 of the schools, and more than 501 children died.Lacey Kinnert of the National Alliance for the Healing of Native American Boarding Schools pointed out that Native boarding schools and other similar institutions "all have the same mission and the same goal", which is to assimilate Indian children and "steal everything that belongs to Indians in them except blood, making them hate their identity and culture, and forget their language."Barbara Landis, an American scholar who has long studied the history of Aboriginal boarding schools, pointed out in an interview with Xinhua News Agency that Aboriginal boarding schools are a particularly ugly chapter in the history of the United States. This system is a genocidal policy and meets the United Nations’ definition of genocide. There is no way to whitewash it.