#Exercise Iron Fist

[the-nomadicone]

Ex. Iron Fist // Japanese Ground Self-Defense Forces

[tacticaldiary]

Reader joining 141 for a mission and Simon is not having it and is pissed at price for calling them and all of the other guys are confused about why ghost is so upset till they find out reader is his wife after the mission

Maybe reader got hurt and ghost goes off on price

The Price Of A Secret

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"People get injured on the job, Ghost." Gaz tries to defuse the situation. "She's alive-"

"This is different." He grits out.

"And why's that?"

"Because that's my wife!" He hisses, slamming his fist onto the table. It strikes them harder than if he were to have yelled it at them.

A/N: It's 2:45am and I have no energy to proofread caution advised-

Masterlist

The moment the picture of the intelligence officer joining them flashes on the screen, Ghost puts his foot down.

"She's not coming."

Everyone in the room pauses, Price staring at Ghost mid sentence. It's the usual 141, and then it's her. Sitting there with a mildly frustrated look, refusing to look at him because she should have known he'd try to pull some shit like this.

"Why not?" Price folds his arm, narrowing his eyes. "Is there an issue, Lieutenant?"

She was supposed to work from the inside, drawing out data and cracking through defences that they then passed on to people like the 141. An integral part of the process of running the whole task force, but not once was she involved in hands-on field work.

It's not that she's incompetent. No, not at all. Ghost would have his head bit off if he even remotely implied that because it simply isn't true. She got the top scores in almost every part of her training exercises, and yet she chose the intelligence part of the military to serve in. His wife was as competent as they got.

His wife.

"This is a covert operation, the fewer people the better." That's what he goes with. Not because his heart picks up at the thought of her being anywhere near what they deal with every day.

"I won't have the range I need to retrieve the data from their servers if I'm not close to them." She speaks up, and their eyes meet from across the room.

His determined, hers resolute.

Sometimes he really hated that she was so fucking stubborn. It had been the same stubbornness that cracked down the iron grip he'd had on the walls in his mind and around his heart, but if that stubbornness was what got her killed Simon would give up this joy in a heartbeat.

He'd do it for her if it meant she kept on living.

"This isn't up for discussion, Ghost." Price states, "She's part of this operation on my authority."

"Price-"

"End of discussion. You settle whatever you have going on outside this room." And fuck, he can't refute a direct order like that, can he?

Ghost sees her release a long exhale, and he knows he won't share such a relief until this damn operation was over and done with.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Her body is so limp it scares the ever-loving shit out of him.

Ghost grips her so tight it's as if he himself is the only thing tethering her soul to her body, boots thumping hard against the muddy ground as they retreat back to their extraction point, data successfully retrieved.

Successfully, not smoothly.

The plan was simple. They'd flank the building while she camped out near the edge of the woods, retrieving the intel they needed. A couple of fuckers slipped out of the building and went straight for her.

Ghost's stomach turns when he remembers how he found the scene. She wasn't answering through her comms, but he knew he wasn't able to leave his position until the building was secure.

Waiting felt like an eternity, he could feel Soap send troubled glances in his direction at the way Ghost was unusually silent and more brutal than.

When the building was finally secure, they'd gone to reunite with her position and found three men dead, bloody seeping into the ground in a crimson mess. The last one standing hovered over her unconscious form, over his wife with a knife raised ready to slit her thought.

The only thought Ghost had as he ripped the man away with his hands was that he was going to take the one good thing in his life away, and he would not let that happen. Not her. Not like this.

"Bleeding wound to the head, unconscious but still breathing!" Gaz called out while Ghost shoved the man's own knife into his throat. Tossing the gurgling body aside like a ragdoll, he's immediately by her side, assessing before carefully lifting her up in his arms.

It's the most emotion Ghost has ever expressed in front of the others, but he couldn't give a fuck about the looks or the questions right now. Her heartbeat against him settled him the slightest bit with the reassurance that she was alive.

Angry does not begin to describe what itches under Ghost's skin as they scramble into their exfil airship.

"Medic!" He barks the second they lift off. Setting her down, he brushes the bloody strands of her hair away from her face.

Despite the urge to stay by her side, the medic gingerly requests for him to take a step back so he could work. Ghost obliges but his eyes never leave her face.

He's painfully aware of his wedding ring pressing against his chest, strung onto a chain long enough to be tucked under his uniform. A matching one to her own.

Nobody speaks.

Perhaps they recognise the anger washing off of Ghost in waves, because if they'd just bloody listened to him, she wouldn't be laying there with a head wound.

The atmosphere is heavy and sombre. Even Soap keeps his mouth shut, too confused by the outward, uncharacteristic way Ghost was acting to make fun of it.

It's only when the medic announces she's stable that the suffocating knot in Ghost's chest loosens. There's audible relief from everyone in the place.

"Bloody hell." Price breathes, and something in Ghost snaps.

"I told you to dismiss her from the op." He says coldly, turning to the man.

"We got what we needed, son." He sighs, deep and tired, and part of Ghost understands that this was their life. But he's too worked up to care.

"At a fucking cost."

"People get injured on the job, Ghost." Gaz tries to defuse the situation. "She's alive, that's all that matters. Nothing permanent, yeah?" He glances at the medic, who confirms with a nod before slipping away.

"This is different." Ghost grits out.

"Why's that?"

"Because that's my wife!" He hisses, slamming his fist onto the metallic walls. It strikes them harder than if he were to have yelled it at them.

How long had it taken for Ghost-...no, for Simon to let someone crack open his defences until he was coaxed out and allowed himself to love again? Four years they've been married, and four years he's kept it a secret.

It's not that he doesn't trust his team. He trusts them with his life, would lay his own down for Johnny, Gaz, and Price any day.

But this? This was bigger than him, she was the most precious thing that had ever happened to him, and the safest way to preserve that was the keep it on a need-to-know basis.

She'd agreed with him, of course. In that soft, patient way she always has with him. She'd seen the paranoia in him, recognised that he needed this one thing for himself, and she'd been more than happy to oblige.

What was outside validation about her relationship worth when she got to crawl into his arms at the end of the day? Be granted the pleasure that comes with being loved by someone as protective, intelligent, and sharp as Simon Riley? She adores all of him, even the jagged pieces that cut into her from time to time, because he's always there to take care of her afterwards.

"She's my wife." He repeats quieter, sitting back down. Exhaustion lines the slope of his shoulder's dark circles well present under his mask.

"You're married." Soap is the first to speak, incredulously. "You? Ghost? You're married?" His eyes flicker down to Ghost's left hand, and then to Gaz and Price who look equally as surprised. "I mean, congratulations?" He trails off, knowing it's not really the situation to celebrate.

"Thanks." A tired, small voice has everyone's attention back onto the figure on the bed. Ghost is on his feet in moments, by her bedside. "It'll be five years in...what, a month?" She cracks an eye open, giving Simon a tired, smile.

"Two months." He corrects with a mutter, and Johnny looks like he might just collapse. "Sitrep?"

"We're not on the field anymore." She groans, pushing herself to sit up. Ghost's hands fly to her immediately, helping her sit up. At his blank, insistent stare, she relents with a deep sigh. "My head's killing me but other than that just a few scrapes and bruises." Her hand travels down to grab his at her shoulder, squeezing briefly.

"I'm alright." Her voice turns into something soft and reassuring, and it's only then that a quiet, shuddering breath comes out of Simon's lungs. "I think I'll sit to working from the inside though." She jokes weakly. "Leave the dirtier work to you brutes."

It lightens the mood as intended, eliciting a snort from Gaz. "Yes, ma'am."

He'd make sure she got checked out properly when they landed, but for now he takes his place sitting beside her. The others fall into a hushed conversation after a while, but he makes no move to join them.

A warm hand intertwines with his, hidden beneath the bulk of their combined gear.

"I'm alright, Simon." She mumbles, just loud enough for him to hear.

Simon squeezes her hand in response. "Fucking hell, love." He breathes.

And it's enough to convey everything he's thinking. Humming, she tips her head against his shoulder and lets her eyes slip shut. The warmth of his body, even through the tang of copper is enough of a familiar comfort to drain the tension from her body.

She's fast asleep against his shoulder a minute later, and the devil himself couldn't make Simon move lest he wake her now.

He wasn't a publicly affectionate person by any means...but he trusted his team enough for this right now.

Letting his own head press against the metal wall behind them, his eyes shift to meet Price's. A softer, knowing look from the Captain is all he needs to hook his chin over her head and turn his attention outside the small window.

And if he counts her breathing while she sleeps for his own peace of mind? Well, that's no one's business but his.

Reblog, Like and Comment!

(10/09/2023)

[danikamariewrites]

fourth wing rec:

training mats w xaddy daddy but instead of waddling off, he does us

(aka what shoulda happened the first time)

On The Mat (SMUT)

Xaden x reader

A/n: you’re so right for this omg

Warnings: fingering, p in v, biting

Watching as everyone trailed out of the training room you grew agitated. Swinging and dodging Xaden you glare at him. “Don’t let that control you.” He grunted throwing another left hook as he sensed your anger. Dodging his massive fist you throw yourself across the mat with a back handspring.

Landing in a crouch you look up at him and snarl. Unsheathing two of your daggers you aim them both for Xaden’s shoulders. The Wing Leader rolls to the right avoiding the blades. “How much longer?” You yell. “How ever long it takes for you to get it right.”

Rolling your eyes you both pop back up in ready stances, circling each other. You fumble with your hidden dagger at your back. Taking your eyes off of Xaden for a moment he saw his opportunity and pounced. You let out a grunt as Xaden pinned you to the ground.

You struggled to get free but your arm was pinned behind your back. Xaden quickly grabbed your hips, flipping you and straddling your ass. He held your arm to your back, slipping the dagger out from its hidden sheath with his other hand. You struggled against him panting as you failed to escape his iron clad grip.

Xaden leaned down next to your ear. His breath tickling your skin. “I guess we aren’t leaving just yet.” He whispers seductively. That deep voice bringing heat to your face. The need for him growing between your thighs. Letting out a sarcastic laugh you fall limp against the training mat.

“We don’t have to leave. But we’re done with this exercise.” You tease, grinding your leather clad ass against his cock. Xaden’s sharp breath makes you smirk knowing you’ve won. “Sure you can get this right?” Lust evident in his voice.

“Oh, Riorson. This is one exercise I won’t fail.” Xaden flips you onto your back, gathering your wrists in his hand to pin above your head. His lips immediately go to your neck, kissing and biting aggressively. You tilt your head to the side giving him more access. Moaning his name you try to move your arms to touch him. Over the sound of his lips and moans you hear the lock on the door click. You’re sure it’s thanks to his shadows. Always using them to conceal you in stolen moments or locking doors when he’s too caught up in your activities.

Making eye contact he bites the zipper of your vest, pulling until your breasts are exposed. He bites and sucks at the supple untouched flesh. Marking you as his. He brings his hands to your breasts, groping them and letting out a possesive moan as his hands trail down to the waist band of your pants.

Wasting no time Xaden ripped open the laces. Teasingly dragging his fingers across your pelvic bone. Leaving a trail of goosebumps on your flesh. Gods, it feels like he hasn’t touched you in years when it’s only been days since you’ve last had him. Clearly Xaden was just as eager to have you. Again, wasting no time he brings his fingers to your heat.

A whimper fell from your lips as Xaden spread your wetness around your folds. “Fuck, sweetheart.” Xaden breathed, pushing two of his thick fingers in your hole. Bucking your hips you clutched at his shoulders. He began working you open. Making you desperate for him.

You dropped your head against the mat as you came close to the edge. Your hips moved to meet the thrust of his fingers. “Please,” you beg, “please, Xaden. I’m s-so close.” You pant. Just as he started grazing that sweet spot Xaden ripped his fingers from your core. A whine escapes your lips.

“One second, sweetheart. Then you’ll have what you want.” You watched as Xaden pulled at the ties on his own pants. The outline of his hardened cock prominent against his leather pants. After freeing himself Xaden pulls your pants and boots off. Showing your impatience you grab his cock, running your thumb across his slit.

Teasing him at your entrance a growl sounds from deep in Xaden’s chest. He bats your hand away which immediately finds home in his thick dark hair. Xaden rubs himself against your entrance before sinking in. His hips fitting snug against yours as he waits for you to adjust to his size. “Move. Gods please move Xa.” You plead with him again. Xaden presses his lips against yours in a heated kiss as he begins to move. Swallowing each of your moans with his thrusts.

“Fuck, Xaden please. Right there, yes!” You scream against his lips. Xaden’s thrusts get deeper and faster. You dig your nails into his shoulders as he brings his thumb to your clit. Rubbing tantalizing circles. “I’m close, sweetheart. I need you to come with me, can you do that?” You nod letting out a small, uh-huh.

He presses down on your clit making your leg shake around his waist. “I-I,” you stutter. Xaden shushes you, knowing what you’re about to say. “I can feel you squeezing me, baby. I know, me too.” With a few more thrusts you let out a moan, coming undone around Xaden’s cock.

His head drops into the crook of your neck as he relishes in the feel of your walls fluttering around his cock. Squeezing around him a rare whimper left Xaden’s lips as he came.

Neither of you moved. Just laying on the mat, chests heaving as you held each other. “Fuck,” you breathe out. Yanking on Xaden’s hair you find that smirk on his lips that told you there was more. “You still didn’t get your move from earlier. This was your reward for trying.” He hovered over your lips, only slightly grazing them. “You still need to be punished, sweetheart.”

[scribbledghost]

Some Christmas headcanons for Neighbor!Simon:

The first year he's home for Christmas is after his medical discharge.

He does not let you in. At all. You go over to see him, he gives you a curt explanation that it's a bad time, and closes the door on you.

After that, he essentially hermits until after Christmas. You can barely tell he's even there.

By the time next Christmas rolls around, you're an official couple. Have been for some months.

He lets you in and explains why christmastime is so hard for him. He tells you that he can't be too close to the lights and decorations without feeling like he's back in time, surrounded by the bodies of his family.

He still hermits that year, but not quite as much. If you set up decorations, he won't come around your place, but he's less opposed to you coming to visit him.

He starts trying to DIY his own therapy after that, essentially. Starts trying to do exposure therapy on himself. If you see a therapist, he goes with you and picks up some tricks via osmosis.

Its success is... shaky, but it's something, considering how he refuses to see an actual therapist himself.

Thus, the third Christmas he spends at home, he does what you think is the unthinkable.

He asks to help you decorate your Christmas tree.

You tentatively agree, not wanting to throw him into a crisis, but he's insistent. Says it would be good exposure, that you're a safe space for him. He promises to tell you if it gets to be too much.

So... you decorate a tree with him. He helps you set it up, helps you put the garland and lights on, hands you ornaments to put on and puts some on for you if there are any spots you can't reach.

You can tell he's hesitant through the entire affair. Cautious. Like he's expecting a flashback to hit him or a panic attack to rear its head. But neither of them do.

Until you get to the very last part - the star on top.

You turn to him with it in your hands, asking if he'd like to do the honors.

He looks at it for a moment, and then you see his eyelids slam shut as he grimaces. His breathing picks up, and he starts clenching and unclenching his fists. The only explanation he offers is a quiet "Think I'm back there again."

You gently guide him to sit, kneeling in front of him. He has an iron grip on your hands as you go through some breathing and grounding exercises with him, reminding him that he's not in the past, that he's here with you.

It's a process that takes some time, but eventually you lead him back from his flashback. By now, he's tired. Worn out from his fight.

You take over and take care of him (with, surprisingly, only minor complaints from him). You take him home, curling up with him and putting on a movie.

He tries to apologize, but you won't have it. Instead, you let him rest while the television plays softly in the background.

His position of choice is on the couch, him laying atop you with his head on your chest while you massage his scalp.

He feels guilty. You know he does. You can tell him over and over how he has nothing to feel guilty for, how proud you are of him for even trying at all, but you know he doesn't believe it. Not fully.

So instead, you do your best to be there for him. And he appreciates it more than words can say.

You're his world, and as he lays atop you listening to your heartbeat, he feels so much gratitude for you that it makes his chest ache.

[yandere-wishes]

The Spider’s Web

Summary: You are a hero, you feel it within your bones. Calamity may strike and villains may rise. But you are still a hero, it's time to start acting like one. 

Continuations of Imposter Syndrome and Perfect Girl. But can be read as a stand-alone

 Warnings: Yandere themes,  violence, angst, just the worst Spanish you've ever heard.  SFW but Miles and the reader are 18+

Author's note: Last part of the Prowler Miles x Hero reader trilogy. Reblogs and comments are appreciated. 

There's a weight in your hand, familiar and awkward, worn yellow plastic stuck to rusted metal. You count the rotations it takes for one bolt to tighten, twist, twist, and repeat. You cradle the metallic gadget with such fragile care, lips tracing silent prayers across the cold alloy. This shall be your salvation once it's complete. Another key to unbinding these appalling shackles.

It's been months since the Prowler took you away. Locked you within his new hideout and threw away the key. He claims he loves you as he leaves sugar-tainted kisses upon your neck. Whispers that he's the only one who can keep you safe as he nibbles the shell of your ear. His claws have become a constant force upon your hips, his presence a burden, invariant and throttling. He's stripped you of your mantle as a hero, reduced you to a limbless, formless creature that merely exists within the dark of his room. Una muñeca, he calls you as he extinguishes the air from your lungs with a life-sucking kiss. 

But you're not a doll, nor a puppet, nor a toy. You're supposed to be a paladin, a saviour, the one who was going to alleviate this city of evil once and for all. But you're not a superhero, not now, not anymore. The thought is enough to make you sick. 

Your own reflection causes you the most pain. The glass paints a stranger with hollow eyes and a decaying soul. Defeated and broken. You've taken to smashing mirrors as a way to exercise your demons. Miles has stated his vexation over this and warned you not to invoke his anger again. It's hard to explain that his anger makes you feel human. The way his eyes narrow and his lips merge into displeasure is the only thing keeping you alive right now. You hate him, but he's practically forgotten that.

Your ears perk up as footsteps tread outside the room. You quickly rush to hide your new gauntlet under the bed, rolling to the deepest corners where the dust bunnies and boogeyman roam. You perch yourself on the bed, stretch to grab a framed family photo from one of the shelves, and focus your eyes. Keep busy, it's the best way to avert his suspicions. 

There's a light creek before Miles steps in. Footsteps heavy as if the ground's going to give way under him. He looks exhausted, practically dead. You wonder what he's been up to all day. You turn your head to face your nemesis, your jailer, your lover.

"Mi Vida" he mutters as he falls back on the bed, he turns wrapping his arms around your waist. "That slimy alien insisted I do some physical training today. It's exhausting. Says I need to be in shape for the big operation". You stiffen, ever since the sinister six had you out of their way, they'd been content with ruling the city with an iron fist. Nothing major, nothing extreme. But something is going down, something bad. Desperation throbs within your heart, you need to escape. 

Miles pulls you down until you're lying next to him. Gently prys the photo from your hands and looks it over. There's an endless moment that reverberates between you two. "I miss him sometimes'' he confesses, his eyes locked on his father's face. He looks like a child hopeless and lost. Desperate in all the ways you've never been. He pulls you closer and buries his head in the crock of your neck. It almost feels like love. If love was a thousand leeches that stick to every crevice of your body. Slowly infiltrating the heart. Slowly sucking away your life. 

Miles is a storm, a typhoon, a calamity. All hurling winds and bellowing thunder. A hurricane that shakes the world to its core. You've gotten so used to thinking of him as anything but human that you forgot he's just a boy. A boy with a heartbeat and a thousand painful memories all locked behind golden eyes. 

You remember when he used to tell you stories. Back when the safest place for a hero and a villain was the midnight sanctuary of a rooftop.

Stories of his childhood back when his father was still alive. Back when he was seven or maybe eight naive enough to believe his father's empty preaches about justice and righteousness. Mind too preoccupied with the new Rover red hot wheel his father had brought home after his shift. He'd been happy once, a long, long time ago.

Back then you used to think about him, in the spare moments between explosions and your blood pounding through your ears. You used to think about what kind of boy Miles would have been if his father had still been around. How sweet his smile could have been, how precious his soul would have been. Even after he kidnapped you and put you through horrors untold, you still think about the boy he could have been. Dare to imagine who he could have been. You wonder if his touch could have been endearing, could have made you feel safe. Half addicting and half comforting. It's laughable really, you never thought it possible to miss someone you've never met. Yet it unlocks a special kind of sadness within your heart. Maybe in some other lifetime, the two of you could have been real lovers. 

"We're planning to expand outside of New York, take over everything else," Miles says as his eyes grow heavier. He's tired, you think, that's good, that very very good. "There's no one left to get in our way." There's a dreadful banging in the back of your head. A screaming voice begging you to escape, to run away, to do SOMETHING, anything. There's a fatigue that has encompassed Miles, engulfed him whole. He's dead to the world in minutes. Whilst you are tortured by your consciousness. Your gadgets aren't ready. They're made from scrap bits you found around the hideout. Half assembled and never tested. Yet Miles is asleep, exhausted and unconscious. It's the perfect chance to run to return to your old life. 

Take a leap of faith, what's the worst that can happen...

You spare one last glance at Miles. Close your eyes and take in a shaky breath. A leap of faith you repeat within your head. You roll out of the bed and rummage under it to find your hidden gems. They're not perfect, not finished, but hopefully, they'll work. Your gauntlets are the most important part, they should theoretically be strong enough to break the seals on the window. From there you can use what little web filler alternative you were able to make to swing away from this dreadful place. Run and hide, New York is huge he shouldn't be able to find you. 

You rush for the window, pry the bolts loose, pull and pull until your muscles begin to collapse. The window creaks open and it sounds like freedom and hope all entwined with a fleece of dread. You step out onto the ledge. A hunting summer breeze ghosts across your face, as sirens scream in the background. A million lights bathe the city in a welcoming glow. You take a breath, turn around and fall. Diving into a concrete ocean, a place where you can finally feel alive. 

The rebirth of a hero has begun...

What is a hero in a land of villains? A shining star or a decaying light. To them, you are a monster, ripped from your mother's womb with a craving for blood and justice. To Miles, you used to be a beast, chained and tamed. He forgot that you were a numen. That you were something he had to fear. 

There's a divinity hidden inside each hero. Bones made of golden marrow that births sacred cells. A hero's blood is holy Ichor running through their veins. Ripping them apart from the inside and reassembling them as modern martyrs who shall die amongst the neon lights. 

How can you expect anything less from yourself? How can you be anything other than hallowed? You refuse to be anything other than sacred, trimmed in gold, and born of desert diamonds. 

Your eyes are focused on the last warehouse, Vulture, and Dr.Octopus are overviewing the newest cargo shipment. They're the last of the sinister six to die. The final lines to add to your tally. Then you can focus on the prowler.

After you escaped it took many days to find a safe place to hideout. You spend every second rummaging through the streets in search of new parts to use. You need a functional suit, one that could at the very least get you in and out of the Sinister Six's stock houses without detection. Then you could focus on stealing upgrades. You needed the strength, the extra power. There's a festering hunger pounding in your cranium. Desperate to get out. It screams the ballads of a vengeful melody. The need for retribution has become a cruel addiction, one that has driven you further than you ever dreamed possible. 

You stare out at the warehouse from your perch upon a skyscraper. 

 Count the seconds before the bomb detonates. On the count of three, a shiver goes up your spine. An acquainted terror, he's found, you feel his digital case price you from inside the shadows. Phantom pains resurface as old bruises begin to bloom. You earned your freedom to the symphony of breaking bones and tearing flesh. To the desperate tugs of your heartstrings as if it were a harp. There is no way you'll permit him to take it from you again. 

"Long time no see mami" His voice is gruff, hidden behind the layers of his mask. A small part of you used to miss this. Missed the Prowler you had fought almost daily. Missed the punching and kicking and the desperate need to kill or kiss one another. "Hello Miles" you spit his name like poison behind your teeth. Somewhere in the distance the bomb detonates, vermillion and smoke fill the air and you feel your heart skip in jovial delight. 

You twirl across the edge of the building, hands stuck out on either side. You look like a bird, like a ballerina. Like a friendly neighborhood Spidergirl. "What, you want us to beat each other up? For old time's sake."

Mile's mask slips away and he looks at you with eyes too dead for his young age. "You left me!" he screams, with a voice sheathed in pain, in anger, in broken dreams that had shattered far too quickly. 

You wonder if the mask has cut off the oxygen going into his brain. "Of course, I left you!" You scream, "You turned me into a metaphysical, gutless monster, you stripped me of every heroic deed I had embedded into your heart. You robbed me of my faith, my morals, my soul. Did you ever think I could love you after all that..." 

"You're talking crazy little bug, I was protecting you"

"From what! From the villains, I could have destroyed!"

There's rage leaking out of every aperture of his body. Anger within his lungs, pounding and prudent destructive at best. He rushes towards you, with every intent to kill to maim. He tackles you over the edge. You wonder if he has a death wish. You wonder if he's in love. 

You're falling into a sea of dying stars. Miles's arms wrap tightly against your waist. The ground seems infinitely far and yet ever so close. 

You wonder if Miles fears death or if he welcomes it. It wouldn't matter either way. For the first time in longer than you care to remember you feel so alive, dead tissue gives way to the howling wind in your ears. There's no end in sight. If you die, at least you'll die in each other's arms. Raindrops race past you splattering across the pavement, in a final moment of yearning, you sling your web against a low rise hoping it'll soften the fall. 

You wake up to the wet street. Miles's body sprawled out next to you. Inching closer you feel his pulse throb under your fingertips, a caged beast vying for its freedom. Desperate, desperate, desperate, exactly how he makes you feel. His eyes peel open, stardust and nectar falling from them. He's beautiful you think, he's deadly you recall. "and here I thought we had something special mami" he mumbles as his eyes begin to close. He'll live, you're sure of it. You just have to muster enough energy to drag him back to your lair. Tie him up for good measure, give him a taste of his own medicine. Maybe now with the Sinister Six gone and the city finally at peace. Maybe now with every bad influence scrubbed clean from his life. Miles can finally become a real boy. Maybe you two can finally become real lovers. 

There's a light that dances in front of your eyes. Rogue fire and magic all wrapped in one. A man steps out of it or maybe a seraphim. It's really hard to tell with the throbbing at the back of your head. He introduces himself. He looks just like you, spiders etched into his skin and pain pooling inside his eyes. You wonder if he's been through the same horrors as you.

But Miguel is older, a crooked thing. All fangs and blood and claws. You peel yourself from the ground and wobble over to him. Collapsing in his arms. Tears fall from your eyes matching the tears of the heavens.

"It's over little one, the pain is finally over" You know he's lying. Yet it soothes you. You know your new life as the protector of New York has just begun. 

You are Spidergirl now and your life has just turned into a Sisyphean labor

Sorry it's not as good as the other two, I was having a hard week lol

taglist: @nkmblackhyuuga @itsnotino @huicitawrites @bennybenten @scarleste @the-rouge-robin @murderofravens

[jean0farc]

#!! - 𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑻 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑹𝑰𝑴𝑺𝑶𝑵 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑬𝑵 — 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞 ; ᴄᴏʀᴏɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴅᴀʏ

(Cross-posted from my AO3)

CHAPTER ONE - CHAPTER TWO - CHAPTER THREE

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: smut.

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Griffith X You (fem! Reader)

𝖘𝖞𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖘𝖎𝖘:

Having been spoiled by your father as an only child after your mother’s death, there existed you, a young, yet rebellious maiden known amongst Midland as Princess Scarlet. Being the subject of envy by commoners who wanted nothing more than to overthrow the kingdom, you were rather…..indifferent. As a princess, you exercised pride in your achievements, deeming you fit for the role of succeeding your father on the throne.

Even after your father’s death caused by poisoning, your dream to have your own kingdom never faltered in the slightest. In fact, ruling over Midland with an iron fist has been made easy and simple considering your royal blood.

Subsequently, your ambitious demeanor and philosophy attracted none other than the military genius who led a group of mercenaries known as the Band of The Hawk. Sir Griffith; a man who never fell short of what were to be defined as a noble, if it were not for his common blood.

To put it simply, Griffith never planned on building his empire overnight. Instead, he harbored ulterior motives where he would rather…..bend you, the Queen, to his liking before taking over Midland.

….And the consequences of YOU having a fragile ego never ceased to reveal itself.

𝖈𝖜: none as of now.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗’𝖘 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊:

No smut for the first chapter!

To minors: this space isn’t for you. Berserk is a warning in itself. Go away. Do not interact.

Anyways, I’m back with a new fic and it’s basically my own version while still keeping the canon verse of Berserk clear.

In this verse, expect certain things:

— Princess Charlotte does NOT exist.

— YOU are the Princess/Queen of Midland.

— The story will mainly focus on Griffith, not Guts.

Before commenting, I would like to caution you for potential rape/non-con elements (it’s Griffith we’re talking about here) to be depicted in later chapters of the story.

What I write is pure fantasy, and is mostly just me projecting on my original character (in this case, Queen Scarlet) who has a rather peculiar relationship with Griffith.

Anyways, grab some popcorn, and chill a little while we watch our original character slowly get taken advantage of by the devil himself.

The Kingdom of Midland. Such is a name given to the central region of the Physical World where nobles dominate and savages eliminate. One had the luxury of resting within the comfort of their own home while dining with only the finest cuisine made known to man. The other had to hustle and kill for the sake of money and survival…....while for potential evildoers and traitors, the sake of achieving their dream.

It was your coronation day after all, one of the most awaited events in all of Midland’s history. Following your father’s death caused by an incident of poisoning, the nobles immediately turn to you as a successor to the throne. You were a bit nervous, so to speak, but ready to accept your new role and give your speech as the newly appointed ruler of Midland.

It was already sunset, the halls decorated with red roses, bushes, and your favorite type of flower, the Amaryllis. You just loved the sight of red the way you liked your tea. Red, so to speak, was your favorite color. It just looks and feels powerful, like the way sunlight pierces its way through your eyes. You liked shoving your presence down people’s throats, to make them remember your name as you rejoiced in your own superiority as the new Queen.

Red was the visual embodiment of your dream—to rule and render yourself capable of building your own empire. Because of that, the King, your very own father, feared for your safety. And boy, was that prediction true.

Not only was your safety compromised, but prior to meeting the White Hawk who was addressed as Sir Griffith, things went downhill after that encounter as a sudden number of royal guards dropped dead. Not only were you disgusted by the smell of blood that filled the hallways the week before your coronation, but the five words whispered to your ear was what sent chills across your spine. Those five words made you shiver in questionable fear despite you taking it as just an empty threat.

“You belong to me, Princess.”

And then came the surge of mysterious events such as your father’s death.

Supposedly, you were expected to be excited for such an event like the coronation ceremony as you longed all your life to become Queen, but something about the whole situation didn’t feel right. You were at a loss for words, being unable to understand why your father was poisoned in an instant and how planning the ceremony felt rushed.

You shivered at the thought of meeting the Band of the Hawk once more, immediately suspecting that one of them killed your father.

“Our beloved guests, our crowning guests, respected parents of the nobles, and that of the civilians. Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon.” announced the event speaker of the ceremony. “Once again, we have gathered here to witness the coronation ceremony of the Royal Family to be headed by Queen Scarlet and the rest of the officials appointed to serve her Majesty. Kindly rise for the ceremony proper.”

A huge audience of youngsters stood to give thanks towards your family for a job well done in leadership, singing songs of praise as time passed by. You were, of course, getting quite the goosebumps knowing your time is up as a princess. However, you can’t help but falter, thinking of your father’s untimely demise just about two weeks ago.

You were lost in thought, unable to pay attention to the songs sung in honor of you. Something was very wrong. You sweat and panted hard, not because you didn’t know what to say or do given the situation, but because you didn’t want to actually meet up with Griffith and the rest of his comrades due to some suspicions about the leader’s motives.

“Before we start, may I request everyone to observe silence as the ceremony begins to maintain its solemnity. Reserve your ‘hoorays’ for the latter part of the coronation. Thank you very much for your full cooperation.”

The rest of the coronation ceremony followed. You were nervous, biting your nails as you slowly prepared your speech in front of thousands. You knew Griffith would be watching

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Alas, it was your turn to give out a speech that serves as a public declaration of your aims, intentions, and actions to be taken to further improve the economic and sociocultural growth of Midland.

Standing up, you could feel the eyes of crowds searching you from head to toe, but none of them ever gave you the impression that someone was truly watching you.

At the exterior of the venue, there sneaked a young man with white, flowing hair and a pair of blue eyes. It was him. Griffith. He didn’t make his own presence clear before you, he covered his tracks very well. But, little did he know, you could peek at his silhouette from afar. Knowing he made his way past the guards with extreme caution showed his prowess in strategy and disarming opponents with great ease.

Yes, he just wanted to hear your speech. After all, knowing how someone would open up about a fraction of their lives would be crucial in undergoing one’s plan to achieving their dreams, yes?

This was your moment. You let out a deep breath and spoke clearly as you cleared your throat.

“Greetings, my beloved fellowmen. It’s been a pleasure having to meet with you all to this very moment.” you greeted the audience with a friendly, approachable tone. “Throughout this memorable day, I was able to discern all your prayers dedicated to me and my family, especially in honor of my father’s passing. As an inherent successor to the throne, I have maintained a significant awareness through the years that my people, spread far and wide throughout every continent and ocean in the world, were united to support me in the task to which I have now been dedicated with such solemnity.”

The muffled voice of your speech was rendered audible to Griffith from the outskirts of the palace. He was perhaps….fascinated by your rather….pushy attitude on things. It didn’t take long before he palmed the area between his hips, hiding such an unsightly appearance as he began to fantasize about you under his control. He wanted nothing more than to dissect you in every detail possible, to know your deepest fears and motives of having to rule such a flawed kingdom. But little did you know, was that he wanted this kingdom all to himself.

“The ceremonies you have seen today are ancient, but some of their origins are hidden in the mists of the past. Their spirit and meaning still rise from the flames of finiteness. Perhaps, they still shine more brightly than we’ve expected them to do so. I have pledged allegiance with all my heart that I shall lead this kingdom, uplifting it further to claiming a thousand more victories than you would ever anticipate. Throughout all my life and with all my heart I shall strive to be worthy of your trust.”

Griffith’s eyes narrowed as he hid behind the doors alongside the two guards who were apparently slain before they could even fight back.

He wanted you.

And there was nothing more satisfying than breaking one of the strongest, most powerful women who once took an interest in the art of swordsmanship. But he would rather not challenge you to a duel; not because he underestimated your capabilities, but because he saw such barbaric acts to be unbefitting of a lady with high status.

An hour later, trumpets played as the Grim Reapers of the Battlefield were to be promoted as bodyguards, yes, bodyguards, of your kingdom. The King trusted you to this group of mercenaries who promised nothing short of protecting your integrity and wellbeing as the princess. But one thing’s for sure, it’s that their leader was bound to be missing.

You stepped down from the stage to observe your audience for any problems which may arise from the White Hawk’s absence.

“Wait, where’s Griffith? But he was just here about minutes ago!” Rickert exclaimed. “He can’t just be wandering out in the open like this! Griffith! Hang in there! We’re on our way!”

“Cut the crap.” Guts said, alerting his fellow comrades. “There must be a way to proceed with the ceremony without Griffith being of any concern.”

“But Guts-”

Recognizing and appreciating your bodyguards (or perhaps, some new friends) wasn’t all that bad. Perhaps you were intimidated by some of the mercenaries, but they played an integral part of your big day.

It was only one moment within that band that spooked you, it was the White Hawk revealing himself—it was Griffith. By that moment when Griffith claimed you to be his, you began to not take those words lightly and managed to develop a slight sense of fear. What did he exactly mean by that?

You brushed off your thoughts on the matter and shook hands with nearly all the members, with Griffith being an exception (obviously). Rumor has it that he’s still hiding where the sun doesn’t shine, covering his tracks in order to reveal himself before you in the very end.

And God forbid what kind of plans he had for you that night.

[navybrat817]

It's a Ginger Thing

Pairing: Soft Dark!Nick Fowler x Female Reader Summary: Feeling a bit stir crazy from your daily routine, you share an idea with Nick that may be good for the other wives. Word Count: Over 1.5k Warnings: Implied smut, noncon/dubcon elements (you have been warned), gaps in memory, gaslighting, coercion, creepy vibes, Nick Fowler (yep, he's a warning) A/N: Nick and Ginger's Intro for my Disturbia AU! ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Nick took you to the gym at the same time each day before he went to work. Exercising was your favorite part of your daily routine. It gave you a chance to get out of the house, stay in shape, and have some time with your husband before he went on his way and you got to work on your chores. It was also a good way to get some of your frustrations out of your system, which you could only do so much through cleaning.

A good wife keeps a tidy home for her husband.

You pinched the bridge of your nose as you stopped in mid stretch. It was difficult to pinpoint why you weren’t overly fond of cleaning. It wasn’t that you didn’t like a put together home and you would never look down on anyone who thrived on being a stay-at-home spouse. But it wasn’t a way for you to flourish. It was as if one day you just decided to give up on your wants without a second thought.

What did I want to do before we moved to The Haven? I had goals, didn’t I? Ambition?

You sometimes liked to imagine that you wanted something more beyond the duties of a housewife. Something exciting or a job that could help people in some way. It was possible to support Nick in the ways he needed while having something of our own. Was that too much to ask?

Yes. Because Nick helps so many with his job, along with taking care of me. Supporting him should be enough.

“What’s wrong?” Nick asked when you quickly finished stretching.

“Nothing,” you said, putting your hands on your hips as his bright blue eyes focused on you. Seeing him in his workout clothes, the taut muscles defined through the fabric, made it difficult to concentrate. “Just don’t really think I’m up for doing any housework today.”

“Your head bothering you?” he asked, taking a sip of water with an unwavering gaze.

Nick was a little different from some of the men you knew in the neighborhood. From what you observed, Steve ruled his home with an iron fist and he expected Cherry to fall in line. You had to bite back a retort more than once when you saw how he treated her, especially since she was so kind. Scott was one of the nicest guys on the block, but traditional in that he expected Rose to find fulfillment as a homemaker and future mother. Andy and Ruby, you still weren’t quite sure how they fit together, but they at least seemed happy.

But Nick? It didn’t bother him if you skipped cooking one night to order takeout or if you let laundry go for a day. The last time you snapped at him to put his own plate in the dishwasher, he laughed and bent you over the kitchen table until you were a drooling mess. All while telling you he loved the fire inside you. Because at the end of the day, he wanted you by his side and in his bed.

That was the only true rule he enforced: Don’t ever leave him.

And why would I? Nick Fowler is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.

“I think you went away there for a second,” he said.

“Sorry. Guess my head is bothering me,” you replied, graciously accepting the other bottle as he handed it over.

You never expected to crave fruit infused water, but it soothed the aches in your body. You once asked if he put muscle relaxers or something in your drinks since you always seemed to feel better once you had them. He said “yes” with the most serious expression before he winked. And you promptly dumped your drink out. He had to make them in front of you for a week straight before you took them again without question. It didn’t matter that it was a joke to him because you took it seriously.

Nick wouldn’t hurt me though. He loves me with his entire being.

“So, I was thinking,” you began, pausing to take a large sip.

“That can’t be good,” he joked, chuckling when you grabbed his towel to toss it at him. “Kidding! I was kidding. What’s going on in that beautiful brain of yours?”

I don’t know half the time and that scares me.

“I was thinking that it might be good if I taught the girls a little bit of self-defense. Maybe we can rent out a spot here? Or I can even teach it in our backyard?” You told him, giving him a pleading smile. “What do you think?”

“Why would you want to do that?” he asked, motioning for you to follow him to one of the sparring mats.

Where Nick goes, I’ll follow him.

“It would be good for me to break up my routine a little bit. I love our time here at the gym and it’s fun hanging out with the girls, but I think it might be good for all of us. I know that we live in a safe neighborhood, but you never know what'll happen.”

“I'm sure Ruby can defend herself just fine,” he joked, running a hand through his short hair. You could tell he was trying to get your attention on him and not the topic at hand.

“And what about Cherry and Rose?” you asked. “And didn’t you say someone is living with Bucky now? What about her?”

“Plum. We haven’t met her yet,” Nick shrugged a little. “I understand that you don’t want to stay home all the time, but I really don't see the need for a self-defense class. The others will probably feel the same way.”

“Of course, you don't see the need for it,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “You know why? Because you're not here. Day in and day out, you get to leave and go to work. The other husbands get to leave. And the wives? We’re stuck here. It’s enough to drive me crazy.”

Don’t raise your voice at your husband.

A shuddering breath left your lungs when Nick clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. It reminded you of a nightmare you had before you moved into the neighborhood. Of him chasing you down and catching you with that same terrifying look before he fucked you into submission. There was an ache between your thighs when you woke up, but he assured you it was nothing more than a vivid, terrible dream.

You felt so bad about it that you ended up apologizing to him.

A good wife knows when to concede to her husband and chooses her battles wisely.

“Whatever it is that you're feeling, you don't need to take it out on me. I'm on your side,” he reminded you before he took a deep breath. “Look. I can’t make any promises that anyone will be okay with a self-defense class, but I’ll at least ask.”

“You will?” you asked in a softer voice, bringing your water to your lips and deflating a bit as the cool liquid flowed through your body.

“I will,” he promised, taking the drink away from you when you gave a smile. “May I offer a compromise in case they say no? An aerobics class? This way you can still get quality time with the girls here.”

That didn’t seem like a fair compromise to you. How would aerobics help the girls, besides staying in shape? But the smile Nick gave you was enough to back down the rising words in your throat.

Nick knows the best course of action.

“I’ll consider that,” you said, gasping when he kicked your feet out from under you. Luckily, you didn’t get the wind knocked out of you as you landed on your back. “Nick!”

“Always be aware of your surroundings, Ginger,” he smirked, joining you on the ground. He easily caught your wrists and pinned them above your head. The position left you vulnerable. “If you’re going to help these girls, you need to be able to help yourself.”

“I can,” you said through your teeth.

I’m not weak. I’m stronger than he thinks I am.

“Yeah? Then get out from under me or stay there and let me get you off,” he said, bending down to brush his lips against yours. “Or maybe I should leave you hanging for snapping at me.”

You moaned when he dipped his hips against yours. Was it the control he had that made him hard or the fact that anyone could walk into the gym and catch you? It wouldn’t be the first time. He liked it when others caught him fucking you.

He’s a proud husband and there’s nothing wrong with that.

“Sorry I snapped,” you whispered, arching your back when he tightened his grip on your wrists.

“Why don’t you let your pussy show me how sorry you are? Then I’ll believe you.”

Whatever Nick wants, he gets. And I’ll be happy to give it to him.

Good life with Nick, right? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Nick Fowler Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[livwritesstuff]

You are such a creative person. I have almost finished all of "plant a seed" and the way you've written the characters and their thoughts and manurism is just *chef's kiss* dreamy.

Also, your droplets from the Steddie dad life brightens my day.

THANK YOU!!! Holy moly you are too sweet.

This series and this community have definitely been a bright spot in my life and I'm always so happy to hear that it's doing the same for other folks too <3

Have a double post today for being such a lovely soul

(in the form of a deleted flashback from plant a seed)

In retrospect, signing Robbie up for karate classes might have been a mistake.

Perhaps the bigger mistake, though, was signing the five-year-old up for karate classes a month before Robin and Nancy came over for their annual ironic watch of WWE’s Wrestlemania, or so Steve ponders as he watches Robbie swing her fists in Moe’s direction.

Moe, their ever-unshakable seven-year-old, is unfazed.

“Robbie,” Steve warns her. Robbie ignores him and aims several more punches at Moe, “Amelia Robin, we talked about this.”

“I wanna wrestle!” Robbie whines, crossing her arms and stomping a sneaker-clad foot so her shoe lit up.

“You can’t just start swinging at people and call it wrestling.”

Robbie glares at him for a moment, clearly weighing her desire to exercise whatever she’s learning in karate with the consequences it would come with. She uncrosses her arms and closes her fists, looking at them thoughtfully. As Robbie fidgets with her fingers, Steve knows what’s coming, and when she eventually unfolds one of the middle ones, he just stares at her, eyebrows raised.

“Stairs,” he finally says, tipping his head in the direction of the designated ‘time-out’ spot at the bottom of the stairs.

As Robbie is trudging over to the stairs and plopping herself down on the bottom step, Eddie walks into the living room. He gets one look at his daughter pouting in time-out and says, “How? We’ve been home for five minutes?”

“She flipped Papa the bird,” Moe supplies.

“Which I blame you for, by the way,” Steve adds, giving his husband a pointed look, “Since you’re the one with the bright idea to teach that shit to them.”

Eddie feigns a bow, then points at Robbie.

“Not cool, girlie. We had a deal, did we not? No more making me look bad in front of Papa?”

Robbie shrugs, but behind the wall of curls she let fall in front of her face, Steve could just barely see the way her pout was turning into a smile, even against her will.

Eddie turned to face Steve again.

“Moe was sent to the principal’s office today,” he said.

“Why?” Steve asked.

“Well, according to her teacher, she shared her crackers with her friend during snack time, which apparently means she has to share with the whole class.”

Steve furrowed his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I dunno,” Eddie shook his head, “But according to her, Moe said ‘no, I’m seven, and this is the real world, not Communist Russia.’”

“And her teacher didn’t like that?” Steve asked sarcastically.

“No, she did not,” he replied, “And she really didn’t like when I said that I don’t think she’s wrong.”

“Another banner day for the Harrington family."

[terrence-silver]

Hello 🖤 I love seeing your blog pop up in my feed, simply exquisite 🖤

I have a request. What would older Terry Silver do with an adult student who is rather boisterous in class, she listens but only when she wants, she's a smarty pants. Terry so wishes to teach her a lesson after many months of class passing, learning her mannerisms, learning HER. Ever the voyeur, finding her home, seeing what lies within when she's not home, Terry plans a little 'private lesson,' specifically for her at his home dojo. Ending with his gi sloppy on him, his hair a mess like the slut he is with his student underneath him with no mercy being shown. His student definitely listens to HIS wants and desires, eager to please.

Breaking Stone.

(Terry Silver x Reader)

---

-"How safe is this, Sensei? I mean, it’s solid rock."- 

Your voice speaks up from the gathered crowd and Terry Silver, he knew you’d have something to say without having to turn his back towards the mass of students keenly eyeing his demonstration in silence, standing jam packed in a circle around the erected board with a concrete block fastened to the center of the scaffolding propped up on iron legs, following his every word like a mantra only for him predict that your mouth will eventually move to utter something and dare interrupt him. Class fifty eight. A lesson on Brick Breaking. Tools necessary; pretty straightforward. A slab of rock and a fist. Additional spices; your usual commentary in the midst of it all. Happened almost daily. Happened to the degree it was a constant he could count on. -"We’ll break our hands on that."- You add with a sense of urgency and worry once the entirety of the exercise’s participants turn their eyes towards you, scrutinizing, weighing and accessing what you just blurted out and you tended to blurt out stuff frequently. Terry joins them in their quiet staring, finding a twitch of satisfaction stir through him once he realized you were jittery and stuttering, made self aware through the fact you were the sudden center of attention. Needing to justify yourself for placing the spotlight unto yourself, you blurt out some more bullshit. Nerves, was it? You deserved that. Deserved much worse for stepping out of line. -"What do we do in case we tear our ligaments punching the board?"- You ask, scratching the back of your head. Ligaments? Were you frightened of getting a boo-boo? At that point, Terry allows himself to turn his entire body towards you, taking his time, slowly --- painfully slowly --- looking straight ahead, towards you. You shift, from one bare foot on the mat to the other, like the stillness of everything around you gave you a sense of discomfort.

Stew in it. He hoped you'd stew in it.

-"Seems a bit extreme. Sorry."-

You chuckle, apologizing, looking down. Then back up.

Terry has to chuckle with you, neatly folding his hands in front of him.

A bit extreme? It was meant to be extreme.

-"Our student here thinks our methods are strange, but these classes aren’t mandatory."-

He simply shrugs matter-of-factly, addressing the people around him, all eyes leave you and pinning themselves in his direction instead, encircling him like a tightly closed ring, listening attentively, leaving you even more isolated in your folly. The great mother hen and the ducklings. The one, solitary ugly black duck that talked too much. -"Nobody’s here by force."- He explains, and contrary to popular belief, everyone here gave their signature of consent on a written contract. Terms. Conditions. Price rates. Health insurances. They showed up to daily classes because they wanted to, giving their hard earned money out of their own volition. He didn't go kidnapping people off of the streets of LA and harassing them into black Gi, in spite of what the likes of Larusso tried to accuse him of, same way not even Larusso himself was harassed into this, decades ago. -"Or are you all here by force?"- Terry purses his lips, looking around, enjoying this far too much to stop. In unison, they all speak up, one voice, stemming from one collective lung. -"No, Sensei!"- The dojo resonates with their shout. He tries again, spreading his arms, envisioning himself like Pontius Pilate about to wash his hands clean of you and let the crowds make their decisions. -"Why are you here for then?"- He inquires, raising his voice, encouraging them. Spurring them on. -"To learn, Sensei!"- Obeying, they repeat the motion, letting out a united cry and content, Terry squeezes his fingers into a fist once they all fall silent, all but an echo remaining, his other free hand caressing the concrete block in front of him, never taking his eyes off of you. At this point, with a mouth standing agape, forgetting you should've joined everyone in their jubilant war cry, you were as pale as a ghost. Not quite so chatty or smart anymore.

Perfect.

-"The lesson is —"- He begins. -"A true artist of the craft spends years, even decades just hitting things. Sand. Wood. Stone. Metal. Flesh."-

Terry coos, confessing, that he did, on occasion, imagine hitting you.

The sweetest thing he'd ever strike. Purely to shut you up, get you the way you were right now; As quiet as the dead; all gulps and anxious little eyes darting left and right. Preferably having you bent over his knee like an unruly child and taking the bamboo stick to you bare buttocks until they were rendered crimson red with punishment. After it was all done, he'd have you thanking him for the honor too. He smiles, just at the notion; an expression he doesn't bother hiding.

-"Having been broken so many times, it makes their bones so dense that when it comes in contact with solid rock, the rock breaks first."-

Terry digs his teeth into his lower lip, taking his stance and lunging forward suddenly, knuckles breaking through the barrier of the rock and crumbling, his fingers pushing through the crack he made on the other side. It was as simple as that. -"Asaa!"- He bellows and if the dojo was collectively holding it's breath, once he's done, the remains of sharp jagged tiny pebbles spilling on the mat under around his feet like so many rolling marbles, he senses an equally collective exhale. He can swear you weren't blinking at that point. What were you shocked by? The fact that he just smashed through a brick that weighed ten pounds like it was nothing or the implication he's broken his hand by choice so many times that he could pull shit like this in the first place? Maybe it wasn't smart to backtalk or question the methods of a person who could crush your windpipes in with merely just his thumbs. -"So, you see — breaking our fists, it’s part of the curriculum."- He shakes his head, staring you down, taking a couple of steps forward, until it was undeniable he was addressing you in particular; his infuriatingly Doubting Thomas, ignoring the students that wordlessly volunteered to clean up, scooting down to pick up the unfortunate remains of the rock slab, chirping away at the remains like a handful of chicks. -"This is part of what you signed up for when you came to this dojo. When you came to Cobra Kai."- He assesses firmly. -"You came to break with the old so the new and the improved could take its place."- He adds. Eventually, you'd have to bruise and break in those pretty little hands much like everyone else would and if you didn't have the guts to do that, you'd advance nowhere and your here would become fairly obsolete. Someone might as well tell you that upfront.

Even though, he confessed. The idea of a piece of rock breaking your hands?

Something shoots through him, like a radioactive phantasm of jealousy.

He wanted to do the breaking instead.

Not leave it up to an inanimate piece of training gear.

-"And if you can't imagine yourself doing that, you can always take up a knitting class."-

He adds, finally, earning himself a couple of amused chuckles.

Blood rushes into your cheeks.

Were you angry? Ashamed? Humiliated? Good.

—

Looking through your files was child's game after that.

He pretty much had everything he needed to know about you, printed in black and white in his own two hands, on the very exact form you filled the day you signed up for adulted classes six months ago; your home address, bank statement, contact number, email, age, place of employment, blood type in case an accident took place mid-training and a transfusion was needed on short notice. And yes, he's broken into your home before. Terry did it the first time you ever ran your mouth to backtalk him, asking if doing fifty consecutive push ups as warm was a smart decision because it was bound to leave everyone too exhausted to hold proper form and too distracted with tiredness to properly follow the class. He checked every drawer, every shelf, every nook, every cranny, supposing he wanted to find something he could spit on in indignation and discovering nothing more fitting but what he could only deduce was your framed graduation photograph, pursuing his lips and letting the saliva build up right before he hurled the spittle out of his mouth and right unto the glass inside of the frame, watching it trickle down your face, smearing it with his finger in retaliation, deciding the gesture was fitting punishment. If only he had a chance to do it with your actual face next. Spit in your mouth too, for refusing to shut up as it did. Spit in your mouth for missing three of your classes this week, like that was a thing you were allowed to do when you weren't. Did he tear into you verbally too hard last time? Was that it? Undoubtedly, but that still didn't give you permission to leave. He wanted you to come back so he could harass you some more, like you deserved to be harassed.

He knocks on your door, freshly having concluded this week's teaching.

Still in his Gi, jacket slung over his shoulders.

He did that on purpose, to make it seem like him coming here wasn't premeditated or something he tactically prepared for in advance, but rather, like a last minute decision he made in the utmost rush to the degree he didn't even have time to change out of his training attire, forgetful, overworked old man that he is. -"Who’s there!?"- Your concerned, slightly confused voice calls from the other end and he hears the keyhole clicking, only for your uncertain face to show up in the precipice of the doorframe illuminated by the warm light of your apartment's foyer looming like a halo behind you, brows practically jumping once you recognized him, appearing relieved. -"Sensei Silver!?"- You state in surprise, opening the door entirely, letting him step over the threshold, moving out of the way to usher him inside from the corridor. He tries not to seem too familiar with the territory, pretending not to know exactly where to stand; next to the shoe rack or the coat hanger. -"God. I’m so sorry. Got scared halfway to death!"- You place your hand over your chest, exhaling and smiling. Way too fidgety for someone who took Tang Soo Do classes. What were you afraid of? Of someone barging in and subduing you? -"What do I owe the honor of the visit! I didn’t expect anyone."- You shake your head, all charm. Of course he prepared an excuse for him being here and it comes in a form of a sleek pamphlet he produces from inside of his jacket, handing it to you. He had it printed, in bulk and giving out to everyone at the dojo solely so he could have a reason to give you one to you as well. -"The curriculum. For our future classes. I thought you might wanna look through it. Freshly printed."- Terry explains. He hoped you would've continued showing up, smart mouth you always were, but there you went, disappearing. If Muhammad wouldn't come to the mountain, the mountain would have to come to Muhammad.

-"You missed the last session so I brought it over personally. Where'd you go?"-

Terry feigns concern. He knew where you went. You were pegged down a notch.

Proceeded retreating with your tail behind your legs.

That's what you get for questioning him.

But, he didn't expect you to retreat quite so definitely.

Who'd you ask if you can do that? Did you ask anyone? Him?

You eyelashes flutter, like you were about to come up with an excuse.

-"I think you're right, Sensei. I mean, the whole Cobra Kai dojo scene, ---"-

You begin, looking away from him, vehemently staring at the pattern on the corridor carpet, holding the flyer with a sense of unease, like you weren't certain what to do with it. If you crumpled it up, he'd make you eat it. -"It ain't for me. I'm not cut out for it."- You confess, finally meeting his gaze, appearing a bit shy at the notion. He knew a tangent was incoming. Decides to let you have it. And knowing you, you wouldn't shut up any time soon in the next five minutes. -"I can't do any of those things you demonstrated last week. Break my bones on purpose? Smash through rocks? Ignore pain? I know when I'm out of my depth and there's no shame in admitting something ain't for me and gracefully moving on. What you said the last time --- you helped me see that. You really did."- You utter, in one solitary breath, and it takes everything within Terry not to laugh at you. So, humiliating in front of the whole class for interrupting him for the umpteenth time with some inane observation, you thought it was for your own good and that it made you see things more clearly? What? Was that why you left his dojo like it was a bus station? Did you really take up knitting as a hobby in the meantime as well? -"I had a great time studying these past few months under you, but I just can't continue."- You visibly gulp once he says nothing and you feel incentivized to further explain. You never had a problem with that before. Go ahead. He was giving you center stage to speak. So speak. -"I talk back. I interrupt. I question. I worry. I'm so sorry. I can't just let go and do it. Do what I'm supposed to do on the mat."- You add, your eyes widening, perhaps in anxiety, pupils dilating, looking back and forth between the surrounding furniture and the wall --- anywhere but at him. Why should he let you go? When it was so fun pushing your buttons? In fact, he decides you could use some more of that.

-"Do you like me?'-

He asks, bluntly. You take a step back, stammering.

-"Excuse me, sir?"-

-"I said, do you like me?"- He repeats himself, firmer.

Your mouth wordlessly forms a shape, but no sound comes forth.

You weren't certain what to say.

Finally.

You were speechless for once. That was a welcoming novelty.

-"Because, if you like me, you won't leave me here stranded, with one student less and waltz out impulsively, on such a short notice. That's not how things work. There's a price for that."-

He winds you up, deciding to stoke a fire and then immediately extinguish it, intending to fluster you for thinking what he led you to think, watching the abject shame settle into your expression like a newly formed wrinkle just because for a mere second, you thought this was a confession of something more than it was instead of a cleverly phrased and deliberately misguiding segway intended to put you on the spot and make you feel like an idiot with no listening comprehension. -"I'll pay everything I still own and ---"- You practically stumble over your words, clutching the pamphlet to your chest vigorously, like a shield, referencing unpaid lesson, trying to regain what little balance you had, visibly sweating bullets. Stoke the fire. Extinguish the fire. Stoke the fire. Extinguish the fire. Terry steps forward, shutting you up. Commanding you to stay silent. -"Don't talk."- He orders, flatly, putting up his hand alongside his finger as a warning and then coming closer still, until the tip of it is practically pushing against your mouth. You appeared flaggerbasted. Like you weren't sure what was going on, too shocked to actually move. This was why confusing people into a state of paralytic awkwardness was paramount in verbal warfare. He pushed his index finger between your lips and you still didn't move, letting him get away with it, too stunned for words. -"For once, listen. Don't speak."- He murmurs, staring at your mouth, pushing his nail inside, feeling your wetness and finding your tongue, frozen stiff, clasping it with his thumb and index finger and holding it, pulling on it, until you groaned, trying to mutely gibber and failing. -"This is the thing that always talked back. Can't talk back anymore, can it?"- He taunts and you shake your head with an expression that would place deer in headlights to shame, shivering vigorously.

You've seen what his hands could do. What his fists could do.

He could rip your tongue out of your skull and it would pose little issue.

He felt you knew that right about now.

Practically dangled by the tip of your mouth's organ. Your head slumping back.

Unable to release yourself, you slowly lower yourself, to your knees.

-"That's good."- Terry coos, pleased, watching you drool all over his hand.

-"Open that pretty little mouth of yours and use it for something really valuable for a change."-

He purrs, even as his fingers go fidgeting, lower his Gi's trousers, loosening the obi around his waist, pulling his cock out of his briefs, showcasing it to you so the state of the situation would settle in. He'd hatefuck your mouth. He was already hard. Already dripping precum. Almost like the very act of coming here and pestering you served to do it for him as he, without much deliberation, pushed himself inside of your lips, taking in the sloppy, receptive moisture, enjoying the symbolism of the flyer he's given you falling next to you on the floorboard until you were practically kneeling atop of it. -"Perfect."- He hums, praising. -"You've been badgering and badgering and I can't tell you how many times I thought about interrupting class and just giving it to you, in front of everyone, right there, in the middle of the dojo. Let them all see what happens when someone questions Terry Silver and his methods."- Now it was his turn to make some confessions, fingers tangling into your hair, coiling into a fist, making you look at him with your watering, teary eyes. He amps up his pace, bobbing your head back and forth for you, using your tresses as reins. Look how you've infected him. Now he was the one rambling and loving it. -"But, I wanted the occasion to be something special. Someplace I could really savor it --- and what better place than right under your very own roof."- He closes his eyes, smiling, enjoying the sensation of tense pleasure building up in his gut, right before looking down at you with your brows furrowed. You were just now realizing this was premeditated. Poor you. -"Oh, don't look at me like that. Don't think I haven't been in here before. Been here a thousand times."- He chuckles into his own chin, moaning. Of course he's desecrated something miniscule every time you talked back as an elaborate form of revenge and violation, like wiping his cock on the curtain after masturbating on your bed. Nothing was for free. Disrespect certainly wasn't.

-"And you'll be seeing a lot more of me just yet. Don't think this is over. Don't think you can disassociating with Cobra Kai and me on a whim. You can't."-

He flat out threatens, his hips rutting vigorously against your head.

You thought this was a game?

You sign up to his dojo for like six months and call it quits when things get hard?

Cobra Kai was a brotherhood. A society. Not an extracurricular pastime or a hobby.

That's what people weren't getting. He didn't want them to just yet.

But you? He'd was breaking the news to you hard and fast in the flesh.

-"You belonged to me from the moment you met me and put on the Gi and you'll belong to me until your dying breath."-

He grits his teeth, shaking, seething, feeling his tresses slide out of his ponytail and unto his forehead in an unruly mess, satisfaction coiling in his groin imaging you returning to the dojo on Monday, dressed in your uniform, all neat and proper, your attitude curbed and kept only for special occasions, releasing suddenly, just at the thought that he owned you, hearing you gurgle from the floor, droplets of his cum trickling down your chin and leaking unto the Cobra Kai pamphlet on the parquet in front of you. No, no. That wouldn't do. Not a single ounce wasted. -"Swallow."- Terry orders, catching his breath, scrutinizing you as you did so, still holding your hair, yanking forward suddenly, his cock falling out of your mouth, giving you leeway to breathe again and you do, gasping with sharp inhales of breath, a bubble of saliva popping between your lips as you rolled back to sob and cough. Pathetic. Eager to serve. So you were capable of shutting the fuck up, letting go and getting lost in an action after all? You were teachable. He knew you would be. Much like the rock slab on the training dummy, though, you needed to be broken in first. Terry slides his hand across the top of his head, slicking loose hair strands back, lifting up his finger to threaten and warn once again. Remind, in case you've forgotten. Had your brains scrambled in all sorts of awkward and unlikely directions. -"So, you better not miss out on any of my classes ever again or I'll have a reason to hold a very, very big grudge. Especially if you don't show up and break that stone like I've taught everyone to do. Understood?"-

-"Yes, Sensei."- You manage desperately, drooling, nodding your head.

[multifandomslxt]

Pleaseeeeeeee Can you please write something Vernon and Bang Chan about girlfriend (reader) feeling insecure about her body and always covering her tummy? And feeling insecure about the big boobs and tights pleaseee? 😭😩🥺

I've never done body worship thingy before so i was kinda lost but I still tried my best. i didn't want to make this too sweet I needed to stir that smut in bihh

I hope you like it <333333

VERNON

Vernon had realized recently that every time you sat down with someone or a group of people you would always grab a pillow to hide your tummy or your purse or your hands. He didn't know why...but he found it weird so he asked you about it "Baby why do you do that" he gestures to your lap because ironically you were doing right now on your couch, in the comfort of your own home. You were still ready to deny it but he beat you to it "Don't lie" You sighed and told him how you just didn't like how your tummy spilled over and touched your thighs "I just feel really unattractive when everyone can see" At first, he didn't say anything, only staring at you with furrowed eyebrows and a frown. As you were about to tell him to forget about the entire situation he interrupts you "But you're hot..." he says it as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. He just doesn't understand how you came to that conclusion. He moves the pillow from in front of you and rests it behind him and before you can use your hand to cover yourself you feel his warm hand start to stroke your stomach. Without warning he completely lifts your top with his other hand. Your tits were completely exposed. "see all this?" "I love every fucking bit. don't question me or second guess when I tell you how beautiful you are" he says sternly "and this" he slaps your thigh and grips it "fuck. if you knew what I go through every time i see them you would get all shy on me" "how about I show you?"

BANG CHAN

"You what?" the shocked voice of your boyfriend echoes through your shared apartment. Both of you were laid across your shared bed having your daily 'talk' You just told him that you wanted to go on a diet and naturally, your ever-so-inquisitive boyfriend asked why. You told him the truth of course "I just think I'm getting a bit...bigger?" You hesitate "specifically my thighs and stomach. Oh, and I also read somewhere that certain diets and exercises can help shrink your boobs so I wanna try that too" You finished and that's exactly how you ended up here. Your boyfriend was currently looking at you like you just grew a head out of your ass. however, that look quickly morphed into a stern one. "Oh shit, here we go." you thought. His jaw was clenched and his hands were rolled into fists. And the eye contact, oh the eye contact was lethal. "Get up and strip." he bellowed "Chan-" you began only to be interrupted by a sharp smack at the back of your thigh "Get up and strip and go stand in front of the mirror" you didn't bother to argue the second time, simply deciding to be obedient. In a couple minutes, you were completely naked in front of the mirror accompanied by nothing but heavy breathing and a burning gaze from your boyfriend who was now sitting at the edge of the bed, manspreading. "don't you fucking look away from that mirror. Keep your eyes on yourself" He announced. With purposeful steps, he made his way to you wrapping his arm around your bare waist and giving it a firm squeeze. "You think I'm gonna let you deprive me of this?" he groaned as he caressed your love handles. you whimpered, trying to not look away from yourself. "Every fucking curve, scar, roll, and inch of cellulite is mine." he whispered in your ear. As he said this his hands roamed all over your body before gripping your ass cheek. "Now repeat after me... and don't you fucking miss a word do you understand me?" "yes, baby" you replied you could feel him smile against your ear. "good girl" his hands left your ass and started to tease your clit. "say, I am beautiful." he starts "I am beautiful." you repeat immediately after, your voice shaky but thankfully you did well. "Every mark, every roll, and every curve" he continues still teasing your clit and making you clench your thighs together "E-every mark, Every roll, and -ah fuck- every curve" you cried out "Deserves to be loved and is loved." he begins to fuck you with his finger. You could feel your orgasm reaching. "Deserves s'to be loved and is Loved - Chan I'm gonna cum!" You screamed He nods at your words "Cum" and you did. it was so intense, your legs were shaking and your vision was blurry you were about to close your eyes until he gave you a sharp smack at the back of your thigh...again. "Don't look away from yourself" and you didn't. There standing in the reflection of the mirror was you. post-orgasm glow, with your stretch marks, cellulite, big thighs, and stomach on display. You were fucking gorgeous.

[denimbex1986]

'Try and explain the motivations or internal psychology of recent Marvel Cinematic Universe villains. If one engages in this exercise, one will be quickly disappointed to see that many of these foes have no real relevance to the world audiences inhabit. Dar-Benn from The Marvels, for instance, was justifiably mad about what happened to her planet and her response to that trauma was to suck up the sun(?). Kang in Quantumania was so vaguely defined that it was impossible to get a read on the character. Kro in Eternals, meanwhile, was such a throwaway baddie that even MCU diehards likely forgot he existed! Compare such subpar adversaries to Kevin "Kilgrave" Thompson (David Tennant), the villain of the first season of Jessica Jones.

A man with the ability to control minds, Thompson kept detective Jessica Jones (Krysten Ritter) under his control for months on end. As a result of this experience, Jones struggles with PTSD and has withdrawn herself from the world. Throughout the first season of Jessica Jones, Kilgrave proves a terrifying foe and one who, despite carrying such heightened superpowers, perfectly embodies several terrifying elements of reality, such as male privilege. Kilgrave’s inability to see other people as human or even consider the humanity of those he controls is a stylized depiction of how often men in Western societies similarly refuse to gaze into the point-of-views of marginalized genders. His superpowers may have been rooted in comic books, but Kilgrave was decidedly a villain ripped from the real world. This is just one of many fascinating attributes of the character that make Kilgrave somebody who needs to return to the wider Marvel Cinematic Universe pronto.

Kilgrave Deserves to Be One of the Netflix Elements Brought to the Marvel Disney+ Shows

As Marvel Studios fleshes out its multimedia plans for the rest of the 2020s, it’s clear many elements of the Marvel/Netflix shows from 2015-2019 will be incorporated into the broader universe. When programs like Daredevil and Luke Cage were running, there was a bit of a divide between these shows and the larger movies. Characters on these Netflix entities would occasionally reference Captain America or Iron Man, but the first three phases of the Marvel Cinematic Universe movies never acknowledged these characters in return. Starting with Hawkeye and Spider-Man: No Way Home, though, certain actors and figures from the Netflix shows have been carried over into the bigger Marvel Cinematic Universe projects. It’s still unclear (though presumably unlikely) if the narratives of the Marvel/Netflix shows are still canon, but folks like Charlie Cox’s Daredevil are now fixtures of modern MCU media.

While that doesn’t mean Avengers: The Kang Dynasty will be focusing exclusively on Danny Rand/Iron Fist (Finn Jones) and Willis Stryker/Diamondback (Erik LaRay Harvey), it does mean a bevy of Marvel/Netflix characters are now at the disposal of future Marvel Studios programs. Kilgrave would be a fantastic character to incorporate into these forthcoming projects, especially since his presence as a more grounded figure would fit in with some of Marvel’s upcoming TV ambitions. Projects like Echo and Daredevil: Born Again are being marketed as adult-skewing programs that aren’t afraid to engage in thornier, more challenging material. Kilgrave, a man who commits murder and rape rather than pursue nebulously defined cosmic MacGuffin’s, would be a perfect villain to fit into this narrative landscape.

Plus, Kilgrave isn’t somebody who’s been seen in tons of other media beyond the comics. While he's shown up in a pair of video games and occasionally appeared in animated TV shows like The Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes, Kilgrave has largely been restricted to the comics and his appearances across the three seasons of Jessica Jones. This isn’t a character like The Joker that’s been done to death in pop culture, there’s lots of new territory one could explore when it comes to Kilgrave. This could even include giving him his purple skin from the comics, a trait Jessica Jones hinted at with his default purple suits, but never went all-in on. That visual detail encapsulates how much there is still to do with Kilgrave.

It doesn’t hurt that Kilgrave is played by a beloved actor like David Tennant, whose fanbase only seems to grow as the years progress with his roles in post-Jessica Jones programs like Good Omens. Tennant is always a welcome presence in any capacity and getting him back for further MCU projects as one of his most famous and chilling characters would be an exciting development. It’s not like Tennant was a “nobody” before Jessica Jones (he had Broadchurch and Doctor Who, after all!) but he’s only become even more prominent since that Netflix show wrapped up its run. That uptick in notoriety has included a string of notable voice-over roles in Disney projects like Ducktales and Ahsoka, a sign that the parent company of Marvel Studios is keen on a good relationship with this performer. These qualities tied into the esteemed career of David Tennant would surely be another incentive to get Kilgrave back into the MCU picture.

David Tennant's Kilgrave Would Give the MCU a Tangibly Terrifying Villain Again

The most important facet of bringing Kilgrave into the MCU, though, would be finally bringing back tangibly terrifying villains back into this sprawling saga. Recent MCU titles haven’t been entirely devoid of solid baddies (The High Evolutionary in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 was an enjoyably over-the-top creation) but too many modern foes in this franchise leave something to be desired. Dar-Benn, Kang, Gorr the God Butcher, Kro; they’re all too removed from anything resembling discernible reality. While Thanos proved truly haunting because he was a big purple alien who acted like a weary human being, few recent cosmic MCU baddies have registered as remotely in touch with the real world.

Kilgrave would solve that problem and then some. This figure was truly terrifying in his nonchalant evil, while his ability to manipulate the minds of seemingly anyone Jessica Jones encountered provided a vivid visual metaphor for how omnipresent toxic men are in American society. They’re everywhere, even when they’re not physically in the room! Embracing such a terrifying baddie rooted in heavy real-world material (like the sexual trauma he inflicted on Jessica Jones) didn’t weigh down Jessica Jones as a show but rather gave it extra gravitas. That’s not the kind of praise one could offer recent MCU baddies obsessed with convoluted cosmic justice. David Tennant is always a welcome sight in any piece of pop culture, but him returning as Kilgrave would be especially helpful for the broader Marvel Cinematic Universe.'

[constantly-deactivated]

Nancy Pelosi Military Tribunal, 👇 Part I

(Due to the length of this article, I am separating it into parts. I will try to get the 2nd part published this evening.)

Thirteen hours over two days is how long it took Vice Adm. Darse E. Crandall of the United States Navy Judge Advocate General’s Corps to present evidence against former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, whom a 3-officer panel found guilty of treason, seditious conspiracy, and conspiracy to commit murder late Thursday afternoon.

In an opening statement, the admiral said JAG and the Office of Military Commissions had copious evidence linking Pelosi to crimes dating back to 1987 but, for time’s sake, would focus only on her most recent and egregious offenses, starting with a 2016 murder-for-hire plot to assassinate then-presidential candidate Donald J. Trump. He said JAG was aware of many nefarious schemes to end Trump’s life–all of which were bungled or foiled–and had incontrovertible evidence tying Pelosi to four.  Moreover, Adm. Crandall told the panel he would prove beyond reasonable doubt that Pelosi in 2018 hatched a plot to kidnap Barron Trump to force Donald Trump’s resignation, so Pence would be the new president. Pelosi, Vice Adm. Crandall said, had even considered having Melania or Ivanka murdered in hopes of forcing a tormented Trump from office.

Furthermore, he said Pelosi shared responsibility with the late Gavin Newsom in locking down California and enforcing draconian vaccine mandates that sickened or killed countless residents of the Golden State. Pelosi’s “Covid crimes,” he intoned, violated the Constitution of the United States; they affronted the very people she had sworn to serve. But as persons withered and died—not from Covid but from the clot shot —and families grieved, Pelosi grew in wealth and power, immeasurably so. When she wasn’t wielding an iron fist, she was clutching the bottle, Vice Adm. Crandall said, and informed the panel witness statements and Pelosi’s own documents would give credence to JAG’s allegations.

“This woman isn’t even vaccinated,” Vice Adm. Crandall said, pointing at Pelosi. “We know this because we pulled her blood, and we can test. She eschewed her own mandates. Why? Because she knew the vaccines were dangerous, and we’ll prove that.”

When offered a chance to give her own opening statement, Pelosi, appearing sans counsel, pursed her lips and kept quiet. She was disheveled and seemed distraught, her shriveled, bony fingers visibly trembling as bloodshot eyes scanned the court.

Vice Admiral Crandall introduced a witness, a 29-year-old Latin male named Xavier Ramirez, who, having been sworn in, described himself as Pelosi’s former gigolo and “boy toy.” He testified under oath that he had regularly “entertained” Pelosi between April and July of 2016, usually at upscale hotels in the San Francisco area. Mr. Ramirez said he hadn’t documented each meeting, but guessed he saw Pelosi 15 times.

“I hope you were paid well, Mr. Ramirez,” Vice Adm. Crandall quipped.

“Very well,” the witness replied.

“I’ve never seen this man before in my life,” Pelosi shouted at the top of her lungs, her voice gravelly and hoarse.

The admiral reprimanded her outburst, saying she could either exercise decorum or be physically restrained.

“Mr. Ramirez, when we first spoke, you mentioned a specific meeting on a certain date. If you would, would you please repeat what you said, to the best of your recollection,” Vice Adm. Crandall said.

“It was July 21, 2016. Nancy was in a bad way because Mr. Donald Trump just accepted the Republican nomination. Trump this, Trump that was all she talked about. She paid me, so I listened. She was drinking, of course. Nancy likes to drink. She is a big drinker, a habitual drinker, to say it in a nice way. So, the more she drinks, the more she talks—”

“—While we appreciate your colorful tale, could you please be briefer, come to the point,” Vice Adm. Crandall said.

“The point, yes; she said she wanted to kill Donald Trump,” the witness said.

“Kill or have killed?”

“Well, have killed; she certainly wasn’t doing it herself. Nancy asked me do I know someone, because I am Cuban, I must know someone, she told me. And there I am thinking to myself why I should know a hitman just because I’m Cuban. I thought maybe she joked and asked if she was kidding, but, no, Nancy was dead serious. She offered me $25k cash in advance to find someone. Nancy said if I did, and it got done, I’d get $225K more and the person who kill Trump get $250K. Then she laughs and says to me if Trump has too much protection, she can do the daughter—you know, tall, pretty blonde, Ivanka.”

Vice Admiral asked if Mr. Ramirez had seen or handled the $25,000.

“I saw it come out of her purse. Banded stacks $1000 each. I saw it, I touched it, but I did not take. I told her, ‘You’re Nancy Pelosi, you must have powerful friends. I want nothing to do with this,’ and she tells me, and this I remember very well, ‘This time it has to be an outside party.’ I tell her flatly that’s not why I am here,” Mr. Ramirez explained.

“And I assume, Mr. Ramirez, the ‘services’ you performed for the defendant didn’t cost 25 grand,” Vice Adm. Crandall said.

Mr. Ramirez laughed. “No, I wish, but much less, and she paid me in advance.”

“Did you bring your concerns to the Secret Service, to the police?”

“Are you crazy? No. If she could kill Trump, I could get killed like a fly on the wall. When I left, it was last time I saw her,” Mr. Ramirez said.

“Yet the defendant claims she’s never seen you before today. But we know that’s untrue,” Vice Adm. Crandall said.

He projected onto a large screen television digital images he had obtained from the witness. One clearly showed Pelosi and Mr. Ramirez hugging in a hotel room; another showed them standing side-by-side, smiling at a camera. “These are ‘selfies’ you took in the defendant’s company, is that correct?”

“That’s correct,” Mr. Ramirez said.

“Why did you take them?”

“Bragging rights.”

Vice Adm. Crandall snorted. “I really don’t think that’s something to brag about, Mr. Ramirez. You’re excused.”

The admiral addressed the panel: “This alone is solicitation for murder, which in traditional courts carries up to a 20-year sentence. In this case, we’re talking about a presidential candidate. And we’re by no means done.”

As Soon as I get more I will post it.🤔

It's coming in parts so bear with me.🙏

[ohtobemare]

Happy 100 Hon! You deserve it!

Requesting fluff number 5 with Ice because why not? I cannot wait to see what you come up with!

Congratulations again!

Fern. FERNNN. This destroyed me, just a little. Enjoy your Ice, because I know I certainly did.

I've Been Thinking

Viper had droned on about this damn mission briefing for nearly an hour. Somewhere, someone had told you that Metcalf was a man of few words with an iron fist, but you were fairly certain that someone had either meant an entirely different Mike Metcalf at a totally different Top Gun, because this man seemed to just hit his stride at the forty-five minute mark. 

Rookies from all corners of the country make up the current class, seated in perfect little lines much like you had the few years before. Stalk straight and unyielding, nobody had so much as breathed as Vipe had outlined the day’s training objective, the room’s air just about as dead as a corpse. It was stifling, you were sweating through your compression shorts and tank-top, and it was becoming more and more difficult not to fidget. 

Viper had ordered an at ease, but even the posture of standing akimbo was starting to hurt. You were itching to get outside, under the sun and in the breeze, and actually get these kids in the air. They were eager, too—the room was tensioned so thick, you could’ve cut it with a paperclip. Even from here you could see the seat on the profiles of the rubber sock newbies, their eyes catching glimpses of activity beyond the hangar, looking for a fight that wasn’t there. Yet. 

Ice rocked lightly on his feet to your right, his elbow nudging yours. Shoulders back and chin level with the floor, you can’t exactly see the look in his eye from behind his aviators, which are unnecessary in the hangar but a staple to Iceman’s persona. However, the little lift of the corner of his mouth, followed by him ever-so-slightly rocking back on his heels, cues you in. 

As instructors, you don’t have to stand at attention and look so enthralled with Viper’s instructive preamble. But, it’s somewhat expected, more of loose rule than anything else—nobody liked being “that guy” who makes an ass of himself and gets on Mike’s bad side. Long ago you’d learned to just put up and shut up during the lecture portion of the day’s instruction, though it was last on your list of preferred exercises. 

Eyes steady forward, you blink, trying not to smile as Tom edges a bit closer to you. From the corner of your eye, you see him leaning just so, wagging his tongue at you playfully, eyes still forward watching for Viper’s reaction. Mike doesn’t seem to notice, he’s too busy pacing in front of the greenies, hands behind his back, and your bottom lip rolls inward when Ice brushes shoulders with you. 

You’ve been together for almost six months, now. It had started as nothing really all that serious, just a couple of dates with the hottest guy in the class—until it hadn’t just been nothing serious. Ice was a pretentious, cocky son of a bitch that knew what he wanted and strove for excellence in everything. You and your obsessive-compulsive drive for perfection weren’t far behind in the game of “I’m the best at Top Gun.” The only one better than either of you at flight maneuvers was Pete Mitchell, but even he had a thing or two to learn about composure and calculated decisions. 

Precise and, just as his name implies, cold as ice, he’d told you practically from the jump that he wanted to go steady. It had been date numero tres, and had been going pretty spectacularly, despite the wait at the bar for drinks and the broken AC unit to boot. 

You’d been sitting back in a booth at the O-Club, one leg draped over the other, watching the hoard of bodies mesh together in the most chaotic attempt at a group dance you’d ever seen. Tom Kazansky had turned to face you, a dead serious expression on his face as he’d lifted his aviators to the top of his head, thick forearms planted on the table. Looking up at you, he’d taken a slow drink of his bourbon racked with ice, before setting aside the glass and falling back against the booth. 

Dressed in his whites, like always, he’d never looked more delicious. “I’ve been thinking.” 

You’d cracked your usual, goofy smile. “Uh-oh, watch out. Thought patterns initiated. Prepare for evasive maneuvers.”  You’d snorted into the neck of your beer, trying to sound official and professional as your foot bobbed to the music filtering through the bar. Unable to stop your minxy wink as he rolled his eyes, you leaned across the table and reached for his hand. 

“Oh, stop it, Ice. What’s on your mind, lover?” 

His smile had barely registered. “I want us to go steady.” 

You’d snapped bolt upright in the booth, nearly dropping the Blue Moon slung between your fingers. Collecting the shock on your face, the little “o” parting your lips was unavoidable. 

“What? Are–are you serious? Already? It’s only been three weeks!” It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than just dating. At least, that’s what you’d interpreted when he’d asked you out the first time. The second time had been dinner, a little more formal. That night had been the third date, dancing and drinking at the O-Club with the rest of their class. 

“Do I strike you as the kind of guy that is anything less than serious?” 

The rest, as they say, was history. From somewhere in the back of your brain you didn’t think going steady with Tom Kazansky was all that good of an idea, but, you’d agreed—you were, after all, head over heels for the guy. And who couldn’t be? The icy eyes, the sandy hair—arms the size of small trees. Confidence in leagues. And his hands….oof. The hands. They’d held every part of you just so, like God Himself had designed them specifically for every inch of your body. 

Nothing ever seemed to rattle Kazansky, in the air or on the ground. He was a magnificent pilot, handled aircraft unlike anyone you’d ever seen. He was calm and collected. Precise, calculated. Sure of his actions, and of his ability. And that was the exact kind of steadfastness you needed to balance the hellion, wildchild blood your father had christened you with just days before you’d enlisted with the U.S. Navy. 

Viper swung about to stand akimbo before the class, chin lifting in that superior way. “Dismissed. Wheels up in twenty, tadpoles.” No sooner did his mouth close from the statement did the class practically leap from their desks, gathering the reading material that they’d been given from the jump. 

The bustle of activity was hectic as you, and everyone else, hurried to prepare for the hands on portion of the day. You wouldn’t be flying today, graduates were expected to be on the ground as support while Viper was in the air with a group of students, but there were preparations. Getting the rubber socks geared up, fitted, and checked was a task in and of itself—one that you remembered clearly, from the first day. 

You’re about to open your flight locker for sunblock when a familiar, thick hand slaps it closed in front of your face. Startled, you jump back half a step and turn, Ice smirking at you with his head tipped to the side. He leans against the locker, other hand on his hip, fisting in the material of his flight suit. 

“Ice,” you smile halfway at him, eyes tracking down his body for a second. Everyone knows you two are an item—everyone of your peers, anyway. You’d decided to keep it from the brass, at least for a while. Something about Mike and his echelon knowing didn’t sit right in your gut, and you’d communicated that. Clearly. 

“What’s up?” 

Ice wasn’t bothered. Reaching out to tuck a loose curl behind your ear, his smile is easy, familiar. Eyes mapping the features of your face from over the rim of his aviators, he pushes them up with the pad of his finger. You watch his tongue track over his top teeth in that telltale, “I like what I see” way, until he clicks it off the wall of his mouth, matter-of-factly. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he angles to bridge the daylight between the two of you, the hint of whatever gum he’s chewing hitting your senses in just the right way. He’s a breath from you, so easily kissable at this dance, and you can see his eyes behind the shades. Memories from that third date smack you between the eyes, and yours track his, even behind the dark lenses.

You chuckle, shrugging a light shoulder. “Uh-oh.” The smile parting your lips is devious. 

Ice angles back to check the area, and you do the same over your shoulder—nobody’s around, most of the team has gathered outside the hangar’s overhead door, checking gear well away from the lockers. The sounds of mechanics tearing at engine parts, the rattle of steel on steel, the light plod of feet on concrete ensures that nobody can actually hear, or care, about your conversation with Ice. 

Goose and Maverick are already there, helping the rookies gear up—neither of you are exactly missed. You’re probably overstimulated and hyperfixated on the notion of getting caught. Knowing you’re blowing this out of proportion doesn’t ease the thud of your heart against your ribcage, or slow the heat that’s creeping through your blood when he looks back at you, lips lifted in that little way that only belongs to Tom Kazansky. 

True to form, you have to ask him what’s on his mind. He never tells you, likes you to ask. Or to try and read his mind. Either way it puts him in control of the situation, and Iceman loves his control. His finger lifts beneath your chin, his thumb stroking lightly, and you see his eyes drop to consider your mouth for a heartbeat. 

“I’m headed home on leave, next weekend. Thinking I want you to come with me and meet my folks.” 

Flabbergasted, your mouth drops open. The Iceman parents, as they have been deemed by your team, are legendary. Ice’s dad is former Navy, his mother an army nurse. Together they’ve raised a son that not only controls the skies, but is nearly second-to-none in reputation alone. Maverick had met them, once, after the group had been invited for Thanksgiving by said parents—you hadn’t been with, on a deployment. 

They were nice people, but just as their son appeared—affluent, poised, and exceptional. Or so said Pete Mitchell. 

The idea of actually meeting them implied two things—one, that Tom was more serious about this relationship than you first imagined. Going steady for six months had implications, yeah, but nothing like this. And second, did they want to meet you? Unsure if Ice had properly relayed your reputation to his mother and father, you worried about their expectations—you were loud, you were funny, and you were not the calm, cool, collected person that everyone had expected Ice to seek out in a SO. 

Sure, you were charming, but so was Tom—in an elevated way you could never hope to master. The fact that he loved you, the idea that he obviously wanted you to meet his family, suddenly vanished out of your brain. Tone in your ears rattled every coherent thought from your brain, and it was difficult to raise moisture in the back of your mouth, your tongue suddenly swollen to twice its usual size. 

Your little, “Really?” squeaked out weaker than you would’ve preferred, which made him chuckle. 

“Really. They’re excited to meet the girl I’ve told them so much about. My mother is already picking out colors for the nursery.” It was a joke, the easy shake of his shoulders off the laugh implied so, but your heart constricted behind your ribs. 

You felt the color bleed out of your face. “Tom, I—” 

“Say yes,” he tipped your chin back just a little, and stepped even closer. From here you could see every one of his pores, feel the heat of his breath. Being this close, being this dangerous while on base, curled your toes in your boots. Tasting the mint on his breath, you swallow thickly, trying to register his words. It’s hard. 

“Oh gawd, I—Ice. Your parents? I don’t even—” 

“Say yes,” he reiterated, a bit harder this time. He reaches to slide the aviators into his hair, moving to push off the locker and stand fully in front of you. His other hand comes to lay against your jaw, his thumb gently skipping over the apple of your cheek. “I want them to meet you.” The tick of a smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “They’ll love you,” 

You can’t think of anything else but his body heat crashing against your chest, the strength of his hands so gently cradling your face. Vibrating, half from nerves over this sudden news, half from the idea of someone here actually seeing you, your eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat—enough time for him to chuckle and release a slow breath, his chest brushing against yours. 

“You have any idea how hard it is to stand here and not kiss you?” 

The out-of-nowhere statement makes you squeak out a little gasp, your eyes flying open to find his intense stare riveting you in place. You can’t move, can hardly breathe. Sweat has your tank-top and compression shorts clinging to your skin for dear life, it feels like a freakin’ furnace here in the hangar. Your mind is racing, and you wonder if Ice can actually feel your heart trying to rip out of your chest. Breathing shallow and unfulfilling, your fingers curl into the material of his flight suit, clinging for life. Sanity. Stability. 

Fairly certain you need the infirmary for the barrage your heart’s left against your ribs,  but wholly unwilling to leave this moment, your tongue skips out to trace your bottom lip, eyes darting to his mouth. You want to do it, you can taste him on your tongue even just thinking about it, but you can’t move. He’d promised you he wouldn’t kiss you on base, at your request. 

Damn you and your stupid, stupid decisions. “Ice. Please—”

Unraveling, he can see you’re unraveling, and you watch the moment unfold on his face as he winks at you and his smile grows. “Just know that I wanna kiss you, Lieutenant. I’m a man of my word.” 

Instead, he lifts on his toes and presses a kiss against your forehead. His soft mouth brushing against your hair sends a pool of heat straight to your core, and for a moment you fear your knees are going to give and send you to the floor. Fingers digging into the material of the suit, you pull him close, brushing your nose against his jaw as you lift to press a soft kiss behind his ear. 

“If you don’t kiss me right now, Kazansky—your ass is going to regret it.” 

[mariacallous]

Once the present operation against Hamas is completed, Israel plans to maintain “overall security responsibility” over Gaza for the indefinite future, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu told ABC News. This would likely require a continued presence of Israeli forces in Gaza, raids against suspected Hamas installations, control over the population’s movements, and isolation of the territory from the outside world.

In short, Israel would protect its security interests with an iron fist. Yet, it would disown the responsibilities that would normally flow from this exercise of control—making it armed occupation by another name. Those responsibilities include the duties to care for the population that has fallen under foreign military authority and arrange for governance of the territory.

“We don’t want to govern Gaza,” Israel’s foreign affairs minister, Eli Cohen, has told the Wall Street Journal. “We just want to protect our people.” This is a kind of novel concept of “occupation lite,” which externalizes the costs, risks, and burdens of occupation, beyond the steps needed to preserve Israel’s security.

In support of its security objectives, Israel would likely retain the power to deny humanitarian access for deliveries of food and medicine, or to turn off the tap for water, energy, and other life-sustaining supplies. Humanitarian agencies might find this objectionable, but in the interest of being able to reach the local population in desperate need, they would presumably consent to operate under these conditions.

Israel would also disown responsibility for the vast reconstruction effort necessary to restore Gaza’s destroyed civilian infrastructure, homes and businesses. Instead, it would expect international donors, in particular the EU and its members, along with Arab states and perhaps China, to queue up once more for the privilege.

The U.S. government believes that Israel must not return to the role of occupying power. Instead, feverish planning work is going on, trying to find a way to square the circle, enforcing Israel’s security interests while also avoiding a permanent state of armed occupation. But unless it is embedded in a credible peace process promising to finally resolve the Palestinian issue, this effort is doomed.

Washington is proposing that the Palestinian Authority under President Mahmoud Abbas and his Fatah party, which runs the West Bank, should extend its authority to Gaza once the conflict ends. However, team Abbas is hardly credible. Its administration of the West Bank is notoriously ineffective and beset by corruption. Fatah has a weak standing in the polls and postponed elections indefinitely in 2021. Its general silence during the present, dramatic crisis is likely to have dented its credibility further, especially in Gaza.

Moreover, having been violently displaced from Gaza by Hamas in 2007, the Palestinian Authority under Fatah hardly seems to offer a guarantee against the resurgence of radicalism in the territory. Accordingly, Israel has already confronted U.S. Secretary of State Antony Blinken with its opposition to this option.

The Palestinian Authority is also playing hard to get. If Israel remained in charge of hard security, the Palestinian Authority would likely be seen as little more than an Israeli or American enforcement agent. Palestinian Prime Minister Mohammad Shtayyeh told the Guardian that “to have the Palestinian Authority go to Gaza and run the affairs of Gaza without a political solution for the West Bank” would be “as if [the] Palestinian Authority is going aboard an F-16 or an Israeli tank.”

Abbas has suggested that the Palestinian Authority might return to Gaza, but only if there is a clear road to a settlement for the West Bank, Gaza, and also East Jerusalem.

An alternative, or an additional step, would be to deploy an international governance mission. That mission would combine peacekeeping with steps to supervise local government and build more reliable structures of self-government over time. The examples of East Timor and Kosovo are often invoked in this context. Both were major international deployments drawing on hundreds of civilian administrators and thousands of soldiers.

It is unlikely that Western powers will put themselves forward as potential peacekeepers. They would instantly turn into veritable magnets for jihadist spoilers. Heavily armed U.S. forces withdrew ignominiously from Lebanon in 1983, when terrorists killed 241 Marines, and from Somalia a decade later after 18 service members died in the Black Hawk Down Incident.

Members of the Arab League and the Organization of Islamic Conference might also be rather hesitant. With Israel claiming the right to intervene militarily whenever it deems necessary, and likely to maintain a military presence in the territory, an Arab force could only aim at supporting an international governance mission while keeping civil order in Gaza. Again, this role would bring it perilously close to appearing to act as Israel’s surrogate in keeping the territory and its population under control while keeping it in a permanent state of hopelessness and limbo.

In addition, international administration is no panacea. While it is meant to foster indigenous structures of governance, it often hinders their establishment. International governance tends to relieve emerging local leaders from accountability for inefficiency and corruption. Any failing of governance will be blamed on the international mission, rather than the newly empowered elite.

Moreover, an international governance mission would presumably supervise the actions of the emerging local authorities, whether led by Fatah or others, correcting and at times overruling their actions. This would strengthen the sense of foreign control, or disguised occupation, among the population and foster resistance in the mid-term.

The attempt to construct fresh institutions and fill them with genuine democratic leaders under international tutelage may also be criticized as the kind of illusion that fueled similar, ultimately futile and in retrospect naive attempts in Iraq and Afghanistan. Who, after all, can ensure that Palestinians in Gaza would not opt for the ideological successors to Hamas instead of a tame Palestinian Authority some years down the line, especially if a new militant organization appears to be the only body representing their demands for genuine Palestinian statehood with some energy?

There is a critical difference between Gaza on one hand and East Timor and Kosovo on the other. The operation in East Timor was launched after Indonesian troops ransacked the territory in 1999, after the population opted for independence in a U.N.-sponsored referendum. Around 1,400 Eastern Timorese were killed, with half a million violently displaced.

The United Nations provided an international governance mission supported by 1,600 international police personnel and 9,000 troops. Over a period of two and a half years, the mission provided reassurance and stability for the terrorized population, while preparations were made for eventual independence in May 2022.

In Gaza, too, an international presence might well be welcomed initially. Its would presumably spell the end of Israeli offensive in Gaza, which has already cost around 15,000 mainly civilian lives and resulted in the destruction of much of the civilian infrastructure. But a welcome may not last long.

In East Timor, the aim of the mission was clear: preparing the territory for independence within an agreed, short period. In Gaza, the situation would look quite different. Unless it is tied to implementing a peace settlement including full statehood, international administration would lead nowhere. It would become yet another symbol of the disenfranchisement of the Palestinian people and be seen as a tool to maintain the status quo forever more.

This kind of risk became clear a few years into the international operation in Kosovo. The international civil mission was supported by a large, NATO-led military presence. In the wake of the Kosovo War, NATO was widely seen by Kosovo’s mainly ethnic Albanian population as its heroic savior from Serbian repression.

The U.N. mandate for the operation left the eventual status of Kosovo open, focusing instead on building capacity for local self-government. However, as the mission progressed, the population became restless, demanding commencement of final status negotiations.

By 2004, despite the status of NATO troops in the country as liberating heroes, violent riots demanding independence erupted. This forced the U.N. to launch talks on final status. The U.N. mediator in the end concluded that the population would not accept any outcome other than independence, despite fierce resistance by Serbia. To this day, Kosovo’s status remains contested and attempts to normalize relations between Serbia and Kosovo have stalled, leading to military tensions dampened by the forever continuing NATO presence.

In short, international administration can only work if it is clear from the outset that it serves to move a territory to the political status desired by its population, as was the case in East Timor and, eventually, Kosovo. Where there is no clear and irreversible direction of travel toward that status, the mission itself will be seen as a tool to frustrate the wishes of the population, triggering unrest and violent protest in favor of change. And where there is no prospect of a status settlement, the mission will take on the mantle of armed occupation after a time.

The risk that the mission is seen as tainted from the outset by the local population is even more pronounced in this instance. Even after the vast destruction and loss of life brought about by Israel, the operation would still be visibly confined by requirements imposed by an Israel intent on enforcing its security interests in the territory for the indefinite future. Israel’s strategy of externalizing the tasks and costs of maintaining a virtual international occupation, while keeping a firm hold of security control, therefore cannot succeed.

While formally opposing continued occupation, the United States is at risk of serving Israel’s doomed strategy by bringing together external actors to help facilitate that strategy. But international governance, however well-intentioned, will quickly take on the mantle of occupation. And continued occupation, in whatever guise, will breed continued violence aiming to overcome it. The only difference is the hypothetical international mission would become its target alongside Israel.

The only way out of this dilemma is to be serious about embedding arrangements for post-war Gaza in a clear path toward a settlement of the Palestine issue, once and for all. In fact, all relevant actors other than Israel’s present leadership seem to accept that there is no chance for post-conflict governance in Gaza unless there is a clear and credible path toward a comprehensive settlement.

Abbas has made cooperation on governance in Gaza dependent on a settlement. So have the potentially force-contributing Arab states. If they are wise, the Western governments expected to pay, once more, billions for rehabilitation and reconstruction, will do the same before they reach for their checkbooks.

Blinken has now started to repeat this mantra in his more recent visits to Middle Eastern capitals, seeking to shore up regional support for the emerging U.S. post-conflict design. Yet, in view of the disappointing experience of the past three-quarters of a century, the challenge is to make the prospect of a settlement a real one.

In fact, despite the traumatic outrage of Oct. 7 and the massive amount of violence unleashed in response, there could now finally be a chance for a settlement. Miraculously, the key Arab states have not disowned the Abraham Accords, and even Saudi Arabia is still (for now) holding out the possibility of an accord with Israel.

This leaves in place the first key piece in the puzzle—the recognition by all that Israel has a right to exist. Even Iran might be impelled not to obstruct a regional settlement, if China can be brought to support a grand settlement.

Addressing Palestine would be a key element of that process, but it would be a broader design, offering economic integration and common security for the Middle East as a whole, including Israel. This will require an amazing degree of coordination among diverse sets of actors, through a large group of states convened by the United States in cooperation with the U.N.

The question is whether, after the trauma of Oct. 7, Israel will find the courage to engage in a process as complex and challenging as this one, perhaps after a change in government. But the truth is that the Palestine issue will not go away. It cannot be resolved through security control over millions of Palestinians for the indefinite future.

If this present tragic episode is not to become the breeding ground for yet more endless violence, this is in fact the moment to embrace a grand design for peace for the entire region.

[liketwoswansinbalance]

Rafal and the Curse of Obedience

Note: This sort of canon-divergent AU concept is loosely based off of this poll I reblogged with a little commentary in its tags and the storyline of Ella Enchanted, which I've done some plot-twisting to. I've only watched the film adaptation though; I haven't read the novel.

⸻

If Rafal were cursed with obedience in canon, such a plot line could have so much narrative potential, and potentially add a new dimension to Fall.

First, consider the odd incongruity and implications of possibly the most defiant, stubborn, unswayable being alive in the Woods being subject to this particular curse, that is the antithesis of his very way of being. He can no longer do whatever he wants, regardless of the consequences, of how he'd harm others, when those very same victims of his could potentially become his master. The curse would probably cause him great anguish, be something for him to initially ruminate and agonize over, for days on end.

In the beginning, of course, Rhian, as long as he consciously remains Good, would likely be extremely careful to never address Rafal with a direct command, which would be rather considerate of him, all things considered. He might even be sensitive enough to Rafal's plight to realize that using the curse, even in jest, against Rafal, would be an all too vulnerable point, given how compromising a position it could be for his brother, if Rhian were to use it, as leverage to win a petty argument or as blackmail to get his way, especially, seeing as the idea of the curse being public, or even the simple thought of it being revealed to anyone at all always does strike a nerve in Rafal. Thus, I believe Rhian, while his integrity is still intact, would have enough restraint to just... not use the curse.

To Rhian, it's cruel and beneath his higher moral standards to bend someone else's will to your own means after all, even if Rafal does it to everyone else all the time...

Also, given this premise, the only beings who would know about Rafal's curse would be Rhian and the Storian itself. Plus, Rafal, in his position of high authority, would do his utmost to never let word of the curse get out because it could ruin him and he could be exploited, especially considering that he is a sorcerer capable of great feats. Who wouldn't want someone like that at their beck and call?

A few times, Rhian almost let word of the curse slip to Vulcan, but he ultimately managed to keep his promise to never tell anyone about his brother's curse, preserving Rafal's fatal-as-ever pride. And this, this best-kept secret of all the Woods, backfires for Rafal later on. Because, no one would know enough to save him from himself and the curse.

During his day-to-day life, Rafal would be more paranoid than ever about keeping his curse securely under wraps, and he'd go to great lengths to keep his secret, lest it be used against him. As per usual, he would exercise his authority regularly with an iron fist, and preoccupy others with orders he's dealt out to them, so no one would bat an eye, or even think to apply any of the same orders to him.

Besides, he strikes such fear into the hearts of all that no one would ever dare give him a direct order at all, assuming they would like to live. In addition, he never truly stops being the contrarian he is, at least, not in heart and soul.

Then, with Evil Fall Rhian, the traitor, the game changes entirely.

Rhian technically keeps his word and never lets news of the curse slip from his lips, but he does use it to his advantage now, like the snake he is. He'd likely command Rafal to "willingly" and publicly cede to him, renounce his newfound "Goodness," in exchange for the same old Evil image everyone already believes in, and abdicate the coveted position of the One, leaving it ripe for the taking, for Rhian to lawfully and "rightfully" claim. Worse of all, Rafal would be forced to lose on Rhian's terms, not even on his own, foregoing some of his precious dignity to that end.

Lastly, if Rhian didn't go so far as to murder Rafal himself in the end—well, I'd suspect Rhian would call for Rafal's arrest, and reintroduce Rafal's former Monrovia prison sentence. It is a convenient way to shove Rafal aside, out of his way, and it would get him out of the limelight entirely, with the passage of time. Perhaps, Rafal would be forgotten, slunk off in the shadows, where Evil belongs, according to the "proper" tyranny of Good, which regards the whole of Evil as lowly. And no one would blame Rhian for turning his psycho brother into the authorities, if Rafal already had an outlying bid on his head, by both the law itself and the many vengeful enemies he'd made during his long lifespan. He was an actual convict for a time in the eyes of the law. I mean, what else could be done with him, the man complicit in his own "weak" loss?

Rafal would have to comply with the orders to not resist arrest since his curse would compel him to obey, and he would "quietly," without protest, without much of a row at all, surrender, probably all the while resenting Rhian and his curse and the entire Woods, for the pitiful state he's in, locked up to rot for the rest of his life—all thanks to the rot in Rhian.

[moonsnitch]

choi haerin. iron fist's very own archangel. penned by ares (21+, s/h, gmt)

excuse my tardiness, i'm never prepared for anything. i've split this intro into parts that'll give you the full tea on my angel but i will have a bio and profile up at some point. bear with me... shoot this a like and i'll come swinging into your dms to plot. i prefer 'scord majorly but i'm open otherwise. ciao.

PRIEST CULT DADDY

if you're to understand anything about haerin, we'll first start with her bloodline. choi insu, priest of the new kingdom parish, a cult hiding behind the moniker of religion. a zealot in the name of piety, he believed that terrascape was the judgment plane and to meet the true kingdom, the real one, one needed to commit a virtual death. choi jinae, thy mother, lived in the shadow of her husband. she played the devout for long, made sure their only daughter did the same. but something in the foundations were beginning to crack...

insu urged the faithfuls, under pretence and discretion, to live a modest life, to give their merits to the mission and to remember that life on terra was temporary. knowing very well how illegal this was, he preached the good word clandestinely. those who joined the 'church' were chosen and apostasy was forbidden.

haerin grew up isolated; was not encouraged to make friends, to follow trends. when she left school she was forced to carry out her chores, then study the holy text before homework. she learned very quickly the merits of doing things in secret, adopted the ways of doublethink and doublespeak. made friends on the sly, got up to what her parents would have deemed no good in the shadows.

but whatever lays in darkness will soon be bare under light, right? and suddenly there are whispers among the parish of a lamb being lead atray and she's put under house arrest, a princess in a locked tower, a sacrifice in a holding pen.

a week later her mother goes missing and before the congregation insu announces that she has gone to glory to be in the real world, the new kingdom.

fear hatches a new plan and haerin begins to play the game. you see, maybe she underestimated her mother and so in a way she becomes her. dutiful, pious, the more eager of them all. father trusts her in ways he's never before. and soon, she's secretary of the church, the key to the treasury in her grasp.

running is easy, especially when you know how to move in silence. before long she's out in terra and she's hiding out in vr rooms and gaming cafes, places where he father and his cronies wouldn't think to step foot in, but money is running out and she's sure she saw a faithful watching her eat dinner the other night.

the iron fist competition comes as a god send and the many nights fighting sleep so she can watch her back, see that her gaming skills grow in turn. one day, she finds herself the glory of victory and signs a contract. they brandish her with wings, name her archangel. irony is a dish best served on ice.

that was seven years ago. and now? maybe she's flying high? she's a celebrity professional gamer and she holds onto her ranking with a vice like grip, looks over her shoulder when she's out in public, chews her nails whenever she hears a bell toll. she'd tell you she's haunted by her past but she'll never divulge.

ARCHANGEL

has been playing iron fist competitively for 7 years. per the fighter’s lore, archangel is a messenger of god sent to exercise his judgement. they have two large wings on their back that can be used for flight, shielding, and shooting projectiles but their wings are prone to atrophy from overexertion and damage blocking, causing immense pain to the fighter. their wings cannot regenerate during battle, hence must be used sparingly. ( celebrity ranking: 3.9 stars. )

in game, she's a formidable force. haerin doesn't pull a punch. the same could be said for her blur outside of iron fist which feels like her wings are regenerating from her back, causing excruciating pain.

PERSONALITY

pisces sun, scorpio moon, cancer rising

this babe is full of water. where she is emotional, empathetic, loving and kind (for the most part), but she is independent (to a fault) and feels EVERYTHING. sensitive to criticism which she had a lot growing up. demands the spotlight whilst at the same time shying away from it. loves hard but holds a grudge even harder.

doesn't trust easily and thinks that anyone who shows too much interest in her could potentially be from her father's cult

if she's around someone she trusts she gets in her head, might stop talking in a middle of a sentence and fade off into dream land

PLOT POINTS

this girly needs friends, maybe someone close who knew her from her days in the cult (and might have even helped her escape) or people she got to know in her glory days as a professional iron fist gamer

that being said, iron fist gamer buddies! people who like her or despise her are welcome to apply!

someone who wants to expose her cultdaddy and ruin her celebrity rating

exes or flings, people who taught her the hard knock lessons of love when she had emancipated herself from the cult

neighbours! people who notice she doesn't sleep much and might have bumped into her walking around the complex at night

anything you can think of i'm so open!!