#terrorism statistics

[iyemarathichiyenagari1971]

जिहादी जनरल…

पहलगाम हल्ल्यानंतर केंद्र सरकारने दिल्लीत २४ एप्रिल रोजी सर्व पक्षीय बैठक बोलावली होती. त्यात गृहमंत्रालयाने सादरीकरण केले. जून २०१४ ते २०१४ या काळात १६४३ दहशतवादी हल्ले झाले, १९२५ घुसखोरीचे प्रयत्न झाले. ५७६ सुरक्षा सैनिक ठार झाले, अशी आकडेवारी आहे. पठाणकोट, पुलवामा, पगलगाम ही मालिका थांबलेली नाही. डॉ. सुकृत खांडेकर पाकिस्तानच्या लष्कर प्रमुखांनी भारताच्या विरोधात काही प्रक्षोभक आणि चिथावणीखोर…

[luthanraels-bignaturals]

speedy sequel to my last girlving post.

she partakes in the good christian pleasure of sewing immediately after she has dreams like this (obviously planted in her mind by satan and his unholy machinations to tempt her)

this is how jacko got his quilt and matching sleeping cap

[theterrorfebruaryflash]

Our current tag cloud for the 14 works in the collection:

[rowanisawriter]

omg

[birdthatisbored]

33% of Franklin expedition men could reasonably be referred to as J-dog. Sharing on the off chance there is any world in which this is useful information (there isn't)

[saints-who-never-existed]

Shout out to Mr Crispe actually, and his strangely compelling little background story arc.

He's mentioned quite a few times throughout the series.

He's present somewhere on deck for the 'return' of Strong/Evans, is mentioned by name by both Tozer and Hickey in relation to various mutinous designs, is one of several men looking shifty at Hickey's hanging, and is present also for Tozer and Des Voeux's weird wee mutinous conversation in the fog.

But then of course we see that he didn't go along with Hickey and co. in the end but stayed with the main group and is there for the Lawful Mutiny/Nedward' betrayal too...

Is it something of a plot-hole perhaps and if not, I wonder what his reasons might have been for flirting so closely with mutiny/treason without actually following through?

[forlorn-kumquat]

I know why I've been procrastinating job hunting for the last week: cause all I've been getting are rejections and I'm scared of getting more

now I just have to figure out what to do to make myself stop procrastinating

[dogeared-euclid]

Fic recommendations are now data.

I have finished* my rec list for December's @ffrmc.

...so here's some Teaser Statistics!

Most recommended pairing: Fitzier (7)

Most recommended character: Irving (17)

AU's tagged: [redacted], 1950's, 1960's, 1970's, 1980's, Modern, Sci-Fi (5)

*realistically I'm going to change my mind a couple times yet but hey. There's so much good fic in this fandom!! I am declaring 'done is good enough'.

**important note for data integrity: I have utterly failed to narrow it down to 1 rec per prompt. Some days are gonna have 3. Unfortunately there's at least 60 single chapter bangers so if you think about it I've exercised remarkable restraint.

[blades-lovemail]

Mass graves have recently been uncovered showing signs of Palestinians who were tormented and buried alive when they weren't outright executed by iof terrorists. This alongside Al Jazeera having their locations in Israel raided and shuttered in order to hide what is essentially a holocaust/ethnic cleansing.

Here's a website where Palestine GoFundMes are vetted and shared that you can send out to people. The url is gazafunds.com

Easy to use and simple. Just share the site whenever someone asks for GFMs for Palestine.

[rightnewshindi]

अमित शाह का जम्मू-कश्मीर दौरा: सीमा चौकी से लेकर शहीद परिवारों तक, तीन दिन में सुरक्षा और विकास पर फोकस!

Amit Shah News: केंद्रीय गृह मंत्री अमित शाह रविवार, 6 अप्रैल 2025 से जम्मू-कश्मीर के तीन दिवसीय दौरे पर जा रहे हैं। इस दौरान वह भारत-पाकिस्तान सीमा पर बीएसएफ की अग्रिम चौकी का दौरा करेंगे, शहीदों के परिवारों से मिलेंगे और केंद्र शासित प्रदेश में सुरक्षा स्थिति व विकास योजनाओं की समीक्षा करेंगे। यह दौरा न सिर्फ सुरक्षा के लिहाज से अहम है, बल्कि अमरनाथ यात्रा की तैयारियों और राजनीतिक चर्चाओं के…

[brexiiton]

Terror attacks more deadly, strong link to conflicts

Dominic Giannini, Thu 29 February at 4:00pm

Terrorism is getting worse with deaths at their highest level in more than five years, as Australia's top spy warns of an increasing risk of sabotage by potential terrorists.

Deaths from terrorism eclipsed 8360 - up 22 per cent - but the number of attacks have fallen, meaning they were more deadly, according to the Global Terrorism Index.

There's been more than 50 per cents jump in people killed per attack marking the worst rate in almost a decade, it found.

It's also becoming more concentrated, with 10 countries accounting for almost 90 per cent of terrorism-related deaths.

More than three in four terrorism-related deaths in Western democracies were in the United States last year.

The Central Sahel region of sub-Saharan Africa has now become the epicentre of terrorism over the Middle East with more than half of deaths.

The was also a "strong link between conflict and terrorism" with over 90 per cent of attacks and 98 per cent of deaths in 2023 occuring in conflict zones.

Spy chief Mike Burgess warned terrorism was still a threat in Australia despite espionage being the biggest security risk.

Terrorists are increasingly looking towards sabotage, the ASIO director-general said.

"Over the last 18 months, we've also seen an uptick in the number of nationalist and racist violent extremists advocating sabotage in private conversations, both here and overseas," Mr Burgess said.

This was particularly profound amongst extremists who wanted to trigger a "race war", he said.

"We have seen them endorsing attacks on power networks, electrical substations and railway networks."

Extremist attacks against critical infrastructure in the United States were growing in number, sophistication and impact and proved "a sobering reminder that terrorism remains a threat".

"It's a real threat, a pervasive threat, even with a lower national threat level," he said.

"While Australia's terrorist threats have reduced in scale, they have increased in complexity."

A lone wolf actor striking without warning was a major concern, which was what was happening in the US, Mr Burgess said.

ASIO is investigating multiple people who have discussed committing terrorism in Australia, Mr Burgess confirmed.

Sunni violent extremism was the greatest religiously motivated violent extremist threat in Australia but people were not travelling to join terrorist groups in the Middle East like they did with Islamic State, he said.

The security environment was also complicated by ideologically motivated extremists switching between ideologies and merging components from different ones to create new, hybrid beliefs, he added.

"A perverse 'choose your own adventure' approach to radicalisation," he said.

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

If you enjoyed this story, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Pre-ordering my Family Lore Funny Stories book on Patreon

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru gojo is cocky, top of the class, and one passive-aggressive emoji away from tears.

a/n: nerdjo is so easily rage baited it’s actually embarrassing. one compliment from you and he’s rewriting his entire thesis out of spite. i love bullying him gently.

satoru is going to break his keyboard.

his fingers twitch above the keys—hesitating, retreating, returning again—hovering like they might snap the poor letters clean off. the skin on his knuckles is taut, his jaw clenched so hard it ticks like a time bomb, and his mouth is parted just barely, like he’s one saccharine comment away from spontaneously combusting.

strands of white hair keep falling over his forehead—static-charged from his hoodie—and he shoves them back, again and again, increasingly violent about it, like maybe the hair is conspiring with you. his glasses have slipped halfway down his nose. the gleam of his lenses barely masks the pure, incandescent rage in his eyes.

those eyes, now glassy with disbelief, are locked on the latest reply from you—the class discussion board’s reigning empress of emotional terrorism. his academic rival. personal poltergeist. a sugar-coated demon in pastel lip gloss.

oh satoru, i think it’s so admirable how you stuck by that article! not many people would be brave enough to defend a source that’s been debunked four times. it’s honestly kind of inspiring. keep doing you!

his vision goes white.

that is not a compliment. it is a tactical airstrike in a pink envelope. he knows it. you know it. and worst of all, you signed off with a heart emoji. a heart. he can see your face in his head—tilted just slightly, like you’re too sweet to possibly mean harm, but your eyes glint like you’re holding a scalpel behind your back.

his reply has already died and resurrected five times. the first version read like a cease-and-desist letter. the second had footnotes so aggressive it required double-spaced disclaimers. the third almost made it to the post button, until he remembered your last reply that ended with, “hope this clears it up, prof said some people struggle with statistical nuance.”

you are not just baiting him. you’ve turned it into an art form. a spiritual practice. and your weapon of choice is niceness so passive-aggressive it should be federally regulated.

back in first year econ, you sat beside him, humming under your breath and tapping your pen against the desk in tempo with his unraveling sanity. you kicked his bag under the table. you leaned close just to whisper, “your equation’s wrong, but don’t worry, i won’t tell anyone! not everyone’s meant for regression models.”

you once highlighted his errors in the shared google doc—in pink. pastel pink. with cheerful comments like “uh oh!” and “almost got it!” he swears he could hear the sparkle emoji implied in your tone. the worst part? your spelling was immaculate.

he still thinks about it in the shower.

now?

now he’s two seconds away from flinging his laptop across the room. the lab’s overhead lights buzz like mosquitoes. someone’s typing across from him, calm and steady, and it only amplifies the sound of his own frenzied assault on the keyboard.

his typing is violent. the spacebar clacks like gunfire. he’s halfway through a paragraph when he snarls—actually snarls—and deletes the whole thing. he writes another. more venomous. more precise. then pauses, eyes narrowing.

because you’ve edited your post.

p.s. just reread your old comment and i think i finally get your logic now! i must’ve been too slow before. thanks for your patience <3

he makes a sound. an animal sound. it’s somewhere between a wheeze and a gasp. his knee bounces under the table, leg jittery with restrained rage.

“i hate her,” he breathes.

from across the lab, shoko doesn’t even glance up. “you said that yesterday.”

“i mean it today.”

she lifts her eyes only slightly to peer over her laptop, one brow arched in apathy. “you said that yesterday too.”

“no, no, no—you don’t understand, shoko.” he shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the frames skewed slightly to the left from stress. “she thanked me.”

“chilling.”

“she made it sound real. like she appreciated it. like she didn’t just nuke my thesis and then bake me a fucking muffin.”

“did she add sprinkles?”

“a smiley face.”

he slumps forward, head in his hands, glasses slipping again. his breath fogs the screen. it’s like you’re there—he swears he smells that damn peach shampoo you use. he hears the echo of your voice cooing, “aww, did i mess up your graph again?” like a knife wrapped in a silk ribbon.

he’s haunted. infuriated. he’d rather be insulted outright, mocked, cursed at, anything but this sweet, syrupy condescension that drips like poison into his every academic wound.

then his inbox pings.

a private message.

hey, sorry again for misunderstanding your point in the thread! i know you work really hard on these. if you ever want to explain it to me one-on-one, i’d love that. i learn best from people who are smarter than me :)

his soul ascends. his body remains.

he stares at the message, slack-jawed. horror prickles under his skin like cold water. one hand twitches toward the power button, but he hesitates. you know what you’re doing.

and he hates that it’s working.

“what did she say now?” shoko asks, sipping lukewarm coffee from a chipped mug labeled ‘property of shoko: touch and perish.’

he doesn’t look up. “she wants me to teach her.”

“sounds like flirting.”

“it’s not flirting.”

“she called you smart.”

he pauses. then squints at the screen like it just insulted his bloodline. “she called me smart the way you praise a goldfish for finding the glass.”

he types:

sure. let me know when.

deletes it.

types:

that’s… fine. i guess.

deletes that too.

his fingers hover over the keys.

he types, each letter hammered with the weight of pride swallowed whole:

if you need clarification, i can walk you through it. though i'm sure you'll figure it out eventually.

hits send.

wants to die.

he sags back, hoodie bunching around his shoulders. his sleeves fall over his knuckles. his knee taps against the metal chair leg in a relentless rhythm. he stares at the blinking cursor like it’s counting down to his doom. the little grey dots appear. you’re typing. again. you’re going to be worse. he knows this. the anticipation is psychological warfare.

he watches anyway.

this is war.

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I worked at the jewelry store there was this notorious lady I worked with. She was, for lack of a better word, an absolute bitch. I don’t say this lightly but truly, she was heinous, much of staff was a little afraid of her, but it took her a while to get fired because her sales were so good.

Her name was Lynn. It was hard to get a read on her age because she’d had work done but I’d guess she was in her sixties, a very posh white lady who towered over most of the staff with lips that looked a little too puffy and hooded judgemental eyes.

I was generally beneath her notice but one day I did something to bother her and she went off into a snit to glower at me from across the showroom. This, to my little autistic brain, was very unacceptable. I didn’t even know why I’d upset her but our job was extremely team oriented and I couldn’t succeed without being able to communicate with the whole team.

You see, in the jewelry store we matched customers to sales people. If someone came in who was very nerdy or queer, that customer would be passed along to me because I’d be the best at relating to them. We called this process a TO trade off. The first sales associate got half the sale and the TO got the second half and the customer got a much more enjoyable experience. Everybody won.

Everyone on the team had a niche that they could relate to really well. Lynn cleaned up with older white ladies who had too much money and a certain kind of dude she could boss around. Because we traded off sales all the time it was important to have a good working relationship with everyone on staff.

Lynn being pissed at me would just make both our jobs harder. I asked around why she was mad at me and no one knew, but they advised I just leave her alone until she cooled off.

I thought that was stupid. So I just went up to her and asked, “Why are you mad at me?”

It was if a lizard had grown sentience and spoken to her. Her face was was too immobilized with botox to show a full range of emotion but her eyes widened and her puffy lips pursed as she looked down at me.

She was so used to psychologically terrorizing people and not getting called on it that being very directly addressed by her tiny lesbian coworker was something she didn’t have a ready answer for. Barring a reflexive response she resorted to honesty and said that she was upset that I had passed a sale along to someone else and not to her.

She felt like no one passed sales to her. It hurt her feelings. I could recognize that she'd gotten her wits together and decided to try to incite pity. I'd heard her sound more upset when she told me that her daughter insisted on sleeping on their fanciest couch despite knowing how much Lynn hated the idea of her skin oils permeating the white leather.

I was honestly a little surprised to learn she would admit to having feelings that could get hurt, even as a gambit I didn’t say that part. I agreed that she wasn’t my first choice for the couple I'd passed off and confirmed the reasons why I had done the TO to someone else. Then I pointed out that the statistics for how often sales were traded to her were freely posted for everyone to see. She had the second highest TO rate in the store. That was just facts.

Confronted very bluntly and faced with statistics Lynn decided it was pointless to be mad at me and dropped it. After that dropped most of her mind games in my direction. If I spoke she would often regard me like an unwelcome species of bug before simply turning away. She won the award for coworker most likely to ignore me because she had no idea how to respond to me most of the time.

The only time I remember getting along was when she would start telling bold faced lies that she swore were true. My favorite was when she said she’d had a very lucrative career as a luchador and she could show me a thing or two in the ring. Because I love getting absurdly lied to I played along and said I’d love to see pictures.

She got fired eventually which was a long time coming after it came out that she had told my Vietnamese friend she needed a translator just to understand her. She was not missed, and we left the Older Bitchy Lady niche unfilled on the staff TO roster once she left.

[otaku553]

Flames (Part 1)

(NEXT) ->

(Spade Pirate Sabo AU Masterpost)

This one took AGES i hope you all enjoy!! It's probably a 2-parter but pending how my finals week is looking I might take a hiatus for next week. As I'm writing this post I've just finished my stat mech final which is great! (I wish unspeakable terrors on the person who decided that stat mech was required for the neurobiology-focused major. i get that it's useful for some bayesian statistics but like,,,,, come on i dont need to know thermodynamics)

I did originally have 2 more pages to post with this but scrapped them unfortunately, but I do hope the revised version, which will come out with the next part, will be enjoyable. I was also waffling briefly on whether to color this comic since it turned out so long but there were some panels that I envisioned so clearly in color that I just decided I might as well color everything. I'm especially proud of how the fruit turned out, I want to eat it

Feel free to send in asks if you want annotations of different things I decided on and details I added in each page :) I'm quite proud of this one hehe

[hoe4hotchner]

Hi!! I hope you're doing well! I've been watching wildlife rescue shelters videos all day and that led me to have this idea for a small fic and I immediately thought of you! Okay so imagine reader is dating Hotch and she's working at one of those shelters and so she always sends him cute videos of all the tigers/leopards/lions etc. she's taking care of! And like he'd be so proud of her for doing that job but also low-key scared because she's literally cuddling a giant tiger there (you can also include the other BAU members' reactions!!)

No worries if you don't feel like writing this I just thought it could be fun/cute!

Okay have a nice day/night bye!!!

Wild at heart | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!reader | WC: 0.5k | CW: Mentions of potential danger.

Hotch's phone buzzed on the table with a new message, and despite the never-ending paperwork in front of him, he reached for it immediately.

🐅 From: Y/N

“Look at my new cuddle buddy!! 🥰”

Attached was a video of you lying on the ground, absolutely dwarfed by the massive Siberian tiger curled up beside you. The big cat let out a slow, contented huff as you scratched behind its ears, your laughter ringing out softly. Hotch exhaled sharply, torn between admiration and sheer terror.

Morgan, sitting across from him, raised an eyebrow. “You okay, man? You just made a face.”

Hotch turned the screen toward him. “She sent me another one.”

Morgan leaned in, then burst out laughing. “Oh, hell no. She’s basically using a tiger as a pillow? That’s insane.”

Emily, overhearing, walked over with her coffee. “Wait, let me see.” As soon as she caught a glimpse, her jaw dropped. “That’s either the coolest thing I’ve ever seen or the most reckless. How are you not having a heart attack every time she sends you these?”

“I am,” Hotch admitted, rubbing his temple. “Every single time.” He sighed

JJ peered over his shoulder, shaking her head with a smile. “You have to admit, it’s adorable. She looks so happy.”

“I know.” He did. That was the problem. He couldn't take that away from you.

Rossi strolled by, glancing at the phone. “You do realize that’s a predator, right?”

“Yes, Dave, I’m aware,” Hotch sighed. “But she loves what she does.” And as much as it terrified him, he loved how passionate you were about your job.

Another buzz.

🐅 From: Y/N

“Also, here’s my baby leopard learning how to pounce!!”

The next video showed a clumsy little leopard cub attempting to pounce onto your lap but misjudging the distance, tumbling forward into your arms instead. Your giggles were audible as you scooped it up.

Hotch’s heart clenched.

Penelope appeared out of nowhere. “Oh! Oh! Are we looking at Y/N’s daily ‘How To Give Hotch a Heart Attack’ update?” She squealed.

“Apparently,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Reid, curious at what everyone was watching, peeked at the screen. “Statistically speaking, working closely with large wild cats poses significant risks, even in controlled environments.”

Hotch shot him a flat look. “Thank you, Reid. That helps.”

Morgan chuckled. “What’s the over-under on him showing up at her work in full-on protective detail one of these days?”

“Very funny,” Hotch muttered, but they weren’t entirely wrong. He had considered visiting just to see the safety protocols himself.

Another message.

🐅 From: Y/N

“Love you! Don’t worry, the tigers love me too!! ❤️”

Hotch sighed, shaking his head fondly. He typed out a quick response:

To: Y/N

“I love you too. Please be careful. And tell the tigers they need to share.”

Morgan saw the text and grinned. “Man, you’re whipped.” Hotch didn’t even deny it, cause it was no use trying to pretend not to be in a room full of profilers.