#shots fired. and rightly so

[class1akids]

I am so sad. They gave this Dabi vs Shouto panel to some B-studio.

There are so many things wrong with this shot, but the most infuriating part is that it shows that its creators do not have a clue what this fight is about.

The composition. The composition matters. This is Kamino. Shoto and Touya are having a showdown in Kamino. All Might's last stand, the place where Endeavor realized he destroyed his family for nothing, the moment where the reason they were created, they have suffered for became moot.

All Might's statue is looming over them. All Might was the goal - they were little toddlers when Endeavor told them that their worth is coming from being able to surpass All Might. Their existence was conditional on that goal. It's the reason of the wedge between them.

"I am not here". It has so many meanings. But also for this particular fight the "hero" who created this family, these two boys to surpass All Might is once again not here. As AFO rightly calls him out for it, once again, he fails to show up for Touya.

Shouto does show up and he's looking at Touya who is not looking at him. "Watch me" is like the desperate cry for self-worth in the Todoroki family.

Shouto's pose in the manga radiates his determination. He who is always so full of doubt is so sure here. He stands firm. But the fire and ice at his feet are a reminder of his "masterpiece" status, due to his perfect quirk. In the anime, his pose is floppy, the ice and fire are missing too.

Touya who looks away is so full of disdain for Shouto. His swag shows what he thinks of this 3rd son. In the anime? Nothing.

I'm not only mad because the artwork is lazy and looks bad. I'm mad because every choice they made here, every corner they cut tells me the people who made this did not understand a single thing about this fight.

[novaursa]

Hello there

Can I request a HOTD! one shot that is Aemond x Younger!Sister Reader in which she is the most beloved of Allicent's children and she nicknames the songbird due to her love of singing and her voice is said to be almost celestial. Many suitors ask for her hand but Aemond being the protective brother he is doesn't want it to happen not only because its his duty to protect her but he also loves her as well and wants to make her his wife. Ill let you go wild in terms of the story, i trust your skills and i love all your other works Thanks so much!

And If They Ask for You

Requests are closed

- Summary: They wanted to marry you off, but Aemond didn't let them. And he never will.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: ❤️

The air in the council chamber was thick with the mingled scents of parchment, beeswax candles, and the faint trace of myrrh that clung always to Viserys’s robes. The king, throned at the head of the table beneath a high-arched window that bathed his face in morning light, looked half-asleep and yet strangely lucid this day. His once-robust frame had withered, but his voice, though slow, carried the weight of authority. Around him sat the familiar faces of court—Ser Otto Hightower upright and silent as a sentry at his place, Lord Larys Strong half-shadowed and smiling behind his fingertips, Grand Maester Orwyle shuffling parchments, and Lord Tyland Lannister with his fingers steepled, his gaze sharp.

Aegon lounged across from them, expression bored and fingers idly tracing the edge of his goblet, sipping without permission from the wine set out for Viserys. He was here by command, not desire. But Aemond… Aemond sat upright, his single violet eye fixed, attentive, burning with quiet fire. He was here by invitation—no, by summons. Viserys had looked at him three days past, pale hand trembling atop the armrest of the Iron Throne, and said in his brittle voice, “You must learn the work of kings, my son. Come to the council. Watch. Listen.”

And Aemond had obeyed.

They had spoken first of trade and taxes, of casks of Dornish wine delayed in the Stepstones, of an illness spreading through Lannisport, of the Black Cells overcrowded. Aegon yawned through it all, whispered something lewd to Tyland, and earned a glare from Otto, but Aemond had not blinked. His mind turned over every word, every coin, every name.

Then Lord Orwyle cleared his throat. “Your Grace,” he began delicately, unrolling a scroll and setting it before the king, “there is the matter of your daughter, the princess…”

That name—your name—was not spoken aloud, but it didn’t need to be.

The moment it was implied, Aemond stilled. His fingers curled around the armrest of his chair. He knew what was coming. The talk of alliances. Of offers. Of lordlings come crawling like dogs in heat, drawn by the mere idea of you.

Otto, ever practical, picked up the thread. “She is of age now. Nearly sixteen. A treasure of our house, and the court is flush with suitors. The Lords of the Reach, the Vale, and even from the Free Cities have sent word. They ask for her hand, and rightly so. She is—”

“A songbird,” Larys murmured, lips curved with something that might’ve been admiration or something darker. “Sweet-voiced, gentle-hearted, and beloved by all who hear her sing. There are rumors that she is half-divine, sent from the Seven themselves.”

Viserys chuckled weakly, eyes distant with memory. “She used to sing to me when the pain kept sleep away. Her voice… like starlight through mist.”

Aemond said nothing. His jaw had gone rigid. He stared straight ahead, but his vision had blurred. Not with tears. With rage.

“She would make a fine match for Lord Cregan Stark,” Orwyle continued with no sense of the shifting air. “He is young, powerful, and fiercely loyal to the crown. A union with the North would bring strength. Or perhaps Lord Borros Baratheon. He has four daughters and no sons, and he would cherish a princess of royal blood to elevate his house.”

“She’s too soft for the Stormlands,” Otto noted, “but the Vale has sent sweet letters. Ser Gerold Royce’s son is well-bred and eager to please. Runestone would be—”

“No.” The word rang out like the tolling of steel.

Heads turned.

Aemond rose slowly from his chair, his hand clenched against the pommel of his sword—not because he meant to draw it, but because he needed something to anchor himself.

“No,” he said again. “She will not marry any of them.”

Otto raised a brow. “It is not your place—”

“She is my sister,” Aemond snapped. “She is blood of my blood. You speak of sending her to cold stone castles, of handing her over like coin in a purse. You forget that she is not some… broodmare to be bartered for allegiance.”

“She is a princess of the realm,” Tyland interjected calmly. “Marriage is her duty, and alliances are—”

“And what of Aegon?” Aemond demanded, voice rising like a whip crack. “Was it not decided he should marry Helaena? Was it not called tradition, that blood weds blood to preserve the line? That the gods would smile upon it?”

At that, Aegon sat upright. “Leave me out of your madness, brother.”

“You have her,” Aemond snarled, lip curling. “You—who mock the crown, who drink yourself senseless, who bed whores and maids in the same breath—you were given our sister to wed. And now they speak of giving her away? No. If you may take a sister for wife, so may I.”

The words echoed in the chamber, awful in their clarity.

Viserys stirred in his seat, the mask of age slipping from his face. “Aemond…”

But Aemond would not be silenced. “She is mine to protect. Mine to cherish. No lord in this realm will ever deserve her. And I will not stand by while you sell her name to the highest bidder.”

Then, without waiting for dismissal, he turned on his heel. His boots struck the stone floor like thunder as he stormed from the chamber, the door slamming shut behind him.

In the silence he left behind, none dared speak. Not even Otto. Only the soft crinkle of parchment as Orwyle quietly rolled up the list of suitors, setting it aside—for now.

The storm that followed Aemond out of the council chamber did not break with thunder, but with the quiet wrath that hung from his shoulders like a velvet cloak soaked in blood. He descended the steps of Maegor’s Holdfast with swift, purposeful strides, the sword at his hip jangling with each step, the weight of the conversation behind him pressing hard against his ribs. The whispers of courtiers and gold cloaks brushed past his ears like gnats, but he heard none of it. His pulse throbbed too loudly, his thoughts were thick with you—always you.

He needed to see you.

The gardens behind the Tower of the Hand were still wrapped in early sunlight, the hedges gleaming with dew, the scent of blooming roses and lavender perfuming the air like a whisper from some gentler world. It was there that you often passed your mornings, far from the breathless intrigues of court, laughing softly among your ladies as if the weight of the realm could never touch you. He found you where he always did—beneath the arching white trellis, where the pale roses bloomed year-round, even in cold.

You sat upon a carved stone bench, draped in pale blue and silver, the color of sky at dawn, your hair unbound in waves across your shoulders. One of your ladies-in-waiting was braiding a ribbon into your sleeve while another knelt before you, holding out a small harp that glimmered with polished ivory and gold. You smiled as you spoke to them, your voice like wind chimes in a summer breeze—soft, clear, unearthly. Aemond’s breath caught in his throat.

“My prince,” said the eldest of the girls, rising and dipping into a curtsy the moment she saw him. The others followed, eyes wide, startled by his abrupt approach.

You looked up at him then, your eyes alight, unaware of the fury that still curled like smoke beneath his skin. “Aemond,” you said, your voice gentle, sweetened with delight. “You’ve come to chase the sun with me again?”

His lips parted, but the words would not come. Instead, he simply stood for a moment, drinking in the sight of you, anchoring himself in your presence. The silver threads at your sleeves, the glow of your skin in the light, the way the corners of your mouth tilted up, curious and patient, waiting for him to speak.

“Leave us,” Aemond said, and though his voice was calm, the ladies did not hesitate. They fled like birds startled from a tree, casting backward glances as they went.

You blinked at him once they were gone. “You’re angry,” you said softly. “I can see it in your shoulders.”

He paced once, then again, like a wolf pacing the border of his cage. “I was at council,” he said at last, though he did not speak of what was said. His voice was low, clenched between his teeth. “The air there chokes me. I needed—” He looked at you. “I needed to breathe.”

You tilted your head. “And I am fresh air?”

“Yes.” His eye flickered, sharp and bright as flame. “You are.”

A silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant sound of water trickling from a marble fountain and the rustling of branches above. When he moved, it was with the grace of a predator, silent and sure, until he was standing before you, close enough to reach out but not daring to do so.

“I do not like when they speak of you,” he said finally, quietly, his voice trembling at the edges despite his control. “They speak of your beauty, your voice, your kindness as if you were some sweet thing to pluck from a tree and devour.”

You lowered your gaze, lashes brushing your cheek. “They always speak. It does not reach me here.”

“It will.” His voice deepened. “It always does. They will try to take pieces of you. They will carve away what they do not understand. That is what this court does.”

You looked at him then, your expression unreadable. “And what will you do?”

He stepped closer. “Watch over you.”

His hand lifted—hesitated—and then brushed a lock of hair from your brow with careful reverence. “Always. As I did when you were a babe in the cradle and cried for the stars. As I did when you scraped your knee falling from your pony and bled all over your stockings. As I will do, every day forward, whether I am beside you or not.”

You blinked up at him, a small breath caught in your throat. “Why?”

He said nothing at first. Then, softly, as if the words might shatter if spoken too loudly, “Because there is nothing in this world more precious to me.”

You stared at him, stunned into silence. Your lips parted slightly, but the words faltered on your tongue. He gave you no time to find them.

Aemond leaned forward, and for a moment his forehead pressed to yours. His touch was cool, his breath warm. “You need not understand. Only know this—I will let no one harm you. No one take you. No one change you.”

And then, as swiftly as he had come, he stepped back—his eye lingering, voice gone, heart still burning behind his ribs. Without another word, he turned and strode from the garden, leaving only the imprint of his vow behind, and the echo of your name held in silence.

[delirious-donna]

Hiromi couldn’t help himself.

He knew it was unfair of him, but the urge to keep poking at you crept over him like a fiendish manifestation of the frustration he often experienced in his own caseload.

He shouldn’t take it out on you. What a wicked man it made him. Hardly ideal for a man who claimed to lead the march for justice and equality.

You’re not someone to take lightly, confident in your abilities and rightly so. This wasn’t a rodeo you hadn’t ridden like a seasoned pro for years now, he should know better, and yet… he pushes back at every opportunity.

“Don’t you think you should…”

His words tailed off at the warning flash of your eyes, narrowing crossly on his looming figure whilst your nostrils flared. If anyone was a bull ready to charge, it was you.

“Don’t you think you should mind your own business, Higuruma?” Your voice remained cool despite the fire snapping and crackling in your gaze.

He stopped just shy of letting out a groan of pleasure.

Fuck…

He loved it when you held your ground. You weren’t meek like the other paralegals and legal secretaries in the office. Hiromi couldn’t recall a single insistence where you had allowed anyone to speak down to you. You treated everyone how you wanted to be treated, with kindness and respect, but the fact you didn’t suffer fools gladly was signposted well.

It made him wonder if you would be like this in other, far more intimate circumstances.

A workplace crush was frowned upon, not that he particularly cared for such arbitrary rules. You were both adults and who you dated, fucked, fantasised about whilst sat at their desk well after clocking off time stroking their—well, that was no one’s concern but his or your own.

“You don’t want my opinion?” he asked with a wry grin, already knowing the answer was a firm and resounding no. He was certain it would be preceded by a hissed ‘fuck’ if you weren’t being carefully watched by half of the office.

“… no. If I wanted your opinion, or even needed your assistance in any capacity, I would ask. Don’t you have a meeting in ten minutes?”

Hiromi chuckled. “They cancelled.”

“So, that’s why you’re pestering me. You’re bored and in need of distraction.”

Your voice warmed as you spoke, comprehension dawning on you that this little charade might hold more meaning than you had previously assumed. That thought was certainly more alluring than thinking him to be a menace simply for the hell of it.

His shrug neither confirmed nor denied your accusation, but the warmth colouring his neck right above the collar of his slightly rumpled shirt spoke volumes, as did the idle forefinger that drew a spiral atop your desk.

“Back to your little office, Higuruma, I am busy.”

He complied without further incident, whilst you watched his handsome, if not tired, profile disappear behind his office door. You smiled, no longer bothered by the tedious work task flashing in front of you for attention.

You really should take that man in hand a little more firmly, personally, perhaps…

That was your thought ten minutes later as you closed his door behind you, the lock snicking into place as his eyebrows shot into the dark of his hairline.

You couldn’t see his cock harden beneath his desk but you knew it was, and you couldn’t wait to make him beg you for the release he craved.

Hiromi couldn’t help himself.

[anamericangirl]

What's telling to me about how sick people can be is that Trump was nearly killed, someone in the crowd WAS killed, multiple other shots went out, the whole thing was a terrifying event that everyone in the world should be able to agree was scary And yet I see the media on the left trying to spin this "Well this is to be expected, he's so radical and so fascist that of course someone tried to kill him" and "#YOUMISSED" is trending on Twitter Mask is fucking off and I'm done hitting Anon when I send asks to you, these people have truly shown they have no empathy, no sympathy, and are bloodthirsty. People get shot up in a school and their first thought is "This is why we need to ban guns" and "This is because of ultra-MAGA"

Some unhinged motherfucker actually attempts to kill the former president and kills someone in the crowd and the left turns it into a fucking hashtag and an opportunity to try to blame it on Trump even though he's the one that got shot at.

The left are fucking deranged, and I know better than most because I used to be ON the left. I shaved half my head, I had blue hair, I lived with liberal pedophiles (literally) in Ohio for 2 years who wore diapers around the house and bitched about Elon Musk and Trump every fucking day. I know these people are psychopaths and now they have finally just outright announced to the world how sick they are.

Even fucking Biden tried to call the hospital Trump was at to ask if he was okay, EVEN DARTH FUCKING BRANDON CARED ABOUT TRUMP and yet these Twitterlibs and liberal media fuckwads are just jumping on the opportunity to go "Aww man #YouMissed, you fired 5 shots how come you couldn't get him, you fucked up, omg"

For fuck sake hate the man all you want but SOMEONE TRIED TO KILL HIM AND AN INNOCENT PERSON'S BRAIN GOT REMOVED FROM THEIR HEAD, FOR FUCK SAKE HAVE AT LEAST A MODICUM OF SYMPATHY FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE YOU FUCKING SAVAGES.

If this doesn't turn people away from the democrat party then nothing will. Trump was not the only victim of this shooting. A couple of people were injured, an innocent person was killed and still the only thing we hear from leftists is annoyance that the shooter missed.

And while we are rightly angry at the spins the msm is putting on this assassination attempt, they have to put that spin on it or eat their words for the last 8 years. They've been characterizing Trump as a fascist tyrannical dictator since 2016. They've spun him to be Hitler 2.0 telling everyone he's a threat to democracy and leading people to believe he's a threat to their very lives. The "trans genocide" and "kids in cages" the "don't say gay" bill all that nonsense is always, always linked back to Trump and if they turn around now and condemn this attempt on his life what would that say about them? Either they will have to expose themselves as the liars and propagandists they are or they will have to be seen as being sympathetic towards literally Hitler. And narrative is more important to them than anything.

Which explains why they were trying to avoid reporting what happened like the plague. The headlines I saw in the aftermath, after we already knew Trump had actually been hit by the bullet were things like "Trump escorted offstage after gun shots were heard." "Loud popping noise heard at Trump rally." And other variations of that headline. And still leftists don't question why after Trump was shot every single mainstream media outlet had the same headline and they all avoided saying Trump had been shot or an assassination attempt had been made.

They can’t come out and say this was wrong because it will mean they will have to admit to something even worse: that they were wrong.

But of course the people currently in office can't come out and condone the shooting. That would look very bad. So yeah, it's good that Biden stood up there and said the right words and made an effort to contact Trump but how convenient that this happened a mere couple of weeks after the democratic party has abandoned and turned on Biden so his words and condemnation will be buried and ignored and mean nothing.

For the last 8 years, though, Joe Biden and every other democrat in office, paired with the media, have been villainizing Trump for his rhetoric. Everything bad thing that happened was directly the fault of Trump because of his "dangerous rhetoric." But the rhetoric they've employed against Trump and all conservatives since that time has been the worst fearmongering and slander I've ever seen so they are directly to blame for this shooting because of their rhetoric. No more "rules for thee but not for me." They have to live in the world they made.

Leftism, as I'm sure you've seen first hand what with your experience of being one and living in that environment, is no longer about what you support, it's just about who you hate. And every sane person still aligned with them is waking up. The mask has been slipping for years and most of us were able to see who they really were way before it fully fell off but there is no mask now. They're not even trying to hide it.

They have the ideas they pretend to support when told to, but all leftists are only united by one thing: hate.

Their heroes are criminals like Michael Brown, George Floyd and Trayvon Martin. And they hate police until they shoot and kill Ashli Babbitt who's only crime was being a Trump supporter at the capitol on January 6.

They still bemoan the killing of a pedophile, wife beater and injury of a career criminal who were shot because they tried to murder a child while villainizing the child they tried to kill because he successfully defended himself against their attack.

To this day they spin their violent riots as "mostly peaceful protests" while the January 6 protest was a "violent insurrection."

The rapes and murder on October 7 were a justified response to "occupation" but anything Israel does is "genocide."

During covid they freaked out about "public health" and wanted everyone vaxxed and masked to "save lives" but when Trump got covid they all immediately wanted it to kill him.

When a white boy shoots up a school it’s an example of how evil white people and right wing gun nuts are but when a trans person shot children at a Christian elementary school the main focus of leftists, all the way up to the White House, was the danger the trans community would allegedly be in from right wing retaliatory violence and how “hateful Christian rhetoric” was responsible for the shooting.

And none of this has anything to do with the values they claim to adhere to. All of their positions on every single issue come down to who it is they hate the most of the people involved. So their "values” change by the second.

So the violence, depravity and dangerous rhetoric is pretty much 100% on their side but watch them try and spin this assassination on Trump as Trump's own fault. And watch leftists just unquestioningly go with it or just try to distract people with more fear mongering about Project 2025 or something else stupid like that.

The only thing that bothers them about this shooting, other than the fact that the shooter "missed', is that this has pretty much guaranteed Trump is going to win the election. And of course they can't stand that after all they've done to try and make sure that doesn't happen.

[astarioffsimpmain]

Cushioned Affections

Gale x Astarion x F!Tav

Warnings: Poly relationship discussion; insecurity; mention of past relationship abuse

Synopsis: Tav is tired of waiting for Astarion to make his move, so she allows Gale to make his first. But will that put an end to her and her favorite vampire spawn?

Author's Note: I'm a day late, I know, but this fic is for the BG3 Holiday Fluffle 2023, hosted by @justporo with the prompt "Getting Cozy"!

The chill that had settled over many of your nights in the last few months was slowly creeping its way into your days, infiltrating you and your motley crew through brisk winds that could cut through any armor and lay clothes, chilling you all to your very bones. The campfire became the favorite place of every one of your traveling companions - even Astarion, who usually preferred to observe the group’s frivolities from the entrance of his tent. But this evening, the aloof vampire had firmly wedged himself between you and your resident wizard, Gale, on one of the logs in front of the roaring flames. 

“There’s a perfectly clear spot next to Lae’zel, you know.” Gale mumbled, clearly unhappy with the current seating arrangements. 

“That seat could get me decapitated and I personally prefer to keep such beauty soundly attached, thank you very much.” Astarion replied haughtily, turning his nose up at the wizard’s suggestion before scooting closer to you, affronted. 

“Rightly assumed, spawn.” Lae’zel spat, not so much as glancing up from her soup bowl.

“Hah!” Astarion exclaimed triumphantly, sending a taunting expression Gale’s way as he wrapped his shawl tighter around his already cold body. 

“Well, I’m very glad you’ve joined us tonight, Stari.” you said, opening your arm to him and allowing him to snuggle close, a relieved sigh escaping his lips as your warmth enveloped him. “And Gale, thank you so much for the wonderful meal. I always forget I'm sleeping on the ground when you fix your soup.” 

The compliment settled in Gale’s cheeks as they tinged pink and a smile graced his lips for the first time since Astarion had forced the two of you apart. “Why thank you, Tav.” he sent a charming smile your way over the mess of white curls between you. “You flatter me too much.” 

“Yes, she does.” Lae’zel replied curtly, although she made no effort to hide her empty bowl. 

“Nah, this shit’s awesome, Gale.” Karlach piped up, already filling up her bowl for the third time. “Anybody need a warm-up?” 

“Me, if you would, Karlach.” Shadowheart passed her bowl across the fire to the tiefling, who grabbed it enthusiastically and held it between her palms as the flames beneath her skin crackled and popped to life for a few seconds before simmering down again. The contents of the bowl were now steaming as Karlach passed it back over to Shadowheart, who let out a pleased groan when the warmth hit her fingertips. 

“Thank you all.” Gale said, a pleased smile on his lips. “I’m glad I could deliver a measure of culinary satisfaction to our treacherously meager living accommodations.” 

“Darling, just say “thank you for the dick-stroking” and be done with it.” Astarion drawled, his eyes having lazily fallen closed once your fingers had wound their way into his hair. 

“I’ll have you know,” Gale’s voice rose as he spoke over Karlach and Shadowheart who had burst out laughing., “My honed verbosity is one of the most prevalent things that earned me a place as one of the most well-respected voices of wisdom in Waterdeep, and beyond.” 

“Oh yes, it was your tongue; of that I’m certain.” Astarion murmured, half asleep, and you bit down on the inside of your lip to keep the giggle from escaping as Karlach and Shadowheart descended into fits of cackling once again, while Lae’zel allowed the ghost of a smile to cross her lips. You even noticed Wyll choking back a chuckle over his soup. 

Gale shook his head disapprovingly, and you thought things may have gone too far until an amused smile crept across the wizard’s face and he shot you a quick glance with mirth dancing in his eyes. You smiled back at him, the chill of the evening all but melted away in the presence of your unlikely group of friends. 

After the fire had long since died, and many of your companions had retired to their own bedrolls in the shelter of their tents, you helped Gale clean up around the campfire, stacking bowls in on each other - deciding to wait for the warmth of the sun before taking them to the river to wash them out - and gathering the extra blankets to hoard for personal use. 

Astarion sat idly by, book in hand, while you both worked, only looking up from the pages and stretching languidly when you paused in front of him. “Well, darling, are you ready to hide away and curl up in our own little cocoon for the evening?” he cooed, batting his long eyelashes at you demurely. 

“Come on, Astarion, just say you’re desperate for a cuddle and be done with it.” Gale appeared over your shoulder smiling, pleased to have been given the chance to throw the words back in the vampire’s face. 

“Actually,” you stepped in front of Gale and swatted at him playfully. “Gale’s got a new volume of that Dark Elf tales I’ve been reading as of late, and he wanted to read a few chapters with me before we went our separate ways. Would you like to join us? I know how much you enjoy those stories.”

Astarion chortled dismissively, rolling his eyes. “I think I’d prefer freezing to death than getting anywhere near the “wizard of Waterdeep”’s personal stash.” 

You sighed, shrugging your shoulders and turning away. “Your choice. I’ll see you back in my tent afterwards either way. Although,” you pause, flipping your hair over your shoulder to match his dramatics. “It will be much warmer in Gale’s tent because we currently have all of the extra blankets. I do hope you’ll reconsider.” you teased, mimicking the vampire’s tonal lilt as you hoisted a few of the remaining blankets over your shoulder and walked off. In a few long strides, you caught up with Gale, who was struggling with his own bundle of blankets. 

“Do you think he’ll drop by?” his voice came out muffled, his face fully blocked from your vision by a mountain of fluff.

A giggle bubbled out of you, and you patted some of the blankets away from his eyes. A muffled “thank you” reached your ears. “I don’t know, but I hope so. I do wish he didn’t keep to himself so often; he shouldn’t be alone. But he has to choose to let in the warmth himself - and not just mine.” Gale nodded quietly - a rare occurrence - and led the way to his tent. 

You were ceaselessly amazed by the sheer number of books Gale Dekarios was able to keep with him; shelves upon shelves lined with volumes - everything from A Comprehensive History of Waterdeep to The Practicality of Learning the Weave and more - just waiting to dazzle you with the wonders inside. However, the books that caught your eye were front and center, at a perfect height for you - done intentionally, you had no doubt - was the Dark Elf trilogy, finally completed with a stunning hardback edition of Sojourn with a beautifully crafted image of the drow himself gracing the book jacket. 

“Gods, Gale, wherever did you find it?” you murmured softly, stroking the spine tenderly. 

"Ah, a wizard never reveals his secrets. But let’s just say, I do still have some influence in some of the cities we’ve passed through thus far, and was able to get my hands on a nice copy, just for you."

You clutched the book to your chest, beaming up at him from where you stood. "Thank you, Gale. Shall we read?" His heart skipped a beat, he thought, as he nodded and sat down amidst his pile of pillows and blankets and you settled in between his legs, your back pressing warmly against his chest as his arms wrapped around your front before his mind could even catch up with him. 

“Are- are you sure you and Astarion are just friends?” the words slipped from his lips and he cringed at himself, a large part of him fearing the question would bring you to your senses and he’d lose this intimate connection he’d found with you.

“No, I’m not.” you admitted softly and his heart dropped into his stomach, his arms wrapping tighter around you in anticipation of the loss. “But I’ve told him that I have feelings for you too, and I’ve told him that while I’m patient enough to wait for him, he needs to tell me to wait for him before I will. I’ve…” you paused, sniffling a little as the emotions welled up inside of you. “I’ve had my heart broken a lot by being led on, or by waiting for people who, in the end, chose someone else; someone more-” 

“Hey, shhh don’t do that.” Gale whispered in your ear, planting a chaste kiss there and squeezing you tight. “You’re plenty enough as you are, alright?” You nodded, breathing deep before continuing.

“I told him how much I care for him, and how much I’d like to have more with him. But I was also honest and told him how much I care for you, so I’ll tell you what I told him. If you need time, tell me to wait for you. Hopefully you’ll listen.” you mumbled the last part so softly that Gale could have missed it if he hadn’t been paying attention. But your words, your touch, your presence was his whole world right now, and he couldn’t possibly miss the sadness and longing left hanging in the air once you fell quiet. 

“Well… I hope he’ll come around soon. But in the meantime, I don’t need to wait. I know my answer right now.” he murmured against your ear, reveling in the shudder that traveled the length of your spine in his hold. You turned your head just enough to lock your penetrating gaze with his, waiting for him to say the words. You wouldn’t settle for interpretations; not any longer. “I care for you, greatly, Tav. And if you find it in that beautiful heart of yours to save a place for me, I’d gladly reside there for the rest of my days.” 

“Gale,” you whispered, your eyes clouding over with unshed tears of relief that flooded you like a sudden storm. He caught the emotions with his lips on yours, alleviating some of the weight of the emotional burdens that you had carried with you for all too long, and a sob escaped into his mouth. He swallowed the pain and lapped it up with his eager tongue, desperate to comfort your aching soul as his hands explored your body. You moaned softly into the kiss before pulling away, a little giggle leaving your lips as you nuzzled into his neck. You bit your bottom lip, your smile threatening to overtake the rest of your face as Gale's hands ran the lengths of your arms and back. "We're supposed to be reading." You chuckled, and Gale’s own laughter rumbled through your body in response. 

"Then let us read, my sweet." He pressed a kiss to your temple and plucked the book from your hands, opening it to the first page before conjuring a few mage hands to do the rest while he wound his arms tightly back around you and began to read aloud. 

You had enjoyed several chapters of the book together when a shadow moving outside caught your attention. You silenced Gale with a hand held in the air, your body tensing as you reached for your sword. 

"Uhm… hello?"

The soft, tentative voice coming through the flap had your muscles relaxing immediately. "Astarion," you exhaled in relief and pulled the tent flap open. He stood there in little more than his ruffled undershirt and pants, shivering ever so slightly from the cold; his eyes a catastrophic blend of hope, fear, and vulnerability as they locked onto you. "Oh gods, Stari, come in here, you're freezing!" You fussed worriedly, opening your arms to him like you so often did, and you didn't miss the sudden ease of his sharp facial features as he gave in to your embrace, pulled to it like a moth to a flame, and settled into your arms like he belonged there. He did belong there. 

You walked backwards, enough to seal the tent flap behind the elf, before your fingers found his curls as they always did, and he sighed happily as you scratched his scalp. He nuzzled closer to you, his icy cold nose finding a home in the nape of your neck as you calmed him. "I'm so glad you came." You mumbled into his hair and he merely hummed in response, pulling you flush against him and trailing his hands up and down your spine. After several quiet moments of quiet repose in each other's arms, you pulled back enough to look Astarion in the eyes. 

"I-" He spluttered, his gaze flicking to Gale then back to you. "I really wanted to get a look at this book of yours, Gale. As Tav said, I enjoy the dark drow stories myself." He brushed some wrinkles out of his white shirt awkwardly and you took the opportunity to shoot Gale a deadly glare. Play along, it said. Or else.

"Of course." Gale chirped, trying to sound as casual as possible. "Well, it truly is a beauty, isn't it Tav?"

"Definitely." You smiled in silent thanks and reached for Astarion's hand, pressing the pad of a finger into one of his and allowing him to do the rest. "Come on. We're on chapter 5, but I'll give you a summary of what's happened so far." You sat down beside Gale, and Astarion beside you, and you launched into the details of what Astarion had missed in the first five chapters, forgetting the world around you and all of its present dangers: the tadpoles, the mindflayers, the Absolute, all of it, and diving into the adventure yet again. Gale glanced over at the new visitor in his tent, initially with dubiosity; he'd had no intention of sharing you if that's what it came down to. However, his resolve wavered ever so slightly once he took in the vampire’s face as he looked at you. Gale didn't know Astarion could even look like that: his features softened, the harsh lines and wrinkles missing from his pale face, and his eyes wide with wonder and- Gale paused, realization slamming into him at full force as the vermillion glint of the vampire's eyes in the candlelight revealed his secrets. Gale recognized that look. It was the same look he had in his eyes when he looked at you. 

Love. 

And as he watched, Gale saw the same look in your eyes, no matter which man they were trained upon. "Godsdamn it." He thought. "What in the hells am I going to do?" 

"That's all that's happened so far." You clapped your hands together as you finished catching Astarion up. "Shall we continue?" You turned your head to Gale who said nothing, only nodded and prepared to cast another set of Mage Hands. 

"W-wait, for a moment." Astarion stopped him hesitantly. "I'd- well, I'd like to say something first, Tav." 

"Oh, of course." You looked back at him, your eyes wide and curious. 

"I've been thinking about this for awhile, but I never really knew how to put it into words. However, I- ugh this is so ridiculously awkward with the wizard here too." He buried his face in his hands. 

"I can leave for a moment if you-"

"Gods. No, it involves you, sit down." Astarion huffed, waving his hand in Gale's direction. 

"Very well." Gale remained as he was, perched precariously on a pillow, his full attention on the vampire spawn. 

"I've realized lately that, that I've never had someone who cares for me before - not that I can remember, anyway. And no one that could possibly measure up to you." He said the words to your fingers, which he had wrapped up in his own and was fiddling with tenderly in his lap. "I don't want to lose you, but I didn’t know how to tell you so, even when you told me how. It didn't feel quite right, it didn't fit. But I can say it now." He tilted his head up and met your eyes steadily. "I care for you, Tav. I- I need time to process whatever this is between us. But I don't want you to think I don't want you, because I do. And, if that package comes with a certain pompous wizard," he leveled Gale with a humored smirk. "Then I believe I could be alright with that arrangement. As long as he plays by the same rules we do, that is." 

Gale shot you a quizzical look. "You have to be patient and respect all of his boundaries." You explained, and Gale’s face fell into a sorrowful understanding. 

"Of course I would respect your wishes, Astarion. I may be the victim of some over-active hubris, a wildly inconvenient condition, and an intellect much larger than my single head can contain, but I am not a man without respect and understanding." 

"So… by all of that you mean yes." Astarion quipped and Gale chuckled. 

"Yes, Astarion, I mean yes." 

"Wait, hold on a moment." You sat up on your knees between them, looking back and forth at the two men you'd come to love so much, settling on the wizard. "Gale, are you saying you'd be alright with a 3 person relationship? I didn’t know that was something you'd ultimately agree to." 

"No definite answers yet. I'm working on it. Much like Astarion, the thought of being without you is slowly proving too much to bear. And perhaps having you around won't be too bad in the end, Astarion." 

"Oh thank you kindly for those inspiring compliments, Gale." Astarion rolled his eyes, but the growing smile on his lips told the truth of his thoughts on the matter, and you squeezed his hand with a sudden giddiness. 

"Anytime." Gale made a mock bow before sitting back down in the mess of pillows. "Now, are we going to read or shall I kick you both back out into the cold?" His mage hands appeared and he handed them the book. 

"You wouldn't!" You gasped playfully, scooting closer to him.

"Yes, yes, you're right, I wouldn't. Come here, both of you. If you're going to see the drawings you'd better get close." You resumed your place between Gale's legs and opened your arms to Astarion, who crawled in between yours and curled up against your chest like a cat, his head resting on your shoulder, glancing up at the book every now and again to admire the artwork, then planting tender kisses along your jawline before settling back into you. 

After several chapters more and an hour had gone by, Astarion purred softly against your chest while Gale rubbed your arm with one hand and Astarion's back with the other. Your hands were where they often found purchase - amidst soft white curls that were as light as air to your touch - , massaging small circles on the elf's head as he dozed, and you didn’t know how you could possibly be happier. You sighed blissfully, allowing your eyes to finally fall closed. 

"Goodnight Gale, goodnight Astarion." You mumbled, already halfway gone. 

"Goodnight, Tav." Gale whispered in your ear as you faded into a euphoric sleep, curled up between the men you loved; the men who loved you; the men who could possibly one day learn to love each other.

[irregularincidents]

A lot went wrong when it came to the filming of the 1967 "official" James Bond spoof Casino Royale (the producer who owned the rights to the story originally intended for a straight adaptation but decided to make it a comedy when Sean Connery wasn't avaliable), with a good chunk of the blame for the film's infamous failure landing at the feet of the actor Peter Sellers.

At the time at the height of his career, Sellers was under the impression that he was going to be in a serious adaptation of the story (much like his co-star David Niven) and demanded a $1 million fee (roughly a twelfth of the movie's budget), 3% of the box office, and a white Bentley on the first day of filming... all of which he got, which makes what happened AFTER filming started even more bizarre.

In one scene, for example, the action called for him to mistakenly shoot at another character when they startled him, only for Sellers to instead intentionally shoot co-star Jacqueline Bisset (credited as Jacky Bisset) in the face for a "joke".

As Bisset later recounted of the incident,

"Peter Sellers was horrible to work with," she said. "My first big role was Casino Royale, and I was supposed to enter the bathroom in a nightgown with a big bottle of champagne suggestively cradled in my arms, trying to seduce James Bond. As a sick joke, Sellers turned and fired a gun directly into my face. There was a blank in the gun and the burning gunpowder and shreds of the blank hit me directly in the face. First I thought I had actually been shot, and when I realised it had been a blank I thought I had been blinded. My face looked like a shower spout of pin pricks leaking blood. Everyone on the set could see that I had dozens of tiny wounds. Of course I dropped the bottle of champagne on my foot as well."

This incident wasn't what caused Sellers to eventually quit/get fired from the movie, however. This occurred due to the fallout of Sellers childishly deciding to start a one-sided feud with his co-star, le Chiffre actor Orson Welles.

Yes, that one.

After pressuring the filmmakers into hiring Welles in the first place, the deeply insecure Sellers immediately took offensive to how the rest of the cast and crew liked the legendary actor/director, as Joe McGrath, one of Casino Royale's FIVE directors put it: "[Sellers] was very insecure. Orson was quite a presence, but he was great fun and the crew loved him. Peter took exception to that."

Things came to a head when Sellers managed to convince Princess Margaret, sister of then Queen Elizabeth II, to come and visit the set. As McGrath explained,

"Princess Margaret came in and she did a curtsy to us all, and then we all bowed to her," McGrath said. "Then she passed Peter by and said: 'Hello, Orson, I haven’t seen you for days.' She sat between Peter and Orson and spent the whole time talking to Orson. That infuriated Peter."

Sellers responded to this perceived insult by attempting to bully Welles, making various comments about his weight, and once refusing to ride in an elevator with the man, claiming that doing so was a "safety hazard". Welles for his part, scathingly called Sellers an amateur for his childish antics on set.

Regardless, this eventually led to Sellers refusing to be in any scenes that also featured Welles, which considering how they were meant to be facing each other across table playing cards (the entire premise of the original story), McGrath rightly said that the situation was becoming ridiculous.

As he later recounted in an interview,

“He told me he would refuse to appear in the same shot as Orson. ‘You’re Peter Sellers; you’re a star,’ I said. He replied: ‘Yes but he is Orson Welles.’ I reminded him that he had asked for Orson and then told him, ‘this is ridiculous. You can’t get paid this enormous amount of money; ask for Orson Welles and then refuse to appear with him. Peter you are behaving like a spoilt child.’ He then punched me in the face and I hit him back in the face. “Afterwards, I met Peter Cook who said to me. ‘I hear you and Sellers had a punch up. I think this is the first instance ever of the fan hitting the shit.’ Isn’t that wonderful?”

Shortly after this, Sellers walked off the set and never came back, resulting in additional scenes having to be filmed with other actors due to there only being 30 minutes of footage that actually had usual footage with Sellers in it. The result was a mess, not helped by the script undergoing multiple rewrites by Sellers, David Niven and Woody Allen (yes, he's in the movie too), with entire new subplots involving additional agents all named James Bond to try and paper over the cracks in an already shaky story.

A year after the Sellers stormed off the set, he did send a written apology to McGrath for his behaviour... Which Sellers said was the only time that he ever apologised to anyone, not even the Bisset, the aforementioned actor he shot in the face for a joke.

[wordy-little-witch]

I am now hip deep in the Edge of Midnight campaign from legends of avantris and lemme tell you some shit -

1) I would lay down my life for Jericho Sticks without any hesitation. Torbek and Jericho are my sons now, no takesies backsies.

2) Lethica and Marius are so perfectly aligned to be end game lovers but I personally adore the idea of them being queerplatonic if only bc it's funny to watch people be confused and I think Lethica would adore that.

3) you can pry the concept of Briggsy having a some kind of magical fantasy cellphone equivalent from my cold dead hands - sending stone or smth idfk - and he's been keeping his buddy/boyfriend Torbek updated on all this like "Becky you would not BELIEVE what happened today-" ((listen I know the flirting bit between them in the yuletide one-shot was a feycurse but leave me alone it's funny as fuck))

4) briggsy @ jericho in ep 24 appropos nothing: Jerry, maybe we have to kiss ((sad, silly twinks with Literal Darksides are his type /j))

5) I have a friend-crush on Nikkie and I will never recover

6) I have an unyielding NEED to have Jericho get a final hit on a boss and yell yeehaw

7) I know stylistically Jericho doesn't have "skin" but I personally hc that his clothes aren't effectively his skin, he has a burlap body - and he has "tattoos" in the form of embroidery. It started when he had to stitch up his own cuts and stuff and he just kept it up.

8) Only Yorgrim has any constant sense of cooking in an actual kitchen-like setting. Farryn, Marius, and Briggsy can do journey or on-the-road cooking, but it's never.... great. Lethica burns everything somehow or gets the bright idea to 'experiment', and it's never good - she's fine if she's got clear end goals. Jericho is understandably skittish around fire due to his body and straw, but he is the closest to being able to cook well and do so semi regularly.

9) Virgil is a weird mix of a hater and lowkey overprotective. He does hate being imprisoned, but also he's kinda bound here so he HAS to keep this disaster of a bard safe. He refuses to admit he might have a soft spot. He is Stressed.

10) Farryn doesn't get the appeal of Girls Nights, but Jericho does!!! They join Lethica for some fun relaxation. Briggsy once asked why Jericho was allowed since he's also a dude, and Lethica just responded "he's allowed to be there - on account of him being a scarecrow and not a literal man after all." It's an inside joke which later has to be explained - Jericho is nonbinary but doesn't rightly care about stuff like that.

11) Yorgrim is the group dad, no I will not explain.

12) sometimes after a battle, Lethica and Marius will help stitch up some of Jericho's tears. Farryn may also add in random flowers she finds around because it makes him happy.

13) Briggsy is small but mighty. The only person he has yet to pick up and carry is Yorgrim - he swears that one day that tombstone will be gone and he'll be able to do it. It's all the rock's fault, he's sure of it.

Spoilers under the cut (caught up to present)

OKAY so I am caught up completely and have decided that Canon is not important leave me alone

• Yorgrim did not die - he got wounded heavily but survived.

• Farryn almost got taken but they got to her in time. She is mute for a time due to injuries and trauma - idk if she ever talks again bc we could use more sign language in the world. Maybe it comes and goes, fuck if I know, idk and idc

ONWARDS TO SILLIES

• Lethica strong armed her way into giving Jericho The Talk after he revealed he had no idea what a penis was. Scarecrows cannot blush, but apparently his fiendish glow can ebb and flow and he glows much MUCH brighter when he's embarrassed - she tries so hard not to laugh.

• Adella and Jericho btw are simply besties. His "crush" on her is a friend crush and Phillip just finds it painfully cute. ((Also -> Jericho has mommy issues and Adella always wanted a son/nephew/little brother. Peaceful alignment))

• Dark Mode Marius is a colossal flirt but still a giant dweeb. He's cool and suave until someone flirts back - then he's a mess.

• Briggsy is very happy with his Kannon & makes "shooting my shot" jokes at every and any opportunity

• Yorgrim, with his reward, manages to finally lay many souls tonrest but he still carries the tombstone on journeys - just not constantly now. He still believes he must pay penance, but it's a little easier to share the burden.

• Farryn, with her own reward, has not chosen to activate it yet. Something tells her to wait, to bide her time and remain. She does, however, get a little more at ease with the others. She and Jericho have come to an understanding, too - that being they they are a package deal, no takesies backsies, and they refer to each other as twin, much to the confusion of many, many, many people. WLW and NBLM solidarity.

• Jericho is pining HARD for Marius, but he's absolutely terrified of damaging the friendship so everyone is watching two oblivious dummies look longingly into each other.

• POLYAMORY POLYAMORY POLYAMORY

• Marius grows rather fond of Virgil, and the sentiment is very much NOT reciprocated bc this angry knight vampire is not good enough for his vessel and he's mad about it.

• Yorgrim: I've only had my friends for a few days, but if anything happened to them, I'd kill everyone in Druskenvald and then myself.

• I fully expect for Jericho to somehow befriend an enemy in disguise, not realize, and accidentally fuck up the evil plan with the powers of puns, music and friendship (/j)

• the first time the party sees Jericho presenting more feminine, he's been lended one of Lethica's dresses after his own clothes got torn up and the rest are being washed. Marius has a nosebleed and faints. Briggsy is staring somewhat respectfully. Lethica is trying valiantly not to laugh. Farryn and Yorgrim regret not dying when they had the chance.

• Marius: i cannot have a relationship because I have sworn to follow the duchess of sin

Lillith: whoa hold up, Do Not use me as an excuse to avoid the cutie pie over there. Besides, he has a demon. I'm queen of hell. I can make a small exception.

Marius: shit

• Briggsy Bi Icon: OH if ONLY Jerry here had a DASHING KNIGHT to SAVE THEM from this PERILOUS INCIDENT

Jericho: captain, I'm just getting off of a horse??

Marius: no no Briggsy has a point, no maiden should be unaccompanied or unassisted. Allow me-

Lethica&Farryn: We Know What You Are

• Yorgrim is watching all this inter party flirting and is definitely wondering if he's gonna have to have an aside with everyone about flirting tactics and communication skills. Briggsy is making it worse by enabling everyone.

• Farryn gets some sweet, succulent healing, that is all.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

The Games We Play - A Sean Wallace/Reader One Shot Story.

I did originally write a similar version of this premise for another fic, but loved it so much I had to rework and revisit the idea again here because it is 100% Sean energy. Enjoy, darlings!

Words - 1,594

Warnings - Smut below the cut and a brief mention of spousal abuse. Minors DNI!

The pleasure of him is biting, like a thousand tiny icicles chased by fire, melting through your blood as his cock rhythmically fills and empties you. His groans are all grit and sin, teeth crushing the delicate skin of your neck, his hand fisted in your hair.  

He keeps your head held back as you watch the sight of him fucking you in the large mirror you’re kneeling before, Sean behind you, his free hand leaving a scorching path of heat in its wake as it slips down over your curves, settling to begin stroking your clit in the same slow, rolling tempo his cock glides into you with. 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Yes, she likes watching herself getting fucked properly for the first time in years,” he mumbles, kissing your throat, grinning when a sharp snap of his hips leads to your body jolting, your wail filling the room. “Haven’t had a man treat you this well in a while, have you, darling?” 

You feel conflicted in answering, something unpleasant tugging at your guts. He chuckles darkly, the pressing of his fingertips against your clit prompting further wails. “You needn’t verbalise. Your body is doing a very good job of answering my question for you.” His chuckle continues, icy blue eyes snapping over to the corner of the room, lifting his chin. “She doesn’t get this wet, or make such beautiful noises for you, does she?”  

“Fuck you, Wallace,” your husband spits from his location tied to a chair, seething with rage. 

Sean raises his eyebrows. “Fuck me? No, thank you. But I will let your wife do that, when I take her to the bed again, lie down and let her ride me. All while you continue to watch, of course.”  

“I will fucking kill you for this!” 

He tuts, driving into you a little quicker, trailing kisses from your neck to your shoulder. “No, you won’t. You were warned what would happen, should you decide to fuck with me. I explicitly said I would break you down and take everything you love the most. I took your money, I took your foot soldiers and now here I am, in your bedroom, literally taking your wife. She won’t want you again once I’m done with her. I’d say you could bet money on that, but you have none left.” 

“You are pure evil.” 

He smirks again, releasing your hair, hand stroking your neck before slipping to cup at your breasts in turn. “I am, but at least I know how to treat a lady. You don’t have a clue. Women, they like to be desired, attended to, made to feel as if they are the centre of your universe. You can’t just lock them within a gilded cage and throw money at them. Well, some you can, but not this one.”  

Your husband stares at you so unblinkingly, you’re finally forced to meet his gaze. “When I come for him, I will shoot you, too. Nasty, dirty fucking slut!”  

“See,” Sean begins, groaning when you clench around him, whispering the word ‘fuck’ a couple of times, teeth nipping your earlobe. “That is precisely what I mean. It isn’t her fault she finally had a man show her exactly what it is to be desired.” He then returns his attentions back to you, turning your head, kissing you with fiery need. “Everyone knows what he does to you. He makes no secret of it. Come with me and I promise, he shan’t be able to touch you ever again.”  

You can’t quite trust whether he truly means it magnanimously, or whether you’re a mere pawn in the game he is playing in dismantling your husband’s empire as he climbs back to the top of the criminal underworld. You want to believe him, though, that he’s going to rescue you from the living hell of being imprisoned within – as he rightly coined it – a gilded cage, by a husband who only cares that you’re a pretty trophy wife, a man who thrives upon knocking you around, and worse, whenever he is drunk or high.  

Looking back at the mirror, you see it in his eyes, something earnest through the many layers that make up the complexities of Sean. You feel conflicted, but he makes it okay for you. “Do not decide now, darling. Enjoy yourself first. It’s been a while since you have, hasn’t it?” 

“Mmhmm.” You moan, feeling his hand settle to your throat, fingers stroking, the fingertips upon your clit speeding up as his cock begins to pound you with keenness, evoking your cries, making you feel – as he rightly said – desired for the first time in a long, long time. Finally, you let go, let go of the fear, turning your head to kiss him, moaning into his mouth as your tongues roll against one another, the glimmers stirred by his beautifully thick cock streaking through you in a hail of bliss.  

The head of his hardness repeatedly ruts against your g spot, a blaze of pleasure burning, the sound his deep groans in your ear fuelling your undoing as he pours it into you, your waves crashing against his shore as you come with a feral wail.  

His fingers gentle at your throbbing clit, cock slowing, lips pressing your cheek. “Now, take me back to your bed, and show your husband exactly what he will be missing. Because I think you’re leaving here with me, aren’t you?” 

Moving off his cock, you stand, Sean rising to his feet. You reach for him, nails trailing over his neck, making him quiver with lust. “I'm coming with you a few more times first."  

He smirks, chuckling deeply. “Oh, that's an absolute given, princess.” He smacks your bum hard before you both move to the bed. He positions himself on his back, making it that you have to face your husband. Of course, he’d do that. He wants him to see it, watch further as you enjoy him, sinking down onto his cock with a soft mewl, leaning forward to kiss him.  

He’s so gorgeous, you near lose your mind looking down upon him, the juxtapose of being a very deadly man wrapped up in a package that is nothing short of male perfection. His skin is gorgeous, pale and inviting, freckles trailing over the planes of skin covering the taut muscles beneath.  

You glide your hands over his thick arms and shoulders keenly while beginning to bounce upon him, forcing deep groans from his throat, enjoying the sensations of being split so wide around him searing you to your marrow.  

“You look so gorgeous while you’re being fucked,” you whisper, able to see your husband glowering from the corner. 

Sean grins, hands cupping at your breasts. “And you look absolutely incredible while you’re doing it. You love it, don’t you, spearing yourself on a nice, fat cock, hmm?” 

“Fuck, yes I do!” you cry, wailing as he bounces you on it hard, hand gripping your hips, his nails leaving crescents behind. You both put on the kind of show so scorchingly erotic that anyone else watching it couldn’t help but be turned on, but for your husband, your pleasure is his torture.  

Watching a man do a better job than he ever has is bound to do that, though. And Sean knew it before he even stepped foot into the room.

He makes you come a couple more times before finally pinning you to the bed and fucking you like a jackhammer, your screams filling the air as he pulses thick ropes of cum within your sore, fluttering walls, collapsing atop you, absolutely done for. Or so you think.  

“It takes fifteen minutes to arrive back at my house. I look forward to the next bed I fuck you in being mine.” You smile at him, your heart skipping a beat when he kisses the tip of your nose. “Pack a bag, quickly.”  

There truly is little from this life you wish to take with you into the next, a fancy, designer hold all pulled from the wardrobe, your favourite things packed, the rest left there to act as ghosts of the presence of you within the house.  

“I suppose it is only fair I untie you,” Sean speaks, redressed in his suit as you arrive at his side, where he’s stood before your husband. “I am not a particularly fair man, though.”  

He eyes him dangerously before staring right at you, spitting onto the ground before your feet. “Fucking gold digging, garbage whore. He won’t treat you any better.”  

Sean glares at him, a cold stare of menace as he reaches for the waistband of his trousers, drawing a gun. “Yes, I will. And I plan on beginning that right now.” Pulling his finger upon the trigger, the semi-automatic fires a shot straight between his eyes, your husband slumping, blood trickling from the hole blown in his skull.  

“Nobody calls you a whore on my watch.” He slips the gun back into the back of his trousers, reaching to lift your chin and place a soft kiss upon your lips. “I will never lie to you, darling. I am not a good man, but I will be good to you. You’ll see.”  

He takes your hand, leading you from your former home, from the life of being on the arm of one gangster into another. You do see, though, as the weeks and months pass, that Sean truly wasn’t lying. He isn’t good, but by god, he’s good to you.  

[evilchocolatebardrawings]

>Working as photographer for tabloid rag in Nimbasa.

>Don't like doing it, but need the work experience in this field to get the job I actually want.

>My Gurdurr helps me get photos by letting me stand on his shoulders so I can get clear shots, even in crowds.

>Few days ago, boss man tells me to go take candid photos of one of the Subway Bosses. Specifically, the one that wears white.

>The guy is apparently recovering from some sort of surgery, but boss says he's going to frame his disheveled appearance as the aftermath of a drug bender.

>Makes me feel like scum, but accept task anyway.

>Go to apartment building were Subway Bosses live.

>Like an idiot, climb up the fire escape.

>Get rightly nervous part way up, and send out Gurdurr to climb behind me.

>Arrive at Subway Bosses bedroom window.

>In the room there is a man laying in a bed with a white comforter draped over him. A few Joltik are on the bed as well.

>That's him alright.

>Dude is facing away from me, but turn to get out camera from bag anyway.

>Turn back and suddenly in the window is the other Subway Boss.

>iflookscouldkill.jpg

>So startled, I nearly fall to my death. Would have, if Gurdurr hadn't caught me.

>Tell Gurdurr to carry me down to the ground.

>At home a few days later.

>There's a knock at my door. Flower delivery. Begonias.

>Look up meaning of begonias in flower language. Meaning boils down to: "Warning"

>Notice flowers came with card.

>"For you safety, and the mental health of your pokemon, consider a career change. -Ingo"

>Think I have PTSD from my near-death experience. Gurdurr has been clingier than usual too.

>MFW I realize I need to rethink my life.

[friend-shaped-but]

Day 2: Bheem

Word count: 1981 @pandavapanchaliweek

Along with Ladoos, I suspect Bheem also ingests a good amount of "love my wife" juice. He also ingests blood, though soooooo…. That's quite interesting. (A guy wrote a PhD thesis on it actually).

And as tempted as I am to write a fluffy one shot about our Pavanatmaj and Parshati, I want to do something different this time. Here is an essay analysing bheem where I try to reconcile his 'gentle giant' persona with the terrifying and cruel 'vrikodar' persona, and the incident where they come together.

Bheem is honestly my favourite character in the epic, and I always get ready to scream about how awesome he is every time I read about him. Every time I do this, I realise something new about him that I hadn't realise before. I want to study him under a microscope. And through this essay I plan to do exactly that. I want to choose the event that, to many people, is the grand finale of the Bheem-Draupadi saga: Bheem fulfilling his vow of ripping open Dusshasan's chest and putting it on Draupadi's hair, fulfilling her vow of keeping her hair unbound until he bathes it in Dusshasana's blood. For trying to reach a more complete analysis, this essay will be divided into two sections, analysing that incident in both literature and TV media.

Literature:

Draupadi ~Aruna Dhere:

In her book on Draupadi, Dr. Aruna Dhere touches upon Draupadi and Bheem's relationship in both the sections of her book.

In the first section, 'Draupadi- The Human', she considers the incident from the view that Draupadi's attractiveness is repeatedly brought up in the epic and is important to the plot in the sense that it attracts everyone around her. Whether it be well-intentioned but dramatic compliments from Sudeshna during Draupadi's stint as Sairandhri, the attraction of the Pandavas, or even the ill-intentioned gazes of men like Duryodhan, Dusshasan, Kichak, Jayadrath, etc. But Dr. Aruna Dhere says that this kind of beauty or attractiveness cannot be viewed in silos, for it has the protection and blessings of righteousness, competency, and fearlessness. It will cause(whether it be direct or indirect) the inevitable destruction of every power that seeks to cause it harm. Just as there were people seeking to hurt Draupadi, there were also people who wanted the best for her and wanted to protect her. While(rightly) criticizing Irawati Karve in her recap of Yuganta, she also says that Dr. Karve did justice to Bheem and Draupadi, portraying them as a genuinely passionate couple. My favourite thing, however, about the first section is it's conclusion: "Draupadi is the kind of multifaceted character that wins everyone's hearts in and out of the epic. Perfectly balancing devotion and self-respect, self-effacement and self esteem, she creates an indelible mark on the epic. … She had a heart that never became apathetic, despite all it went through."

In the second Section, "Draupadi: The Divine", Bheem is mentioned as the staunchest supporter of Draupadi. Just as fire and the oxygen that sustains it always go together, so do Draupadi and Bheem. She says that calling Draupadi as Bheem's wife would be reductive in the sense that their connection went above and beyond, making them partners in the truest sense. Bheem viewed her as the driving force behind his actions(and not only in the war). He was the only one who understood the true depths of her hunger and she trusted him enough to be vulnerable in front of him. He fulfilled every single thing she asked of him, whether it be a harsh, bloody demand like Keechak's killing or the most tender one for lotuses from the forest. He stands up to Yudhishthir many times for her. Bheem is ready to lose even his humanity in order to avenge Draupadi and uproot the very cause(s) of her unhappiness. She is at the root of every thing he does.

RAKSHASA BHIMA: WOLFBELLY AMONG OGRES AND BRAHMANS ~David L Gitomer.

One of the main reasons that the title of Rakshasa is given to bheem by Gitomer on the basis of pretty much the same thing that I said earlier. Bheem is ready to lose his humanity for protecting the ones he loves, and this intention, this driving force behind his brutality is the very thing that sets him apart from the 'villains' of the epic. Though he is just as brutal and cruel, ready to spill blood and desiring war, the noble driving force behind his actions, sometimes his brothers and most of the times Draupadi makes him one of the heroes. It is no surprise, then, that our literary works echo and establish the importance since (I am pulling this from my class notes), one of the hallmarks of Indian Ethical systems is that they value intention.

Gitomer, while citing Venisamhara, says that among Bheem's qualities stated by Bhattanarayan, his passionate devotion to Draupadi is a chief one. In the venisamhara as well, his vow with regards to Draupadi is also stated quite poetically binds the whole narrative together. "Swinging around my throbbing arms I will smash this wrathful mace and grind the pair of Sudyodhana's thighs. With hands reddened by Kuru blood, clotted, sticky and thick, my queen, Bhima will bind up your lovely hair"

There are many close symbolic connections between the hair on a woman's head and her menstruation in both classical epics and the modern day. Even today, I have observed that girls are told to wash their hair only on certain days of their periods and not otherwise. The play Venisamhara does not mention the fact that Draupadi is menstruating(at the time of the dyut sabha) in his play, presumably for propriety's sake, but it is referenced multiple times through not only Bheem's vow but also the extended metaphor of war as a sacrifice. Alf Hiltebeitel in his essay "Draupadi's Hair" says that the enactment of the promise makes for a striking, unavoidable visual callback to her condition at that time.

Gitomer goes on to say that Bheem is not only putting blood on her hair literally but by doing that he is ending her status as a "Virahini", a woman bereft, he is applying salve to soothe the wounds of the dyut sabha, and by applying the blood as a form of Sindoor he is anointing and reconsecrating her as a queen. The connection of love and obsession and cannibalism goes hand in hand and Gitomer references that in this section as well. Bheem's devotion to draupadi is so impactful that they easily become the nayak and nayika when the epic travels to the stage and becomes a drama. There is a great number of incidents in the epic which details the special relationship between bheem and Draupadi, with the Saugandhika episode, Jayadrath's abduction, and the Keechak-vadh being the chief ones.

The full essay explores much, much more, keeping specifically Bheem's cruelty and bloodthirstiness in mind, and I have been unable to capture the full essence of the essay, it is certainly an interesting look into his many encounters with rakshasas and his place as the protector of his family, while also analyzing how the play Venisamhara portrays the various facets of Bheem's personality.

Bheem in TV media:

In this section I will be analysing both, the 2013Mahabharat by Siddharth Kumar Tewary which aired on Star Plus and the 1989 version by BR Chopra which aired on Doordarshan Bharati. For ease of writing and reading I will be referring to these adaptations as '2013 mbh' and '1989 mbh' respectively.

Saurav Gurjar played Bheem in 2013 mbh. His portrayal was somewhat of a departure from the silent, serious Bheem who worried for his family. Although Bheem from the source material does have his lighter moments, he has very few speaking lines. However, Saurav's Bheem is somewhat of a blabbermouth and is used as the comic relief of the group. He is also a bit of a manchild. Bheem is quick to please, but he is also quick to anger. His emotions are fleeting and quick and it contributes to his personality in this show as a bit of a manchild. He is fiery, impassioned, brash, but he is also incredibly soft and gentle. However, whichever version of Bheem is being played out on the stage/screen/page, his oath and the fulfillment of it are the climatic scenes where all the moments that established certain parts of his character come together, much like a jigsaw puzzle, to make everything he stands for shine through. The scene in this version is grand, epic(ha.), with the pandavas looking on in cold anger and Duryodhan, Karna, and Shakuni looking on in shock. Dusshasan's karma is retributive(it's not a retributive concept of justice as a philosophical doctrine, however, a lot of media uses it as a tool for circular storytelling. It's cool both ways) with the way Bheem drags him around being remniscient of and paralleling the way he dragged Draupadi into the dyut sabha. The music reaches to a crescendo, the beats strong and the lyrics enunciated. Everyone is watching, the scene says. Everyone from the pandavas to draupadi to the upapandavas. It is a spectacle. There's the blood sweat and tears(literally) of everyone involved. Draupadi power-walks through the muddied battlefield, rage in her eyes, her previous dialogues echoing. A bheem soaked in blood doles out a similar fate to her, with Bhatta-narayan's lines echoing in my mind: With hands reddened by Kuru blood, clotted, sticky and thick, my queen, Bhima will bind up your lovely hair The marvels of TV production mean that the blood really does look clotted, sticky, and thick, and incredibly realistic, and finally, when draupadi tells him to stop(with one shake of her head!! With one shake of her head!), he does it, and then breaks down. Star Plus, to me, nails the climatic aspects of this scene, putting their skills to good use to give it the grandeur it deserves.

In 1989 mbh, Pravin Kumar Sobti played Bheem. He was a man of few words, but what he lacked in dialogues and flair, he made up with skill. It is quite commendable how his deep knowledge of traditional wrestling techniques comes together with his acting skills, the two seamlessly blending together to create an image of Bheem that I adore. He has remarkable dialogues, like, "Yadi tum chaho, panchali", and her chahat, or her wish, is enough to make him do anything(a continuous thread in this essay). The fight, here, isn't grand. The music is minimal, with the duel being centre stage. It happens on a random corner of the battlefield, with nobody watching, with no dramatic monologues, and certainly no poetic parallels. The actual fight is just two men, in the blazing heat, and the fight can be stopped only by death. After killing dusshasan, bheem simply takes some blood on his hand, goes to Draupadi's tent, and holds it out to her. Draupadi herself takes it from his hands and applies it onto her hair, all the while gazing at his bloody visage with this soft sort of love and wonder. What 1989 mbh accomplishes is laying the scene bare and showing us the true essence of it. Somewhere, in the version where she takes the blood in her own hands, I felt like it underlined her agency.

Bheem's vow and it's fulfillment, irrespective of whether it is an interpolation or not, is an important part of how we view the text today, and every version presents a different view, hilighting different things about each character in this climatic moment which defines a lot of their character.

Sources:

Dhere, Aruna: 'Draupadi', pg 28, 31. pg 64-66

Karwe, Irawati: Yuganta- The End Of An Epoch, pg 45-68

Gitomer, David: RAKSHASA BHIMA: WOLFBELLY AMONG OGRES AND BRAHMAN

Mahabharat, Season 27, Episode 3

Mahabharat, Episode 88

[yesterdayiwrote]

I didn't understand what you meant about that juri vips part??

also thoughts on liam lawson?

Juri Vips was very much Marko's golden child, probably ahead of Liam Lawson (who was probably behind Dennis Hauger on Marko's favourites list)

Then back in 2022, Liam Lawson invited Juri Vips to stream Call of Duty on twitch with him. Juri drops the n-word on stream, along with getting weird about the colour pink... and is (rightly) fired by Red Bull for using racial slurs, even if it takes them far too long to do it. Marko blames the British media for it and Juri ends up in Indycar on and off.

Dennis Hauger has a terrible time in F2 and doesn't set the world alight and so by the time Daniel breaks his hand in Zandvoort last year, Liam is their only viable reserve option and the rest is history...

I think he's shown he can be good, I think Yuki is undoubtedly a better driver than him, largely thanks to the extra experience. Its swings and roundabouts. I think that second Red Bull seat is a poison chalice for whoever takes it. Yuki deserves the opportunity, but equally, I'd rather see him in a team who clearly cherish him and support him, whereas Red Bull have made it clear they don't.

I'm not mad at Liam getting it, we know F1 isn't a meritocracy afterall. If anything I think the bigger issue is how Red Bull have shot themselves in the foot from a constructors perspective by being too deferential to Max. That second seat isn't so much a blessing as a curse?

[pastlivesandpurplepuppets]

It wasn’t all relaxed in Austria. Near Kaprun we heard there were some SS troops hiding up in the hill. When the SS troops got you they took no prisoners. So we didn’t either. We got up in the mountains. There was a cabin, and we found out from an elderly lady where the general was. He had been a commandant in a concentration camp and had some SS troops with him up on a hill—I don’t remember how many of them. Some of our sharpshooters took care of the troops. In deference to our men I won’t say who our shooters were. After a little firefight, we captured the general, still alive. We got him up behind a tree and brought him down to a plane where the cabin was. That’s where we shot him by firing squad. About five of us shot together—nobody knows exactly who killed him. That was the first time I saw the back of somebody’s head fly off. The war was technically over at this point, but I’m eighty-six years old as I tell this, so if they want to do something about it, they better hurry. It’s a true story, and rightly or wrongly, it happened. That’s the way war is. I’m sure there are other stories similar to this because we weren’t the only ones who found SS troops out in the hills. Having seen some of the people who came out of concentration camps, I had no compunction about executing a commandant of one of the camps. I can’t say I was one who actually liberated the camps, but I was there when we opened the gates. Some of these poor wretches running out were so emaciated they actually died from the excitement of being liberated. I saw it happen several times. These people in the camps—they were like walking skeletons. You could see all their bones. The gates opened and the people ran out yelling, “I’m free! I’m free!” And some of them died right there. I was horrified to see what the SS had done to these people.

~ Roy Gates

[flyingfortress1]

Reading Islands of the Damned Thoughts Part 4:

Now for Burgin's first baptism of fire- rainy, wet, miserable New Britain. A couple of notable bits and pieces:

Burgin's first kill is a Japanese soldier charging across a creek- he doesn't feel anything other than relief that it wasn't him who got it. Fair. He also does bayonet a Japanese soldier, and then shoots the man several times (he doesn't remember how many times)- Pacific theater in a nutshell. Burgin decides to start carrying an M1 garand, because the issued carbines are fine but he doesn't want anyone to get close and a M1 has a better range.

He and his friend Jim Burke have a makeshift water cooler- Burke goes to get some water, the cup gets shot by a sniper- backs away veerrry quickly- and they have a machine gunner friend swivel his gun into the trees shooting all the while (pulling an Ack-Ack there) Remember that bit of advice he got from the Canal vets about snipers tying themselves to trees? Yeah, that's what happened. Guy fell down, swinging on a rope- Burgin and co. just left him there. Might still be there honestly if the rope hasn't rotted away.

and the wetness ohhh booyyyy. it sucks, big time SUCKS. everything is molding, the ropes for their hammocks rot like nothing, leaving guys falling down while sleeping every so often. you can't see shit at night, but then the landcrabs come out sounding like people in the undergrowth (because you need something to just push up that paranoia why not). Their underwear just disintegrates, making many guys just go commando. Moldy underwear is also a factor- according to Burgin- for jungle rot (yet another reason not to wear it I guess). They have to paint themselves with that purple, iodine stuff because it helps combat the rot- so very colorful, but very very raggedy looking kids.

They do capture a couple Japanese prisoners one time, bring them all the way back, where the prisoners get new socks, dungarees, underwear etc. Burgin and co., who have had the same rotting, moldy socks, boots, etc on their bodies for months, are pissed (rightly so) and basically decided they were not taking prisoners from then on.

The jungle foliage is also EXTREMLEY thick- meaning that they can't use their mortars and so many times Burgin just gets used as a rifleman.

Many times they have to cross streams that are rain swollen, so what they do is they just follow the stream downstream to where it hits the ocean, and there's usually sand that's been deposited there that they can just use to cross. There was one occasion where there was a tree they used, holding onto its branches like a rope but one guy slipped, went underneath and got stuck in the branches and drowned sadly before they could get to him.

They never had enough food - when field cooks are brought in to make hot food, he describes how a size of a meal he thought was tiny, he realizes he can't even eat fully because his stomach has shrunk so much. He's 180 lb when he lands on the island - when he leaves, he's 140 or so. They also would steal/forage for food at the supply dump - much like the Marines would do in guadalacanal. However, they got told to stop, but continued anyway - just being more cautious. He also has a lieutenant - lieutenant legs is what he calls him - he chews out the men for stealing even though he has accepted and eaten in the food that they stole. Burgin is not a big fan of this lieutenant.

[iw2406]

Mullet's adventures

A tongue-in-cheek story of Robin Hood

The famous outlaw fights against injustice when suddenly some weird mishaps start to take place

Robin Hood, the famous outlaw who fought injustice by making fools out of the Sheriff of Nottingham and Sir Guy of Gisbourne, sat under a tree to have a rest after a strenuous sword practice with his friends known as the Merry Men. His hazel eyes were sparkling with mischief and his hair was swaying gently in the light breeze. It was, to be more precise, a truly dazzling style, his pride and joy, and the reason for his nickname 'The Hooded Mullet'. It suited him perfectly, earning him the title of the most attractive outlaw in the shire.

Venison was roasting over the fire when Robin took a sip from a chalice and, handing it to his companions, said "Herne protect us." As they were gazing upon dancing sparks, resembling little elvish fairies, they felt the magic of the moment. Silent and thoughtful, they went through their rite. It was Herne, the mysterious god of Sherwood Forest, clad in stag antlers, who had chosen Robin for his champion. "You're meant to be people's hero", he once said. "It is your destiny."

On a full stomach, Robin felt a new surge of energy and another idea entered his mind. "Let's hold a little archery contest, shall we?", he suggested with a puckish smile. "We all know you're the most skillful archer in England, Robin, so spare us the effort", Little John said, stretching out on the grass. "We stand no chance with you." Robin likes bragging left and right about his abilities", Will Scarlet added ironically, as he had a reputation for being quick tempered and having a ready tongue. Much pulled a silly face, Nasir said nothing as usual, looking intently around, and Friar Tuck, contented, was patting his full belly.

Robin, though, felt like performing some good shots, so ignoring his friends' snarky comments, reached out for his longbow. A playful smile danced on his lips, as he was, like Will Scarlet rightly noticed, in the mood for showing off. Fully concentrated, with one hand clenched on the bow's handle and the other one gracefully drawing the bowstring, he sent an arrow at the distant target. The Merry Men clapped their hands. "Well done Robin. It was a good shot", Little John exclaimed joyfully. Then another one and another. None of the arrows missed, flying between the trees with loud whizzing. "That was brilliant", Much looked at his 'elder brother' with admiration. Robin smiled proudly, taking a bow like an actor on stage.

Yet, while getting ready for one more splendid performance, a disaster struck. In a mysterious way, Robin's mullet got tangled in the bowstring, much to the Merry Men's delight. Seeing his surprised and frightened look, they laughed boisterously, as befits a comedy audience. Panicked, Robin was doing his best to release his hair, but in vain. It seemed to be firmly attached, as if by means of some magical power.

"Look at Robin's hair!", Little John whooped rolling with laughter, "It's got tangled in the bowstring!" The others followed suit, busting a gut. "Is it a new way of shooting?", Much asked genuinely amused by the sight. "You must teach me that Robin." Even Nasir, not often showing his emotions, couldn't help but enjoy those struggles.

Robin's face fell when, despite his best efforts, his lovely long dark hair remained stuck to the bow. He was a pitiful sight and all his high spirits flew away like the arrows he shot with such ease.

Nearby, a beautiful red-headed girl was looking dreamily at the brook that was murmuring quietly, as if inviting her to have fun. She sat on the grass, and was soaking up warm sunlight, filtering through the trees. It was Marion, Robin's true love, and a member of the group. Now, hearing the Merry Men's hearty laughter, she was wondering what new mischief the boys came up with.

She got up lazily to move back to her friends, and what she saw, left her stunned. Robin was yanking at his hair like crazy to the accompaniment of the Merry Men's guffaw. "Oh Marion help me please", he turned his pleading eyes at her, with a faint glimmer of hope, as she had got him out of trouble many a time before. Although he tried to protect her, she was brave and ready to stay by his side even in danger, which she had already proven.

Now, she approached him with a sympathetic look. "Poor Robin, your beautiful hair has been ruined", she said with concern. But hearing unabated laughter behind her back, and seeing Robin's long face, she found it somehow hilarious herself.

Having given it a closer glance, she knew there was only one solution. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do, Robin. Your hair must be chopped off", she said with determination. His eyes widened in fear, as if he just heard a prophecy of the end times that was to take place in a matter of seconds. "Oh no, please! Not my mullet!", he exclaimed with terror. "It would be a disgrace to me! And what would Gisbourne say?". In his mind's eye he could already see his nemesis in a blaze of glory, teasing him sorely. "I'd become a laughing stock", he was still unable to believe what had just happened.

Marion, however, sensible and unbending, was about to stop that nonsense. "Do you want to go around with your hair tangled in the bowstring?", she asked, ignoring his desperate cries. Having pulled out small scissors from her pouch she was ready for action. Seeing them in Marion's hand, Robin started to back away, tripping over tree roots, with the bow dangling down his head. "Come here Robin!", Marion ran after him. "You know it can't be helped. You aren't going to walk like this with the bow stuck to your head, are you?" The Merry men had no mercy and started singing cheerfully,

"No more flicking here and there,

Robin's gonna have short hair."

Marion finally caught him as he was thrashing around and clutching his hair in disbelief, desperate to do whatever he could to save his image. "Calm down Robin", she was trying to comfort him. "You'll still look great and be people's hero no matter what." The Merry Men gathered around, with silly smiles still playing on their faces. Robin closed his eyes, feeling that his fate was sealed.

The anticipation for what looked inevitable was growing. Entertaining for some, it was the worst nightmare for him. While Marion was snipping through his locks, he was trying, at all costs, to put aside the terrible thoughts of the Sheriff and Gisbourne laughing at him, which was made harder by his Merry Men, mercilessly dancing and singing their song.

The whole forest joined in the chant. The wind was dancing in the treetops, and the brook was whispering its secrets to those who were willing to listen. "Look at Robin", it seemed to hum.

Although Marion was really tender, Robin was on pins and needles, wishing it was over. When she finally finished the haircut, he saw the long strands lying on the ground. Now, his mullet was just history. Even then, the Merry Men didn't stop making fun.

"Poor man", Will Scarlet didn't spare the sarcasm, "you've parted with your bow. From now on you won't be united." "You'll remain our hero after all", Little John patted his shoulder, winking at his companions. "I like your hair Robin", Much added with a sincere smile. "Now we really look like brothers." But Robin didn't share his view at all. No matter how much he loved him, and all of his friends, he couldn't deal with the loss. He felt like a king who lost his crown.

Marion took his hand to lead him to the nearby stream. "I'm not gonna look at myself", he refused angrily. "My career is over." "Don't be silly", Marion started to grow impatient, "it's just hair." Yet, he was stubborn as a mule and let go of her hand like a grumpy boy who wasn't given a sweet.

He imagined the whole Nottinghamshire mocking him as if it weren't his courage and good heart that everyone admired. He was sitting with his head down, not in the mood for talking.

It started to get dark and soon the forest was shrouded in the moonlight. The trees were rustling quietly, as if they didn't want to bother the hero, lost in his sad thoughts. Or maybe, their whispers were carrying his name in their soothing melody "Robin, Robin, Robin".

A soft mist spread around and they all saw a figure emerging from it. The stag antlers growing out of his head told them it was Herne the Hunter, the god of the forest. He came closer and looked at Robin's miserable face. Though he wasn't smiling, his eyes, if you looked carefully, sparked with hidden amusement. Everyone felt a whiff of magic in the air, as always in Herne's presence. Emanating an aura of mystery and serenity, he touched Robin's shoulder.

"Robin, my dear", he started softly, "I see some misfortune has happened. "It's interesting how our destiny guides our steps sometimes." Even now, Robin remained silent in no mood for moralizing. "I want you to solve a riddle", Herne said in a firmer voice, noticing his defiance.

Every so often, there was a challenge for Robin to take up, invented by Herne, and now another one awaited. "This time, your task is to find out your greatest weakness." He said nothing more and dissolved in the mist.

The following day, Robin still didn't feel any better, but at least his friends left him alone and stopped teasing, seeing Marion's pleading glances. As more skirmishes with the enemies were in store, there was no time for self-pity. The hero, with an offended face, sprang into action.

It happened soon, that a tax collector working for the Sheriff was travelling through the forest with a few men, and Robin saw a chance to regain the money previously taken from the villagers. After a fierce fight, they were all sent away empty-handed and Robin made his way to the village with the loot. But at his sight everyone froze bewildered. "Is it Robin Hood?" "What happened to his mullet?", they whispered among themselves.

Bad news, however, has it to itself that travels very fast, so no wonder that soon after everyone knew about the mishap with the bow. Sadly, even the Sheriff and Guy of Gisbourne, as Robin had predicted, were outdoing one another in inventing the most offensive insults during the feast at Nottingham castle. "Have you seen that poor fellow, calling himself 'The Hooded Mullet', Gisbourne?", the Sheriff's laughter filled the chamber. "Now it's 'The Tangled Mullet', my Lord", Guy replied brilliantly. "Or rather 'The Hooded Bowstring' if he likes to wear it on his head", the Sheriff scoffed, taking a sip of wine.

His biggest wish was to capture 'the king of Sherwood' but, as you can easily guess, it was Robin who always won. You could say the Sheriff messed with the wrong outlaw.

At the same time, in the forest Marion was trying to get back the old Robin she loved. "Don't take all those silly jokes to heart, they'll stop soon", she was talking to him gently. "You're the bravest hero, Herne's son and people's hope. And... my only love", she added, looking into his eyes with affection. At those words, he softened a little, realising he must have been a real pain in the neck. "Besides", Marion added tenderly, "your hair's gonna grow back".

Herne, who hid himself behind the trees to observe his champion, was glad to know she was such a great support for him in this time of trial. He believed that thanks to her judgement and the right approach, his 'son' would become the same person as before.

It took Robin some time to accept his new look (he still refused to see his reflection in the stream, though), but every cloud has a silver lining. The villagers got used to their savior's appearance and the Merry Men got bored with teasing. And when a year passed he finally regained his mullet,as well as his lost confidence. Everyone saw, to their immense relief, that Robin whom they had known in the past, came back. Once again, his joyful laughter echoed in the forest. Only the Sheriff and Guy invariably called him 'The Hooded Bowstring'.

After some time of relative peace, Robin and Gisbourne's paths crossed again. Guy was riding through the forest with his men to the Nottingham castle, and when he stumbled on the outlaws, decided to seize the opportunity to catch them himself. Yet, his ability for rational thinking left a lot to be desired, so some misfortune was to be expected.

The Sheriff, knowing Gisbourne's tendency to look for trouble, rushed to take matters into his hands. Guy was carrying an important letter and no one knew what could happen when he was involved.

Robin, seeing his 'old friend', stood in his way. "Nice to see you, Gisbourne", he said in a mocking voice. "It's getting dark soon and I guess you're scared of darkness. Shouldn't you be in your bed now?" The Merry men, with their longbows ready, were cracking up, hidden in the bushes.

"Catch him!", Gisbourne shouted to his men, trying to save his face. The outlaws and soldiers darted across the clearing to charge into each other. Arrows whizzing and swords clashing filled the forest. After a bitter fight, Robin and Gisbourne found themselves wallowing in the mud, covered in stinky goo. Both were determined to defeat one another, which wasn't easy in those circumstances.

As this was happening, the Sheriff headed out in search of his right-hand. You could hear the hoofbeat in the distance and then see him galloping with anger written all over his face.

Losing no time, Robin jumped into the nearby river and swam away, leaving Gisbourne at the mercy of his furious master. "Where is he, you fool?", the Sheriff was hurling insults at him. "I...I've been attacked my Lord", Guy was excusing himself in a trembling voice. "Attacked?", the Sheriff was roaring. "Is it all you can say? I can't leave you alone for a minute!".

Robin, in the meanwhile, came out dripping with water, but happy to have outsmarted them both once more. And then, a feeling of unease came over him as he realised something weird about his head. But only when he joined his Merry Men and noticed their startled look, did he understand something was up. Having viewed his mullet, they all burst into laughter and tears streamed down their faces. Robin touched it carefully and, horror of horrors, it dawned on him it was all caked with nasty, green, river plants.

"Are you showing up for a fancy dress party?", Little John was laughing like a drain. "You'd be a nice elf." "It's certainly a new fashion trend, we all know Robin likes to shine", Will Scarlet added with a smirk. "I know!", Much exclaimed excitedly as if he had just discovered a secret. "It's a camouflage!" "No, my friends", Friar Tuck joined in the conversation. "He became a martyr to atone for his bad deeds." "That's a great choice, Robin. At least, it matches your green outfit", John couldn't help teasing. "That's enough!", Robin blew his top. "It's not funny at all! If you'd helped me with Gisbourne, it wouldn't have happened". The Merry Men, however, were so amused, that they took no notice of his words.

Robin had no intention whatsoever to hear that any longer. He dived into the stream, trying to wash those awful plants away, but they didn't seem to come off. Even Marion couldn't help chuckling, seeing his desperate attempts and miserable face. No matter how nice he looked in his green tunic, green shirt and tight green trousers, green hair wasn't (to put it mildly) flattering at all.

"Marion, what shall I do?", his eyes were full of despair. He couldn't believe something like that happened again. He hadn't enjoyed his hair for long and another ridiculous adversity took place."Let me see, I'll try to remove it", Marion said in a soothing voice. Sadly, as with the bowstring, his hair was damaged beyond repair. The plants stuck tightly and there was no remedy. "Robin, I'm really sorry, but I'm afraid you have to get another haircut", she gently stroked his face.

Hearing this, he jumped like a scalded cat. "No way!", the echo carried his cries. "I'd be disgraced forever! People forgot about the incident with the bowstring but will never forget this", he hid his face in his hands.

The Merry Men, on the other hand, found the situation truly amusing. "Being 'The Hooded Mullet' isn't your destiny, man", Will Scarlet snickered. The rest of the companions seized the moment. Ignoring their leader's grief, they started to sing the old song.

"No more flicking here and there,

Robin's gonna have short hair."

"There must be the way to fix it", he was clinging on to the last piece of hope. Yet, when Marion realized it was hopeless, she reached for the scissors, paying no attention to his objections. "Be still Robin", she just said, and before he knew it, she started cutting his beloved hair. He could only hear the familiar crunching sound. Once again, his mullet disappeared.

And then, when the last strand found its way to the forest floor, they all felt the magic floating in the air. It could foreshadow only one thing - Herne's appearance. He stood before them, emerging from the mist, clad in his stag antlers and a long deerskin coat.

"I see you're suffering another misfortune", he turned to Robin with sympathy. "But know that suffering makes us stronger." Robin thought otherwise and didn't feel like listening to philosophical speeches, not by a long shot. It struck him as puzzling that each time he wasn't in the mood for friendly gatherings, Herne paid him a visit, as if he wanted to chitchat over a mug of ale.

"Do you remember what I asked you the last time, in similar circumstances, when you lost your priceless mullet?", he continued, with a bit of irony. "You still can find the answer." Having said that, he vanished, leaving everyone baffled, as they expected him to give Robin a clue this time.

In any case, the outlaw had too much on his plate now to engage in solving riddles. He tried hard to hide his new hair under the hood, but, as is so often the case, soon the whole shire was buzzing with rumours. The Merry Men teased him savagely while the Sheriff and Guy gave him a new nickname - 'The Hooded Algae'.

"I wish I'd seen him with those plants in his hair", the Sheriff was imagining Robin covered all in green. "He must have looked like a big frog." "Yes, my Lord", Gisbourne agreed. "He escaped but at least paid for his impudence." As long as they were unable to catch their 'favourite robber', mostly due to Gisbourne's impulsiveness and unwise decisions, the only comfort was poking fun at him.

Marion, on the contrary, was really tender and supportive, although she lost her patience from time to time, seeing his unreasonable behaviour. Now, they were sitting by the bonfire, listening to wood crackling and fading birdsong in the distance. The trees were casting long shadows in the moonlight, making them resemble eerie fairy-tale creatures.

"You don't understand how I feel", Robin was indulging in self-pity. "I was known as 'The Hooded Mullet', admired and respected. Now everyone's laughing at me." "You think too much about your hair", Marion was looking for a way to soothe his wounded pride. "You were chosen by Herne himself to oppose evil, to help the poor and helpless. That's what really matters."

Robin just sighed, missing his long locks blowing in the wind anyway. He knew Marion was right, but couldn't help thinking it would be much easier if he didn't look so... ordinary.

Herne, watching them from behind the trees, was pleased to see Marion being so understanding in Robin's hour of need.Yet again, time healed the wounds, and when a further year passed, his mullet grew back even more beautifully than before. Everyone who met the outlaw, discerned his former charm and cheerful disposition, as if nothing bad had ever happened. But those who think happiness can last forever, must be sorely mistaken.

Some time later, in one of the cities in the shire, a horseback riding competition was to be organised. Many daredevils wanted to compete to showcase their abilities and become famous. Soon after the arrangements started, the event was on everyone's lips.

When the news reached Robin, he wished to take part, as not only was he the best swordsman and archer (although one may doubt it after the bowstring mishap), but also a splendid rider. It wasn't wise for him to flaunt himself in front of the Sheriff, still, he considered it a golden opportunity to thumb his nose at him.

"You must be careful, Robin", Little John advised. "The Sheriff's biggest desire is to catch you. You'd better not push your luck." All the Merry Men agreed it was indeed a bad idea. Even so, Robin didn't mean to take it to heart. He had already imagined himself as the winner, holding the main trophy in his hands, flicking his mullet in full glory.

Finally, the long-awaited day came. The spectators flooded into the city to admire courageous and handsome riders. The streets were buzzing with excitement, merchants' calling out and the clatter of hooves. Both nobles and villagers, were crowding to take the best seats, all of them in a great mood, cheering and waving at their favourites. The grooms were busily saddling up the horses, which were standing in a row and swishing their tails impatiently, while the participants gathered together, observing each other in silence and focus. Among them Robin was waiting, bold and convinced of his high chances of winning.

The route, however, was long and tricky, with one rule being to draw a random horse, making it impossible to predict what lay ahead. Despite this, the hero remained unafraid, sending his charming smiles around like a noble prince.

The Merry Men blended in the crowd, keeping a sharp lookout, with their swords at hand. The riders, too, were ready, waiting for a herald to blow his bugle. At last they set off, amidst the deafening cheers. Robin mounted a beautiful chestnut palfrey and got off like a shot, with his hair flowing in a headlong rush.

At first everything went smoothly. He was galloping through meadows and hills, taking the lead, as if he was born in the saddle. He leapt over the stream and rushed forward like a whirlwind, leaving the others behind.

But if he believed his luck, he had another think coming. Not suspecting anything, he cantered into the forest, nimbly avoiding the trees. Little did he know, though, that his horse, brilliant in open spaces, got spooked by obstacles ahead. In next to no time, it started kicking, unseating poor Robin with a loud neigh. He did a spectacular flip in the air and landed in the bushes. Thankfully, he got out of it unscathed and only his pride was severely injured. Along with his well-tended mullet. As luck would have it, a lot of thistle grew around, and when he emerged, his hair was lovely embellished with its balls.

On top of that, someone recognised him as the wanted robber and relayed it to the Sheriff that his enemy was enjoying himself right under his nose. Furious, he immediately went after him with his men. Robin was running as fast as his legs could carry him, tripping over his own feet.

"Catch him you fools!", the Sheriff roared. "I want to see him in the dungeon!". Humiliated, with thistle entwined in his mullet, Robin was thinking frantically about what to do.

Who, however, if not his Merry Men, could get him out of trouble? Taking advantage of the commotion, they grabbed some horses not used in the competition and rushed to their leader's rescue.

The event turned into a desperate pursuit. The Sheriff's people were galloping hectically among the confused participants, together with the Merry Men, trying to catch up to Robin in the chaos. Luckily, the outlaws reached him first, and by a neck outpaced the soldiers. Robin jumped onto the horse ridden by Little John and they all dashed towards Sherwood, escaping from the mad Sheriff. They only heard his curses behind their backs.

"How could you let him escape?", he grumbled over poor Guy's head, livid with rage. "He's tricked us again and it's all your fault, Gisbourne!" "But at least he learned a lesson my Lord", Guy was trying to excuse his own inefficiency. "His mullet is full of thistle balls and everyone saw it. He'll never regain people's respect. He's over and won't get away with it this time." Although Guy's reasoning was usually flawed, the Sheriff had to agree. "Yes, Gisbourne, you may be right", he said in a calmer voice. "Robin Hood, or, should I say 'The Hooded Thistle', is over now."

Meanwhile, Robin and his friends found themselves safe in Sherwood, after the quick and exhausting escape. He looked like the embodiment of mayhem and despair, with his hair in a total mess.

Now that they were out of danger, the Merry Men vented their anger on him. "It was foolish, Robin!", Will Scarlet said, losing his temper. "You exposed us all to risk." "What if we hadn't been able to help you? Did you think of the consequences?", Little John joined in scolding. "And you left Marion unprotected", Friar Tuck added reproachfully. "You should never have thought about taking a risk just for a moment of glory", Will Scarlet went on.Robin kept his head down, realising the seriousness of his actions. "I'm sorry", he said remorsefully. " I made a terrible mistake."

Everyone clustered to embrace their leader, happy that they were safe and still together. Marion flung her arms around his neck to kiss him. Now that the dust had settled, they all glanced at his mullet and started laughing. "I guess I need a haircut", he said, touching the prickly balls on his head with a smile. "Definitely", Little John admitted with a grin. "You'd only attract insects."

This time, Robin didn't escape Marion's scissors and patiently underwent the process. When she finished, everyone ruffled his short hair, glad that it didn't change him as much as before. He even agreed to see his reflection in the water. "Well, I guess it isn't so bad after all", he said, beaming.

At dusk, all his friends sat by the bonfire, revelling in the warm breeze and the smell of resin. Then, Robin felt someone's touch on his shoulder. When he looked back, he saw Herne the Hunter smiling mysteriously, as if he was hiding a surprise gift behind his back. "My dear Robin", he said softly, "How nice to see you in a good mood."

He looked at the dancing sparks, waiting for Robin to speak. The lingering question asked so long ago still left unanswered.Robin stood up, and without hesitation said, "It was my vanity and overconfidence that made me weak and vulnerable." Herne nodded approvingly, with a warm smile.

At the very same moment, as if touched by a magic wand, Robin's locks returned on their place. Everyone looked at him in amazement, and he himself was no less surprised.

But that wasn't the end of astounding things to happen. "There's something I must tell you", Herne confessed with sparkling eyes. "It was me who caused all those unfortunate events." Robin, Marion and all the Merry Men widened their eyes even more bewildered. "I used my power to tangle your hair in the bowstring, then stick the river plants to it, and finally I unhorsed you during the competition."

Robin was listening to those revelations with his mouth open, thinking it was just a dream and he'd surely wake up any second now, when Herne's voice roused him from his reverie again. "I hope you liked the horse I had chosen for you", he didn't hide his amusement. "But why did you do that?", Robin still couldn't believe what he had just heard. "You were chosen to fight injustice, help the poor and give hope to those who lost it. You're brave, generous and loyal to your friends, but a little humility doesn't hurt. I wanted to test your willingness for sacrifices and see how you face challenges. And I must admit, this time you passed with flying colours."

"Now I understand", Robin accepted Herne's motives without demur. "But why did you give me my mullet back too?", he still didn't get over the shock. "I wanted to reward you for admitting your mistakes. And also... I think it suits you", Herne said, winking at him. "It took me some time to change my approach", Robin smiled a bit embarrassed, "but third time lucky."

Everyone laughed heartily, feeling they are all stronger now than ever. "I know you'll remember this lesson", Herne was certain he doesn't need to worry about his champion any more. "I will", Robin solemnly promised. "Nothing's forgotten. Nothing is ever forgotten."

[mariacallous]

The attempted assassination of former U.S. President Donald Trump shocked the nation.

While speaking to a rally in Butler, Pennsylvania, on the afternoon of Saturday, July 13, a 20-year-old man fired at Trump. A bullet appears to have swiped Trump’s ear, drawing blood, before the former president ducked beneath the podium, surrounded by Secret Service agents. He insisted on standing up as his security detail gave him cover, pumping his fist into the air and yelling to the crowd: “Fight!” A firefighter and rallygoer named Corey Comperatore, who dove on his family to protect them from the gunfire, did not survive.

The horrendous incident rightly earned strong condemnation from across the political spectrum. “There’s no place in America for this kind of violence,” said U.S. President Joe Biden. “It’s sick—it’s sick.”

The violence instantly became a moment for politicians and pundits to call for calm and pull back from the toxic polarization that has left Americans bitterly divided. “Violence is infecting and inflecting American political life,” an editorial in the New York Times lamented. “It’s not who we are as a nation,” Biden said in his remarks the following day.

But is it? Much of the reaction downplays just how pervasive violence has been in U.S. history. Although the ideology of American exceptionalism pushes Americans to think of their country as fundamentally different than other nations that have been wracked with these kinds of events, the truth is that the United States has a long and sordid history of people who try to solve political differences using bullets rather than ballots.

Violence is one of the reasons that the U.S. electoral system has always been extraordinarily fragile. It has taken heroic efforts to maintain the republic that Benjamin Franklin, one of the country’s founding fathers, famously warned would be necessary to care for and protect.

The common perspective that violence is somehow un-American misses a key point. The normalization of violent rhetoric in recent years is so dangerous not because it constitutes a fundamentally new turn in U.S. democracy, but because it taps into a deeply rooted history that Americans ignore at their own risk. The reality is that assassinations and assassination attempts targeting high-level officials have been taking place for decades.

The United States has sadly had many political leaders, presidents, and prominent candidates killed. The price that President Abraham Lincoln paid for trying to preserve the union and bring an end to slavery was John Wilkes Booth murdering him on April 14, 1865, in Washington, D.C. In July 1881, Charles Guiteau shot President James Garfield, who died in September. The nation had barely caught its breath before an anarchist named Leon Czolgosz killed President William McKinley in 1901. And Americans would mourn collectively after Lee Harvey Oswald assassinated President John F. Kennedy in November 1963.

The count of these four slain leaders does not include the many serious assassination attempts that failed, such as when President Franklin Roosevelt was nearly killed in February 1933 by an unemployed tradesman named Giuseppe Zangara. President Gerald Ford survived two attempts to kill him within weeks in 1975. President Ronald Reagan’s life was almost brought to an end by John Hinkley Jr. in March 1981. Like Trump, Reagan managed to manage the crisis to his benefit. Reagan and his team downplayed the severity of the wound. He and his team shared jokes to emphasize perseverance, such as his telling the surgeons: “I hope you are all Republicans.”

Candidates for the presidency have also been targets. On Oct. 14, 1912, former Republican President Teddy Roosevelt, running as a third-party candidate, was fired at by John Schrank during a campaign rally. An eyeglass case made of metal and the thick text of the copy of his speech in his pocket saved his life even though a bullet penetrated his chest. Roosevelt refused to go to the hospital and instead went on to give his talk. “I don’t know whether you fully understand that I have just been shot,” Roosevelt said, “But it takes more than that to kill a Bull Moose!”

Most baby boomers remember when Sen. Robert Kennedy, after winning the June 1968 California primary, was slain by Sirhan Sirhan at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. Four years later, Alabama Gov. George Wallace, who became infamous for his staunch opposition to racial integration, was partially paralyzed a bullet during his run for the presidency in 1972.

Violence has also afflicted Capitol Hill. The Yale University historian Joanne Freeman writes that violence in the pre-Civil War Congress was as American as apple pie. Freeman took the classic story of the pro-slavery South Carolina Rep. Preston Brooks beating Massachusetts Sen. Charles Sumner with a cane and revealed that it was not an anomaly. By the 1850s, members of the House and Senate were coming to work armed and loaded, and they frequently engaged in physical conflict on the floors of the chambers as tensions over slavery mounted. Freeman documented more than 70 acts of violence between congressmen in the tense period between 1830 and 1860.

Civilians have also deployed violence against legislators. A man named Carl Weiss took the life of Louisiana Sen. Huey Long, a potential candidate for the presidency, in 1935. On January 8, 2011, Arizona Democratic Rep. Gabrielle Giffords was badly wounded after being fired upon in Tucson; one of her staffers and five others were killed. In 2017, a 66-year-old man named James Hodgkinson gravely wounded House Majority Whip Steve Scalise during a practice for the annual congressional baseball game. Even family members can become victims, as former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi’s husband, Paul Pelosi, experienced in his home when a conspiracy theorist David DePape bludgeoned him in October 2022.

At the national level, violence has not been confined to politicians. The United States has also lost the leaders of many movements along the way. The streets of the cities were on fire after civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. was shot down in Memphis in April 1968; three years earlier, Malcolm X had been killed as well.

The United States has also seen immense electoral violence at the local level. The Jim Crow South was a political system where institutionalized violence was essential to the disenfranchisement of Black Americans. In states such as Mississippi, Black residents understood that they faced immense risk when they traveled to the courthouse in an attempt to register to vote. Another civil rights leader, the charismatic and inspiring NAACP field secretary Medgar Evers, was struck down outside his home on June 12, 1963. T.R. Howard, a surgeon and civil rights leader, said in his eulogy for Evers: “For 100 years, we have turned one cheek and then another. And they have continued to hit us on both cheeks, and I’m just getting tired now of hurting in silence.”

This year is also the 60th anniversary of Freedom Summer in Mississippi, where three civil rights workers—James Chaney, Mickey Schwerner, and Andrew Goodman—were murdered by the KKK and allied police officials because they were partaking in the voting rights mobilization that inspired young people around the world. And much of the country, including President Lyndon B. Johnson, was horrified a year later on March 7, 1965, now called “Bloody Sunday,” when police and white mobs brutally attacked nonviolent civil rights activists who were marching from Selma to Montgomery in support of voting rights legislation. Photographers captured the horrific images when troops fractured the skull of John Lewis, a leader from the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and future member of Congress.

On Nov. 27, 1978, Dan White, a former member of the board of supervisors of San Francisco, shot and killed Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk, who had become a heroic figure within the gay community. And since the tumultuous 2020 election that culminated with the attempted insurrection at the U.S. Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021, 40 percent of state legislators polled by the Brennan Center for Justice have reported receiving threats.

The United States has many wonderful characteristics, but violence is one of them as well. As the historian Richard Slotkin has written in his classic works on the subject, violent mythology has always been deeply embedded in American culture. More recently, the historian Steven Hahn has traced the powerful impact of illiberalism, which has included electoral violence, since the founding of the country.

None of this unsettling history should discount the dangers stemming from the very real uptick in violence and violent threats that government officials have faced in recent years, which have reached elected officials, judges, and even poll workers. The current atmosphere is indeed one of heightened danger. Just because conditions have been bad in the past does not provide comfort in current times.

Yet history should send a strong warning about the dangers of politicians and others who use violent rhetoric. Indeed, this warning was often made to Trump, both when he was president and after, about his willingness to incite crowds. These calls to action tap into a treacherous component of U.S. culture that is often right beneath the surface.

The attempt to kill Trump should be a chilling reminder of how easy it is for some Americans to trigger a lethal tradition. Americans have seen the ugliness too many times before to act like this doesn’t usually happen here. It does.

[samobservessonic]

I do wonder if Elson got bored of drawing the Death Egg during this arc. I mean, I can understand how this happened, because if I had the power to make Elson draw so many amazing shots of the Death Egg, I’d probably abuse it as well, but were they really over there like, “Go on, Richard! Draw us another Death Egg! It’s going to fight the Floating Island this time!”

POV: Grimer is looking lovingly back at you while you tell him to fire the Disintegrator and destroy the woodland animals that bother you so much

I think we can put money on Sonic not admitting to Knuckles he wasn’t going to make it when Knuckles inevitably saves his ass

I’m never going to shut up about SonKnux if they keep doing things like having Sonic smiling fondly out of a window while saying he’s impressed with Knuckles Also, I’m sure that I don’t need to say how amazing it is that they gave the Floating Island fucking energy blasts that it’s firing as it chases the Death Egg!! There are a lot of things from Sonic comics that people want to see make the jump to game canon and now “mobilise and weaponise Angel Island” is at the top of my list for coolness alone!

…Well, maybe not the top of my list. I’ll forever be in camp “Bring back Sally”, but it’s pretty high up!

And this is only its powers without the Master Emerald! Imagine what this puppy could do with emerald power!

In the ruckus, Sonic managed to grab the Master Emerald

They rightly decided that a double-page spread was the only way glorious enough to end this issue’s main story. The Death Egg has been defeated and now we’ve just gotta hope that Sonic can catch a lift to the ground next time

Honestly, this arc is so cool that I think I’ll need a lie down after reading it