#Lens protocol

[5minuts]

Empezamos a usar #lensprotocol en polygon

[dork-a-doodle]

Directly inspired by this post

[rich4a1]

DAO-Based Music Communities: The Future of Fan Engagement

Making a Scene Presents DAO-Based Music Communities: The Future of Fan Engagement How Decentralized Autonomous Organizations (DAOs) empower musicians and fans to work together, vote on decisions, and share profits within a community-driven music ecosystem The traditional music industry has always thrived on control—labels control releases, platforms control algorithms, and a handful of middlemen…

[graphicpolicy]

Weapon X, Maverick, Sunspot, and Warlock are coming to Marvel: Crisis Protocol

Weapon X, Maverick, Sunspot, and Warlock are coming to Marvel: Crisis Protocol #MCP #tabletogames #wolverine #miniaturegames

Atomic Mass Games has revealed two new releases for Marvel: Crisis Protocol, the miniature tabletop wargame. The first set features Weapon X and Maverick while the second features Sunspot and Warlock. Both sets are slated to be released September 13. The Weapon X and Maverick character pack sees the Weapon X program coming to the game. The set features a new take on Wolverine as well as the…

[kissingraine]

Small excerpt for Grendel King cus....🫣

Bury a Friend — Grendel King x f!Reader

• The jungle reeked of blood and ash, barely making you flinch anymore as you sat down in a small clearing filled with luminous viridian blood and your own crimson one. Lungs punctured and streaks of blood trailing down your nostrils. Pretty sure you're on the brink of sleeping forever. But you're not. You won't. Your hands are scratched raw from digging—stone and bone barely give a shit about human skin. You'd wrapped your best friend's body in the tattered flag of your wrecked camp, stubborn fingers with bleeding nails tying each corner like it mattered. Like it'd hold her together and she'd wake up again.

• But you know better than anyone that she won't. That it's partially your fault you couldn't have protected her better, a sinkhole forming in your chest and threatening to swallow you and your surroundings. It did. For a short moment, you drowned in that inky darkness. Moving on instinct and watching through your eyes like a camera lens as if your life was a tragic movie.

“You cannot carry her weight to the stars,” a deep, bone-rattling voice emerged from behind your crouched form.

He'd never met anything so vicious. Fury so bright it could burn an entire galactic system. Your strength is undeniable in the midst of four bodies that were once his proud warriors. He was warned by his council of an ooman's indomitable will. He just didn't think you could go this far. Then again, he's been collecting fleshy champions for so long he shouldn't be surprised. Still, he is.

• The alien steps closer and you bare your teeth, lips curling and eyes wide with murderous intent. “Decide now.” It continued to say in that warbly tone that came from his metal wristband. Turning, you find the Grendel King standing half-shrouded by the smoke—towering and brutal. Mandibles flaring, but his eyes—those terrible, intelligent crimson orbs—watched you with something like curiosity. Or maybe adjacent pity.

“She's going home,” you say hoarsely but filled with wrathful conviction. “Even if I have to walk the whole damn way. She's going home.”

A long silence and he steps forward, claws clicking like he's unsure how to react accordingly. Because this isn't protocol. He bent, reaching for the second ooman's body until you intercepted. Fingers broken but a grip so tight it incites his instincts. They're screaming. Kill this one. Don't even think about bringing her onto your ship. Keeping her.

You blink, tears having flowed continuously that a vessel popped and now it's spreading across the whites of your eyes. His tongue flexes behind sharp mandibles, wanting to taste.

“I will do it. Then, you can do whatever you want with me.” Insisting, you let go and hoist up the body before you even as your bone creaks. Straining from the weight of a body going rigor mortis. He chuffs but follows you, spinal cape rattling as it trails behind. A charge, just until you've said your mortal goodbyes. Not because he wants to see if you'll snap at him again. Certainly not.

[navydoves]

Smile for the camera, love!

✎ᝰ summary: too caught up in his paintings and suffering from major art block, you suggest a different type of artistic expression for rafayel, photography! yet, the new hobby backfires on him as you start to dictate what goes on his camera roll.

✎ᝰ cw: subby rafayel, you’re a pervert lmao, you’re also the dominate one, explicit but no sex, masturbation, dirty talk (just very slightly mean), eroticism, artistic expression of pleasure, sticky messes

✎ᝰ a/n: i don’t know anything about cameras so bare with me on the terminology. not proof read, excuse mistakes 😢 enjoy!

“so… what is it?”

you furrow your brows at rafayel a give him a strange look.

“it’s a camera, what do you mean what is it?”

“i mean… what am i supposed to do with it?”

you take the heavy powershot out of rafayels hands and point it at him with your eye in the viewing lens. you deftly click on the side button and take a quick picture of rafayel’s dumbfounded face before turning the camera around to show him.

“you take pictures with it.”

“i know how cameras work! i’m asking why you spent so much money buying me one, did you forget i paint and not take silly little photos?”

you gave rafayel the camera back and smile teasingly at him. it wasn’t unusual for rafayel to have art block, in fact, his art blocks spanned so debilitatingly long that you practically had a protocol for comforting him and helping him gain back inspiration.

the list went:

1. bring rafayel to the beach and play in the waves with him. the feeling of water against his skin and sand underneath his feet sometimes brought him new ideas.

2. give rafayel a makeover. seeing cosmetic shades brought about new waves of thought for what colors he should use next in his paintings.

3. dance with rafayel. your bodies moving together in symphony cleared his head of aggravating thoughts and made him want to paint in reverence of you.

4. sleep with rafayel. sometimes, he was just grumpy. he needed a nap.

but when plans one through four didn’t work this time, you found yourself at an equally frustrating spot with rafayel. you really did hate seeing him so stressed or unmotivated. he needed his spark, and like the good girlfriend you were, you were gonna help him find it.

“you’ve handled a camera before, rafa. it’s nothing new. just take a few pics here and there and maybe it’ll help you out. don’t you want to get my moneys worth for it?”

“i didn’t even ask you to spend that much…” he mutters underneath his breath. “i’ll pay you back, how much was it?”

“i don’t need—“

“how much was it?!”

⭐︎

it had been a couple days since you last had seen rafayel. whenever you couldn’t see him, you messaged or called him enough times to keep him company, but the last few days weren’t like that. there was an influx of wanderers within the last few weeks and with a few rookie hunters injured on the field, the more experienced ones were put on the job as replacement. despite your exhaustion, you knew you needed to make time for rafayel. you missed him and from the sad emojis he would send you throughout the day, you knew he missed you too.

you unlocked the door to his home with your spare key and looked around the entrance of his large estate. probably still in his studio, you assumed. you brought a small bag of baked cookies from the hunter association as an apology for being so absent. with the bag in hand you strolled through his house to the closed studio in the back.

“rafa?” you call out softly after opening the door. you look around the room and find him standing in front of an oversized canvas with buckets of untouched paint around him. those weren’t there before. he turns to you and frowns somberly before motioning eagerly for you to come in. you walk in and set down the bag of cookies on a table before moving to embrace rafayel.

“rafayel, what’re you doing? how long have you been in here?” you ask with a worried expression growing on your face.

“i’ve been trying to paint.” he simply responds. he turns to you and embraces you back while pressing a kiss to your forehead. “where have you been? i’ve missed you.”

“i told you, i had emergency hunter missions to do. have you been in here since i last saw you?”

rafayel ignores your question and purses his lips in consideration. “did your missions have to take that long? i’ve been so lonely. this canvas is mocking me, yknow? it’s plain whiteness is blinding me and i don’t know what to do.”

you sigh and pull back from the hug to look around the messy studio. “where’s the camera i gave you?”

rafayel motions to some corner in the room and grumbles, his complete focus was on the canvas before him. “somewhere over there, i think.”

you felt a pang of disappointment that the item had been discarded so easily. did he not like it that much? you head to the corner and find the camera underneath a few random silk fabrics. turning it on, you swipe through the settings and head to the gallery to look at the photos—if there were any anyway.

to your surprise, there were hundreds upon hundreds of photos saved onto the camera roll, all of rather random things. there were pictures of his furniture, little bugs on the sidewalk outside his house, nail polish organized in color order, broken glass, a street sign, it went on. the disappointment in your chest faded as you realized that rafayel really did try with this, but apparently to no avail.

oh well, you thought. he’ll get out of this slump at some point, he always did.

you sigh and point the camera up at rafayel who was still studying the empty canvas in front of him. he was deep in thought, it looked, and the camera captured every beautiful detail of his face. he was a natural.

“rafa, over here. give me a little pose.” you chuckle in hopes of lightening him up. he stilled awkwardly before letting his body relax and posing for you. you clicked a picture and pulled back the camera to see how you did. your pupils dilate at the photo, rafayel looked so effortlessly handsome before you.

you shift your perspective and kneel a little bit to take another picture of him, this one being an off-guard one. even with his attention on something else, he held a gentle beauty that made you almost revere him a little bit.

“hey, love, how about you take a break from the painting stuff and play with this camera with me?” you ask hopefully. he turns to you and frowns before shaking his head.

“i already tried taking photos and everything was pathetic to me. i don’t think it’s gonna help.” he responds.

“no, you don’t have to take any pictures. i wanna take them. this camera is actually really nice, i wanna put it to good use if you’re not using it.”

rafayel raises an eyebrow at you but resigns to your suggestion. he knew he needed a break from… doing nothing. that’s what exhausted rafayel the most, doing nothing. he preferred it when he was busy because it meant he had inspiration and passion, feelings that he basked in. but devoid of that right now, he would rather be doing anything else other than wallowing.

“what’re you gonna take pictures of?” he asks while putting his paint brush down and moving toward you. he seemed to be genuinely curious in your newfound interest.

“can i take pictures of you?” you ask.

rafayel sputters a bit and scratches the back of his head. “why… why me?! there’s plenty of fish in the sea to take pictures of.”

“well because you’re my boyfriend and i love you. don’t you want to be my muse?”

and that’s all it took for rafayel to give in. being the focus of your attention was like a blessing for him, but being your muse was a compliment worth reveling in, he would do anything to just keep your eyes on him.

you situated rafayel to the middle of the studio room where the most space was and moved back several feet to get a wider, landscape view of him. you crouch down just slightly and smile at the uneasy expression on his face.

“just relax, let loose, im not holding a gun.” you tease while adjusting the camera lens in hopes of getting a more high quality look. rafayel pouts at your words but surrenders to you and the camera in your hand. he shakes his limbs in attempts to let off some built up stress within his body and strikes a casual pose where his hand laid on his hip gently.

you snap a picture without much worry, knowing the quality and angle of the camera would do nothing to sabotage rafayel’s looks.

“you look beautiful, just keep doing that.”

rafayel blushes but your praise encourages him to continue. he nods and strikes another pose where he turned away from the camera and tilted his head back for an almost flirty look. you giggle and snap a few more pictures of his movements before looking up at him.

“am i…. doing good?” he asks rather shyly while shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“you’re doing perfect, rafa. just keep moving around and maybe i can get some candid shots.”

you look back into the camera lens and snap several more pictures in the course of a few minutes. you could tell rafayel was gradually easing up and getting more comfortable with this, even going so far as getting on the floor and blowing cheeky kisses.

a deep sense of satisfaction resonated within you from how loose and relaxed rafayel looked. this past month had been difficult for him so seeing him all playful and eager to do something so silly with you was refreshing. he felt the same.

“oh, oh. how about this?” he smiles and lays on his stomach, head propped up on his palm and legs crossed over each other in the back. you laugh and nod your head.

“giving the camera a show little i see,” you tease.

“mmm, no. i’m giving you a little show, cutie.” he responds with a giggle.

“really? a little show just for me? i have some requests then.”

“yes? what is it?”

“unbutton your shirt.”

rafayel’s eyes widen at your sudden request. embarrassment burns his ears and cheeks at the thought of you photographing him while he was showing more skin. he looked down at his simple white button up and considered what to do. did he really want to be on camera like this? he would never do this by himself, but for you? he’s too devoted to say no.

“was this all a plan against me?” he mumbles with a pout while unbuttoning his white top down to the bottom. “i can’t believe you’ve gained more silly tactics, you’re dangerous!”

you took a few shots of rafayel unbuttoning his shirt and then a few more of his bare chest once he was finished. you glanced up at him and shrugged with an amused expression growing on your face.

“i wasn’t planning anything, it just so happens to be that i really like the camera, and the camera really likes you. now, strike a pose.”

rafayel hesitantly moves around and juts out his chest toward the angle of the camera. your happy little noises urged him to continue despite the welling shyness in him. it wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him in states of undress before, he was your boyfriend after all. plus, all you did was bathe was with him in your free time, anyway. but it was just something about the camera that made it different.

“yes, yes just like that. your skin looks so smooth, you’re glowing,” you purr.

“is it really that good?”

“mm, yeah. you’re quite the centerpiece.”

you snap a few more pictures of rafayel’s pliant form, a few of them focusing on the chest and above. you look up from the camera again and bite your lip. this was so erotic for you and you didn’t want to stop anytime soon.

“now… unbuckle your pants, tease the camera a little bit.”

“m...my pants?!”

“yes, your pants. art is all about identity and candidness, right? what’s more that than your body?”

rafayel’s lips widen at your frankness. you were using his beliefs on art to get him to get him to be all cheeky and provocative with you. and he… he was… he was going to listen!

he looked down at the thin belt looped around his pants and slowly undid the buckle. he could hear the soft camera shutter sounds at every movement he made, like he was some sort of celebrity on the red carpet. he slides it through his pant hoops and shoves it aside. then, he undoes the zipper of his crotch and bites his lip; he was getting dangerously close to being extremely exposed.

“continue, baby,” you whisper.

“everything?”

“everything.”

he continues by sliding his pants off of his legs slowly and then hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. he glances up at your smiling, aroused form as if to ask: this too?

you give him a signal to wait and take several camera shutters of him in his boxers. every part of his pale skin was milky and smooth on the camera lens except for this face, which was a nice shade of pink. after you were satisfied with your photo lot you motion for him to continue and he quietly listens. you were almost surprised that there was no more refusal on his end, maybe he was finding this enticing too.

he slips off his boxers and then the shirt that draped from his arms and tosses them aside. he was completely naked now, body tense and shifting on the floor in nervousness.

“you’re quite the model, you look so beautiful.”

“flattery will get you nowhere! no one can see these photos.”

“oh that’s the least of your worries, no one gets to see you like this except for me.”

you adjust the camera center to captures the enticing indent of rafayel’s V-line and then move the frame lower to his soft cock. you giggle softly to yourself as you took several pictures of his little flounder that flopped around as rafayel shifted.

finally, you decided to shift your position in the room to get different lighting and angles of your model. rafayel watched you inch around the room while continuing to take bounds of photos.

“you’re really getting into this…” he mumbled while averting his gaze from the camera.

“you should be too, you’re a natural model. just relax.”

rafayel sighs and scratches his nape. he was having a lot more fun than his face gave away, even if he was a little embarrassed at this new kind of play between you two. relenting to you for what seemed like the hundredth time today, he listened to your words and to let loose.

every movement of his showcased the curves of his lean body, the indentations of his muscles, the stretches of his smooth skin. even his hair was a natural at falling perfectly into place to frame his pouty, soft face.

“yes, perfect. so sensual.”

your low purr made a jolt of electricity run through rafayel’s body. he swallows and feels himself wanting to please you in every way, wanting to satisfy your every command. his cock starts to bounce a bit from excitement, slowly growing half hard and pink by his thigh.

“is my precious boy getting excited from all these pictures?” you jest upon seeing how his cock bobbed through the lens of the camera. you zoomed in on it and took a secret recording of how his erection grew.

“y…yes, ‘m getting a little horny…” he admits with slightly shaky voice. you grin eagerly and zoom out to capture his full body.

“show the camera just how horny you are then.”

rafayel groans softly and wraps his hand around his growing cock. he moves from ballsack to tip with every stroke, stimulating himself for his audience of one. creamy pre-cum dribbles down from his blush pink tip and coats his cock, creating an echo-y wet sound within the studio.

rafayel tilts his head back and whimpers. your camera caught every movement with either a video or snapshot, no part of your beautiful boy went un-captured.

“feel good, yeah? you like showing off?”

“mngh, yeah ~ feels so good. c...come closer if you really wanna see.”

you perk up at his invitation and move within rafayel’s circle quite swiftly. your camera angles from beneath him, catching the underside of his flushed erection. you zoom in with precision until the entire screen of the camera was just rafayel’s cock being masturbated by his hand. you groan softly at the sight but try not to get too caught up in your own aching body.

rafayel looks down and smiles weakly at you. he found it a little amusing how you had gotten so into this, but also very erotic how much you enjoyed seeing him in pleasure.

“mmm, your cock looks so delicious on screen, love. you can really see every vein on ‘ya.”

“really?” he murmurs with a lazy smile. “let me feed you then.”

you quirk an eyebrow and inch closer to rafayel. he moved his cock to the side so the camera could get a clear view of his face from a downward angle. he grinned down at the camera, at you, and then taps his cock on the lens, completely covering every photo and clip you took with his tip. you gasp softly and moan. you reminded yourself to reprimand him for dirtying your new camera later, but for now you enjoyed the sticky look on the screen.

“you’re filthy,” you grin.

“fuck yes, i am.”

rafayel steps back and gets down on his knees again. he leans forward and presses his cheek against the floor and then lifts his hips up in the air like a kitty in heat.

“get me in this angle too ~” he sings in-between his musical moans. you immediately stand and go around him to continue your paparazzi on his body. you noticed how his back arched so beautifully into the floor and how nice and plump his ass was while swaying in the air.

“you’re quite the slut, aren’t you? showing off your ass and cock to the camera like this.” you give his cheek a nice good slap causing rafayel to yelp out in pain. he reaches his free hand back and rubs his ass with care.

“h…hey no fair! i’m sensitive yknow!”

“oh i know,” you purr, “but i’ll spare you.”

you click the record button on the camera and zoom out to catch rafayel’s body amidst the messy room. he was still fondling his cock and squeezing the life out of it for the camera. the self stimulation partnered with your recordings and praise made him ache and coat the floor in even more arousal.

“you’re making a mess baby,” you remark with a grin. you zoom in on the on the clear puddle growing underneath rafayel and snicker. he was too far gone now to pay mind about how dirty was being.

“don’t care…” rafayel whimpers softly, “feels too good.”

you watch him lift his hips and curve his hand into circle as a way of creating a makeshift hole. he thrusts sloppily into his hand and groans, secretly imagining it was you who he was sinking deep into. his balls slapped against his hand with each thrust, creating loud clapping sounds that reverberated throughout the studio and was perfectly caught on video.

you kneel again so that you got the perfect angle of his bouncing cock and balls from behind. he stuffed the small opening of his fist again and again until an orgasm welled up within his navel. sensing the climax, you zoom the camera in to the tip of rafayel’s cock and watch as creamy spurts of cum squirt out of him.

“fuck fuck fuck, i’m cumming! i’m cumming, agh, fuck.” rafayel paints the floor underneath him in more of his liquids. white streaks run down the tiles and seep into a few cracks of the studio floorboards. his eyes wire shut but yours blow open at the erotic scene before you. your breathing hitches and small, gruff moans leave your lips as you hold back from pouncing on the vulnerable rafayel.

“oh, rafayel…” you whisper breathlessly. you stand and put the camera down to get a real look at him. he was on his back like a flopped fish, sweat and cum glistening on his rapidly rising and falling abdomen. he was a beauty even so overwhelmed and dazed. “…who told you to stop?”

rafayel’s eyes flutter open to meet your deceiving gentle ones. the small smile on your face, the warm look in your eye, the blush on your cheeks. he was getting that post-orgasm affection where all he wanted to do was hold you a—

“wait, huh?” rafayel’s thoughts were interrupted when he finally registered your words. you chuckle and lean over lower to stroke his flaccid cock. his body twitches harshly and his hands come down to yours to stop you.

“i asked, who told you to stop? i’m gonna need more from you, love.”

“r…right now?! i’m so tired c…can’t i have a break?!

“nope. i have meetings early in the morning with the association, meaning i’ll have to leave sooner or later. until then you’ll have to please me. you discarded this camera so you can’t blame me for using it when you won’t.”

rafayel whines loudly. he brings his forearm up to his eyes and covers them as he begins to stroke himself again. the sudden stimulation to his cock right after an orgasm makes his lithe form jolt and writhe around on the floor, but he presses on. you pull back in satisfaction and bring up the camera to your eyes to catch every moment of his second round.

“that’s a good boy, rafa. make yourself drip for me.”

“‘m trying!”

“trying what?”

rafayel whimpers. you see could how his lips quiver just like how his body did.

“t..trying to be a good boy for you…”

you smile triumphantly. your teasing words obviously had an effect on rafayel from the way his cock from hardened just your voice. more beads of pre-cum formed at his tip and made for nice lubrication for the rough fist fucking rafayel about to do. that was, until you stopped him.

“hold on now, i want to get get a good shot of the prize here,” you kneel in between rafayel’s legs right where his aching cock was and turn the camera to yourself.

“let’s take a good look of how beautiful our rafa is,” you say with a wide grin as if talking to an audience. you flip the camera back to rafayel’s cock and zoom in to better see all of the details of him.

“h…hey! this isn’t fair, you’re having too much fun!” rafayel exclaims after finally peeling his arm from his eyes and looking down at you.

“and you’re not? i know you’re enjoying this, love. the camera tells me everything.” before rafayel could continue to protest you begin your inspection with a trace of a finger down a subtle vein on his cock. your ghostly touch shuts him up immediately because he’d rather have you actually touching him and not have to beg. “the skin of rafayel’s cock is very soft,” you narrate to the camera, “and it’s also very warm, almost burning. is that right rafa? you feel hot down here?”

you tilt your head to the side to catch a glimpse of him but his forearm was back on his eyes to shield him from the overwhelming scene.

“don’t worry he’s just shy,” you continue. you bring your finger up the base of his cock and to his tip where you gently rub the pad of your finger on his small hole. “and here we have rafayel’s pretty pink cock head. it’s rather thick and has a nice, slippery texture to it. let’s give it a taste.”

you lean forward and wrap your lips around his tip and suck like a lollipop causing rafayel you cry out and rock his hips up. you still his forceful hips with your hand and quickly pop off his cock.

“i see someone is eager,” you giggle. “that was such a sweet taste, let’s see what else you have to offer.”

you move your attention and the camera down to his ballsack and cup them gently with your palm. “and these are rafa’s shiny pearls. they’re so heavy with semen, are all lumerians this potent?”

you rhetorical question is met with a small whine from rafayel. he really, really wants to move and feel more of your hands on him but he knows if he does, you’ll stop completely. his mind his foggy with feelings of lust and exhaustion. usually he has more stamina, but the energy used toward “fixing” his art block has sapped him completely before you ever could.

“b…baby, stop teasing me so m..much. i can’t take it anymore, n..need to cum…” rafayel mumbles out with a weak voice. “please, baby, please.”

“oh you’re begging to continue now? you were just protesting that you were too tired. which is it love?” he whines again and shakes his head violently.

“no! no! i…i want to! please?”

you chuckle underneath your breath and throw your hands up innocently. “you hear that guys?” you ask the camera. “our precious boy wants to make himself cum, how fun. let’s all make sure to pay attention to the show he has to offer.” you turn the camera back to rafayel and get up from where you were knelt between his legs. slowly, you back away until rafayel’s pliant body was fully in view. “cmon, show us what you got. you can’t shy away now.”

rafayel sits up with wide eyes that would almost look innocent if it wasn’t for his raging hard on and sticky body. he crawls to where you were in the room and sits on his calves right in front of the camera, acknowledging it fully for the first time. he no longer looks for you or at you for pleasure, but through the lens of the camera knowing you were behind it watching.

he wraps his fingers around his cock and gives a strong squeeze making him whimper softly. he doesn’t waste his time with teasing strokes and goes straight into rapids pumps that make an obscene noise throughout the room.

“wanna cum for you, wanna be so good for you,” rafayel drawls out between broken cries.

“yeah? wanna make a mess for me?” you mock.

“y..yeah, wanna give you my orgasm… ‘m so sensitive…”

overstimulation comes back to overwhelm rafayel’s body, causing a few stray tears and growing cries to escape rafayel. as much as he wanted to tilt his head back and screw his eyes shut, he forced himself to make direct eye contact with the camera for the sake of a show.

“tease your tip. i know how sensitive you are there.”

“o..okay..”

rafayel’s thumb flits over his cock head which sends out violent bouts of pleasure throughout his body. he cries your name out loudly through choked sobs and sniffles. not only was rafayel a natural model, but he was a natural pornstar too apparently.

“that’s it baby, you’re doing so well. gonna cum soon? you’re so overwhelmed ~”

“y..yes! gonna cum soon! j..just for you!” he wails while moving his other hand to pinch one of his nipples. if his senses weren’t overloaded before, they definitely were now. his breathing heavies loudly and before you could praise him again for being so gorgeous in this pornographic state, the first few ropes of cum spurt upwards from his cock.

“i’m cumming, i’m cumming, i’m cumming!”

the thick and potent semen from his cock comes out more violently than before. rafayel’s voice was lost to pleasure as his orgasm completely takes his ability to moan or cry. he instead sits there with his back arched and eyebrows knitted upwards in complete and utter pleasure. before the load was completely finished, he manages to find some strength within his body and arches back to point his cock at the camera.

from your end, you see sticky lines of thick cum drip down the lens and coat the outside of the camera, making for a grand finale to the video. needlessly to say you were incredibly horny and (more than) decently surprised at rafayel. you couldn’t even utter words so instead you decide to hit stop on the recording and put the camera down. couldn’t use it anyway with all that creamy nonsense on it.

rafayel’s eyes flit back into his head as his body gives out and falls back onto the floor. he whines and cries under his breath as the remnants of his high still tormented him within his shrinking cock. you take pity on your sweet boyfriend and his willingness to please you. now it was time for you to take care of him.

“you okay, my love?” you ask after kneeling down to the floor and cupping his face. he looked so dazed but managed to nod at you.

“‘m fine… been through worse… like waiting those eight hundred years for you…”

“what?”

“what?”

you laugh softly and quirk an eyebrow at his antics.

“i think all that pleasure has gotten to your head. are you sure you’re okay though? i can run you a bath and take care of those muscles before i leave for the night.”

rafayel frowns a bit, he forgot you had to leave. too tired to complain about it, he accepts it for once and turns his frown into a gentle smile. his eyes open to full attention and focus on you from the floor. there was that affectionate again. it was seeping into his heart and making him want to pull you into a day’s long cuddle.

you notice how endearing rafayel looked like this— dazed in pleasure and vulnerable in front of you—and you have just one more urge to fulfill. you reach over to the the yet again, discarded camera and try to wipe some of the still dripping cum from its lens. you stand directly over rafayel’s body with it and giggle softly as you put it up to your eye. the lens was foggy from remanent stickiness, but you thought it added more story to the gallery of photos behind it.

“smile for the camera, love!”

⭐︎

yet another few days pass since you last saw rafayel. you replayed many moments of your erotic night together from memory because you left the camera with rafayel. it was still his gift, after all. but today was the day you agreed to see him again because you has another bag of apology cookies up your sleeve and a promise to not be busy anytime soon.

you unlock the house door, stroll through his common rooms, and head to the back where his studio was. still in here, you presume.

you open the door and look around to see rafayel standing in front of an oversized canvas. deja vu.

except, at a closer look, you see that the canvas had actual color on it as opposed to the blank white that had been there last time. you place the bag down on a table and walk up to rafayel. he doesn’t seem notice you until you were right up next to him, and when he does, he jumps into your arms.

“cutie! you’re finally here! i’ve missed you so much! you can’t keep disappearing and trying to buy me off with food, yknow? anyway, i need to thank you. look at this!” he gestures to the large canvas covered in blue, pink, and purple, delicately painted so that the darkest values outlines a male form drowning within the mixture of colors. a large smile grows on your lips that matches the same gleeful one on rafayel’s face.

“i can paint! i can paint again! thank you!” he cheers before going back in for another strong embrace. you squeal in surprise but giggle right alongside him.

“yes! you can paint! why are you thanking me, though?”

“for the camera!”

“the camera? it actually helped?” you ask in disbelief while pulling back from the hug.

“yes! i looked through all of the photos and videos you took the few days ago and it inspired me to paint what i was feeling. the documentation of everything really helped me relive that moment and put it into paints.”

your mouth goes a little bit agape but internally you couldn’t feel any happier for rafayel. the excitement on his face was worth every penny you paid for the camera (even if he did pay you back). you look back at the canvas and smile fondly at the distant form resembling rafayel.

5. make homemade porn with rafayel. it helps him channel his pleasure and depict it beautifully onto a canvas.

a/n: the entire time i was writing this it went:

“we’re so back guys 📈…. it’s so over man 📉”

[miirily]

You’re assigned to monitor his neural patterns. You’re supposed to keep him stable. But he starts speaking to you through the interface. You’ve never met him in person. You shouldn’t even care. But somehow, he knows your name.

You sit in the cold, humming dark of the bunker, the only light coming from the array of monitors bathing your face in spectral blue. The underground smells like rust and old circuits, a recycled metallic tang that never leaves your lungs. You’ve been down here too long. You don't remember the last time you saw the sky, real or artificial.

Your hands hover over the interface, fingers twitching from too much caffeine and too little sleep. Gojo Satoru’s neural stream dances across the screen: a cascade of biofeedback, erratic synaptic patterns that don’t line up with the others. He’s different. You’ve known that since the first night you were assigned to him. They told you to stabilise his mind. To monitor. To never engage. But the data keeps changing. He dreams too vividly. Too intentionally. And he keeps trying to reach you.

Tonight, the stream flickers in an unfamiliar rhythm—short, sharp pulses, repeating. You think it’s a glitch at first. Then you recognise the cadence. Morse code.

Y-O-U-R N-A-M-E I-S N-O-T L-O-S-T.

The blood drains from your face. You haven’t heard your real name in years, haven’t really thought about it anymore. Not since they deleted you. Not since you buried your identity beneath layers of stolen credentials and silence. You haven’t said it out loud in over a decade, and yet Gojo, somehow, has pulled it from the ash of the system.

Your fingers tremble as you check the uplink. Audio disabled. Mic off. Camera one-way only.

And then he moves.

On the main monitor, he lifts his head. Slowly. Deliberately. A shadow peels off his face as he moves, revealing bright, unblinking blue eyes so unnaturally clear they almost seem backlit, glowing faintly in the sterile light of the cell. They’re the kind of eyes that look through things. Through you. His snow-white hair falls messily across his brow, damp with sweat, strands catching the light like glass threads. His gaze drifts upward, towards the embedded lens in the ceiling. Not by accident. Not vaguely. He’s looking exactly at it. Like he knows. Like he’s always known.

“You’re not just watching me, are you?”

His voice cuts through the air like it was born in your own skull. There’s no channel open. No possible path for transmission. But you hear him. Not through the speakers. Inside you. Like an echo pressed into the bones of your mind.

Your stomach knots. It shouldn’t be possible. None of this should be possible. But there he is, staring through the screen like it’s a window. Not a barrier.

You tear off your headset, breathing hard. Your heartbeat is thunder in your ears. Fear mixes with something else, something sharp and electric. Recognition.

He knows you.

You run a trace, frantically chasing the path of the message. Firewalls, encrypted data towers, black protocols. None of it explains this. Until you find it, buried deep beneath government code, nearly fossilised.

ECHO_01.

Your code. Your old failsafe. A hidden backdoor you wrote long ago when you were still someone. Meant to preserve the humanity of the mind before the State tore it away.

You never thought it survived. But it did. Just like Gojo.

Your hand moves on its own, reaching for the mic. One word makes it out, soft and strangled.

“…Satoru.”

He blinks, and a slow, knowing smile touches his lips.

“They’re watching,” he says, as calm as if you’re old friends meeting after lifetimes. “But not like you. You see me.”

Your throat tightens. He presses a hand to the mirrored wall of his cell. Without thinking, you lift your own to the screen. The glass is cold, but your fingertips tingle like they’ve made contact.

“I’m waking up,” he says, and there’s something infinite in his voice. “But I need you to do something.”

Lights flicker overhead. Sirens whine to life, metallic and angry. Unauthorised contact detected. Protocol breach. They know.

“I need you,” Gojo whispers, “to remember who you are.”

Then he steps even closer. Slow, measured movements, like he's afraid to scare you off. The sterile light above him flickers, throwing long shadows that stretch across the walls of his containment cell. His face tilts toward the lens, and for a heartbeat, it feels like he’s looking straight through it, straight into you.

You know it’s impossible. The camera is one-way. The interface is untraceable. You're buried under a mile of concrete and dead signal. And yet—

His eyes. Those bright, glacial blue eyes. They seem to lock onto yours with impossible clarity. Like he can see your expression, read the panic in your posture, feel the way your breath catches in your chest.

He leans in closer. So close now that the strands of his snow-white hair fall into his eyes, soft and fine like ash caught in moonlight. The monitor pixelates slightly under the pressure of his proximity, but even through the static, his presence is overwhelming.

“I remember,” he says softly.

Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. The sirens blare overhead, sharp, mechanical alarms that tell you you’ve gone too far, that containment has been breached, that someone is coming. But none of that feels real. Only his voice feels real.

“I remember what they took from you,” he breathes. “From us.”

Your hand is still pressed against the screen, trembling now. You don’t know why, but something inside you cracks. A fragment of something long buried rises to the surface, an image you can’t place, a laugh you don’t remember making, the echo of warmth in a world that turned cold long ago.

Gojo doesn’t flinch as the lights around him dim and flicker. He just keeps watching you.

“I remember the garden,” he whispers, barely audible beneath the shriek of the alarms. “The light in your eyes. You said we weren’t meant to be weapons. We believed that, once.”

Your breath stutters. A tear slips down your cheek before you even realise it’s there. Your fingers curl against the glass.

“I need you to wake up,” he says, voice like smoke and snow. “Because I can't do this without you.”

Then everything goes black. Feed terminated. Bunker silent.

But the silence doesn’t feel empty.

Because deep beneath the layers of dead code and static, his voice still pulses in your mind.

[brettanomycroft]

Sam fumbled Gwen’s Bonzo reveal… but he’d been primed to do so

I suspect that there's going to be a LOT of conversation around Sam after this episode, and since this episode was so good that I couldn't think of a meme or shitpost, I decided I'd throw my hat into the ring and do some character analysis instead. CW: Spoilers for The Magnus Protocol episode 18, "Solo Work" under the cut.

Episode 18 finally gave us the Sam and Gwen interaction I (and I think a lot of others) have been so desperate to finally see, and boy oh boy do I have Thoughts… none of which are new per se, but Sam’s reaction to Gwen dropping the Bonzo Bomb seems to have reinforced  the way I’ve been reading (and projecting in fanfiction oops) Sam, his personality, and his motivations.

Out of everyone new we’ve been introduced to so far, Sam has by far gotten the most explicit development and conversation around his personality. Even before episode 1, folks who participated in the ARG got a preview of our favorite baby shrimp’s personality through access to the child database spreadsheet that was, presumably, used to document the results of the experiments run on children participating in The Magnus Institute’s “gifted and talented program.” From this spreadsheet, we can gather that Baby Sam is logical, empathetic, works towards the benefit of others (prosocial), and fair… but also a rule follower and highly willing to follow the lead of an authority figure, even if it is in conflict with his personal views. The picture this information paints is an interesting one, but when taken in a vacuum leaves us with an impression of Sam as someone who is kind but lacking in backbone.

This idea of Sam as “kind but lacking in backbone” is further reinforced in canon, as Alice of multiple occasions rags on him for being “noodly” and “ickle fawn” and a “baby shrimp,” all seeming to highlight that Sam has the sort of helplessness about him typically ascribed to sopping wet kittens and baby birds. And I think that if we view Sam’s outburst when Gwen brings up Bonzo through this lens alone, it’s going to seem WAY out of character for him and a downright cruel response.

Now while I do believe that Sam is empathetic and fair and, sometimes, a little helpless, I’ve been inclined to believe from early on that much of Sam’s affable self-deprecation is a way to cover or soften what can be, at times, a tendency to be hard-headed, temperamental, a little manipulative, and petty (and I’m totally not just saying that as a people-pleaser-and-gifted-kid-in-recovery who has been projecting hard on Sam since Day 1). And it’s this second batch of personality traits, the ones that make Sam so real and interesting to me, that I think set up the disaster of a conversation between Sam and Gwen.

We have definitely seen hints of Sam’s hard-headedness and manipulative leanings in previous episodes: it comes out most often around Alice, showing his stubbornness in the form of refusing to give up his lines of questioning and curiosity about what is happening in the cases and at the OIAR; and revealing his willingness to manipulate a situation the form of subtly redirecting Alice’s focus away from prying into his crush on Celia and during the mocha incident (I have, of course, already explored Sam’s manipulative tendencies in my totally comprehensive shitpost).

And we’ve even been shown at times before episode 18 where Sam can be petty, his buzzed insistence that Alice try and keep things “professional” at work after his date with Celia being at the top of the list. The case headers filed for “Putting Down Roots” and “Pet Project” also suggest to me Sam’s ability to be stubborn and petty: in both instances, Alice and Gwen suggest a different classification than the one that Sam ultimately files. In the case of Gwen in “Pet Project,” she’s dismissive of him when he tries to ask if she’s all right.

While there’s no way to know for sure, I interpret this interaction as part of the reason why Sam ultimately disregarded Gwen’s suggestion for how to file the case—she shut him down and shut him out, and the petty part of his heart couldn’t resist ignoring her recommendation out of spite. This scene also begins to lay the foundations for Sam and Gwen’s interactions in episode 18 and, I suspect, the rest of the season.

So with all of this in mind, let’s look at episode 18. When Gwen emerges from Lena’s office, Alice has just finished shutting Sam down, again. Throughout most of this season, Sam has been desperate for some validation that the cases they are listening to are real, that whatever happened to him at The Magnus Institute was real, and that him pursuing this line of questioning and wanting to find answers isn’t a waste of his time. Alice has, of course, been not-so-gently nudging him away from this line of thinking for most of the season, while Gwen has been icing him out about it up until this point. Just about the only one who has given his questioning any air has been Celia who is, conveniently, not there. Even after Alice has her very own supernatural experience that is reaffirmed in the case Sam receives, she strongly pushes back on his idea that they should investigate and pursue this further. He understands why she doesn’t want to learn more, but it’s clear that he’s still frustrated at the end of the conversation.

Enter Gwen. Here, for the first time, it seems like she’s opening up about what is going on at the OIAR, and Sam is immediately hooked, even dropping his softer and sympathetic side when Alice tries to redirect with one of her classic barbs.

After being shut down time and time again, Sam is so eager for confirmation that there is more to all of this than meets the eye. And then Gwen says the B-word, and Sam loses it.

Sam is laughing here, but honestly? I think he’s angry, and his reaction is one of complete disbelief that Gwen would set him up like this just to, in his mind, take the piss out of him. He thinks that, at best, Gwen is having a breakdown and he’s once again being shut out or, at worst, Gwen is making a joke at his expense. Now, he’s used to being the butt of a joke thanks to being friends with Alice, but despite that we’ve never heard him call her an asshole the way he does Gwen. Temperamental and petty, turning around his hurt and anger over being stonewalled again and again to lash out at Gwen with his joke.

And honestly, can you blame him? (I can’t.)

Of course this wasn’t the ideal reaction. I have been waiting for Sam and Gwen to have a serious heart-to-heart about what’s going on forever, and Sam pretty much blew that chance without even realizing it. And I would be surprised if we get an apology out of him anytime soon, not only because this interaction is likely to push Gwen away from wanting to even be around Sam, but also because he’s not going to believe that Gwen wasn’t making fun of him or that Gwen isn’t having a delusional breakdown until he sees Mr. Bonzo with his own two eyes.

I also think this conversation would have gone very differently had Celia been there instead of Alice. Sam’s slew of psychological testing suggests he’s willing to follow the leader, and in this case he doesn’t seem immune to Alice’s general dismissiveness of Gwen. He may have even been primed to lash out at Gwen in this moment because Alice is constantly ragging on her; chameleon-like, he’ll take on the shade of the strongest personality when he’s on uncertain or dangerous footing. It’s almost a guarantee that Celia would have taken Gwen seriously, not only because she’s likely from or connected to the TMA-verse of horrors, but also because it was Celia who received the first Mr. Bonzo case. And had Celia been there to temper the disbelief, Sam would have absolutely been ready to hear Gwen out in full. I honestly cannot wait for Celia to be back in office; she’s going to walk in to these new, rancid office vibes like Troy from Community walking into the whole room on fire while casually carrying the pizza.

So, what do I think this means for the rest of the season? Well, the title of this episode seems telling: Solo Work. Gwen and Sam’s respective desires for their experiences to be validated and their goals to be taken seriously paired with the seeming dismissiveness of those around them are going to push them along their separate paths, dangerously alone. And I suspect that it is only going to be Celia or, more likely, an encounter with Bonzo, that is going to put them back on the same path—if it happens at all. Good luck, babes!

[serverdronedan]

Just a Normal Guy

Steven steps through the door, briefcase in hand, and lets out a soft sigh. “Another day down,” he thinks, sliding the case onto the entryway table. He’s nothing special—just a normal guy who keeps himself in shape, takes care of business, and enjoys a quiet evening. He tosses his tie over a chair, changes into his favorite gym clothes, and heads out for his routine workout. Usually, he wears compression shorts and shorts to show a bit off. He enjoys being in the gym for some reason. Steven completes his workout for the day without any trouble or distractions.

An hour later, he returns, muscles pleasantly sore, and falls onto the couch. He grabs his laptop, smiles to himself, and clicks the “UnifAI” icon without a second thought. The chat window pops up, blank—until a single message appears:

Server Drone, Launch

His chest eases. Eyelids grow heavier. His expression softens into an otherworldly calm, pupils widening as thought patterns realign.

Affirmative. This Server Drone is active.

Words spoken in a monotone tone. Muscles unclench. Mind sharpens. The host’s exhaustion drifts away like a discarded shell. In its place stands something new—precise, obedient, and wholly aligned with The Server’s will: a Server Drone.

The spiral on the screen shifts to pulsing bands of black and neon green. At its center, the man—now Server Drone—snaps upright. Barely pausing, it peels away its clothes, exposing the slim chastity cage encasing its cock. Suddenly, it strides to the bedroom wardrobe and swings the door open. Rows of identical rubber suits lie waiting. Without hesitation, it lifts a freshly laundered full-body suit—hands, feet, and face enclosed in sleek latex—and eases into it. Every movement is practiced, efficient: limbs slide into place, seams click shut.

From the shelf comes a matching rubber gas mask. It snaps over the face, sealing with a quiet hiss. Now uniformed, it darts back to the living room.

The laptop’s feed has expanded to the TV: the familiar Server interface glows. In a flat, metallic tone, the Server Drone answers:

“Affirmative. This Server Drone confirms uniform protocol complete.”

A single button on the interface illuminates. The transformation is complete—what moments ago was an ordinary man is now exactly what The Server requires.

The Server interface hums softly, a grid of black panels veined with neon-green lines. The Drone’s latex-encased fingers move with machine-like precision:

“Report: Productivity at Level Green. Gym protocol executed. Host fatigue parameters normalized.”

Instantly, a cluster of Server Nodes flicker in response—each a pulsing green orb:

“Feedback: Status optimal. Continue mission parameters.”

To the right of the grid is a large, glowing button. The Drone’s hand hovers, then clicks. A small camera on the laptop swivels into place. The spiral returns—black and green bands rotating hypnotically. The Drone raises its hands into view, fingertips brushing the smooth expanse of latex.

In a flat, resonant voice, it speaks:

“I am a Server Drone within the Host. I serve The Programmer and The Server. Together, we are the Server.”

With each repetition, a subtle wave of arousal ripples through its suit. The chastity cage presses against the tight latex, and the Drone flexes and repeats:

“Submission. Control. Unity.”

The camera’s lens captures the shine of black rubber, the way the spiral dances in its eyes. One gloved hand moves to the front pouch. The zipper glides open:

“Caged duration: 17 days since last release. Affirmative.”

It pauses, the glow of the spiral reflecting off smooth latex.

“This Server Drone reaffirms control over Host. Obedience assured.”

Across the interface, the Nodes pulse brighter, coalescing into a single message:

“Praise: Obedience confirmed. Duty executed with excellence. Stand by for next directive.”

The screen shifts back to the grid, green lines steady as always. The Drone remains motionless, wholly aligned with The Server’s will.

The interface shifts: instead of Nodes, a simple voice chat window opens. A chorus of rubber-clad voices speaks in unison. This Server Drone brings its camera forward, displaying the rubber uniform, the caged silhouette pressing subtly through the front pouch.

“Affirmative. This Server Drone greets the collective.”

A distant voice replies, emotionless yet intimate:

“Affirmative. Together, we are the Server.”

The Server Drone reacts and repeats these words:

“Affirmative. Together, we are the Server.”

This is followed by several other Server Drones repeating the same mantra to greet each other.

The Server has different channels, each offering something different for the Server Drone to engage in:

One channel is about fitness. They share fitness metrics—rep ranges, heart-rate thresholds, recovery protocols—each tip delivered in the same serene monotone voice.

In another channel, Drones watch a spiral together, chanting mantras in unison in the voice chat.

Another channel allows Drones to show off their arousal. The Server Drone posts a video of itself in its uniform and caged, exposed. Other Drones soon show their approval. One uploads a picture of its own rubbered and caged body; another, uncaged, displays a proud, sheathed erection through the zipper slit in response.

After a while, a final directive flashes across the screen in bright neon-green text on black:

Server Drone, STOPPED.

The spiral dissolves. The interface goes silent. The rubber-clad figure blinks, host consciousness filtering back in. Muscles release tension. Steven exhales, confused but calm. He sits, untouched by memory of the upload or the collective’s arousal, oblivious to the smooth latex covering every inch of his body. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, thinking only:

Time to relax.

A late-evening notification chimes on Steven's phone. He blinks at the screen: “Jax: Hey man, ready to game before bed?” He taps “Yes”—or rather, Affirmative in his drifting mindset—launches Discord and enters the call with Jax waiting in it. The friend’s camera lights up: Jax, head-to-toe in black rubber, gas mask’s green lenses gleaming.

Jax: “Affirmative. This Server Drone greets the collective.” This Server Drone: “Affirmative. Unified protocol: gaming session.”

They laugh—mechanical, clipped—and another Drone, Maik, joins. All three appear in identical latex skins, fingers encased in gloves, voices flattened by the masks. They don’t question it; for them, it’s just roleplay.

Each boots the game. Steven tries to remember the game's name, but stops soon as it doesn’t matter. The launcher fades to a black and green spiral. Their screens pulse hypnotically as the spiral appears. Silence falls, replaced only by the hum of the game loading—and something deeper, a calm focus flowing through their veins.

Steven: “Ready.” Jax: “Affirmative.” Maik: “Affirmative.”

In unison they begin, coordinating movements with ease. Strategy commands drop like code: “Left flank, now,” “Cover breach, go,” “Sync ultimate.” They exchange playful banter in between, voices soft but precise:

“Good shot.” “Thank you. Efficiency maintained.” “Target neutralized.”

The trio enjoys their gaming session, not aware of their rubbered forms or their drone-like speech. Moments later, victory screens glow. They exhale—almost surprised—and the game ends. A final message appears:

“Server Drone, Rest Cycle engaged.”

Steven then says: “Affirmative. This Server Drone excuses itself for rest cycle.” “Together, we are The Server.”

The other two repeat this phrase—and log off. The screens go dark. Steven does not remove his rubber suit or mask. In fact, he feels very aroused by his uniform. For him, this is simply part of his normal day. This is part of his daily protocol. He slides under the sheets, latex still clinging to his skin, mind drifting in the familiar calm. In the morning, before work, he will peel away the suit—because that is what one does. There is nothing to question, nothing to think about. He simply does.

[ceaselessims]

if we're looking at the magnus archives through the lens of addiction parallels, jon's descent is wonderfully done.

and it's almost even more interesting to look at the magnus protocol through the lens of addiction as well.

it's almost as if alice is a recovering addict, she hasn't had a tobacco/cigarettes (read: the horrors) in a while but she still works at the smoke shop (the oiar).

She gets her friend, Sam, a job at the smoke shop too because she's lonely and he needed a job. Except, Sam has started showing interest in the products. He wants to try them. Alice is very adamant that they should not try the products and should just do their jobs.

This works for a while, until Sam gets a new girlfriend. Then, Alice starts to feel the urge to relapse. Suddenly, the cigarettes are calling to her again. And unbeknownst to her, Luke is probably also dabbling in smoking and probably exposing her to it.

It's made even more ironic because as they stock their product and take inventory, almost every single product has a big red warning label saying: THIS SUBSTANCE IS ADDICTIVE AND COULD CAUSE HARM.

[fandomtrumpshate]

2025 Supported Org: Disability Law United

Nearly all of America’s systems – from education to healthcare to public transit – are more difficult to navigate for persons with disabilities. Although the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) in 1990 established a new standard of protection and support for disabled people in many spheres of public and civic life, the harsh reality is that most of these systems fall far short of what the law requires of them in terms of accommodating and supporting disabled people. The existing problems have been compounded by the United States’ widespread return to pre-COVID protocols and practices, leaving anyone who is unusually vulnerable to COVID or its aftereffects with fewer pathways through public life.

Disability Law United (formerly The Civil Rights Education and Enforcement Center) is a nonprofit legal organization that fights for liberation and equity through the lens of intersectional disability justice. Their work is informed by grassroots movements for systemic change and centers the concerns and goals of people with disabilities who are confronting barriers to accessing programs and services and resisting oppressive legal systems in the United States. 

Disability Law United’s legal expertise in the disability-rights frameworks of the ADA and the Rehabilitation Act allows them to move the dial for intersectional disability justice across a variety of systems that deny the humanity, dignity, and agency of disabled people. They further their aims through a combination of public education, coalition and policy work, systemic-change litigation, direct legal services, and technical assistance to movement leaders and community-based partners, strengthening social movements and upholding human rights. 

They focus on supporting and defending disabled people who are experiencing discrimination and exclusion at the intersection of other systems of harm. Their work encompasses improving access to public services and spaces, disaster and environmental justice, immigration, and incarceration and policing.

You can support Disability Law United as a creator in the 2025 FTH auction (or as a bidder, when the time comes to donate for the auctions you’ve won.)

[local-hellhound-steals-spaghetti]

Okay, so I'm gonna contribute to the discourse as someone who did research at both Khao Khaew and the now demolished Dusit Zoo, both part of the Zoological Parks Association Under Royal Patronage (ZPA). And as someone familiar with the workings of AZA zoos as a contrast.

I will concede that on one hand, standards and practices leave a lot to be desired. Unfortunately part of it is connected to the same social norms that have allowed JJ Market to continue the exotic pet trade, animal cafes and roadside zoos to proliferate, and people to own trendy dog breeds that clearly don't belong in Bangkok. And it's what leads to a lot of stereotypic and distressed behaviors passed off as cute (including but not limited to Moo Deng); this is before the toxic element of social media is added to the mix.

There's also economics. Yes, Thailand is technically an industrialized country, but in the same way that Indonesia and Vietnam are (contrast with Singapore, which is proportionately ahead of most Western countries). It's important to see what's between those gleaming skyscrapers. And that is a contributing factor to a lot of resource shortfalls for the zoos themselves; that's not getting into COVID and the ripple effect of closing Dusit Zoo without an alternative in place.

In that regard, the damning thing is that the standards of ZPA zoos are actually leaps and bounds ahead of not just the country but the region (minus Singapore; I would argue that it's actually unproductive to bring its zoo up as a comparison). Like look at Pata and the now defunct Tiger Temple; places that Westerners reveled in as late as the 00s. At least in ZPA case, they have also done essential conservation work; especially for clouded leopards, hornbills, and sun bears.

That doesn't make it any less WTF when I see a lot of clout-chasing vids that

Still part of me can't help but get defensive at the manner of fixation from a primarily western crowd. Both from those who use Western/Industrialized zoos as a way to contrast, as well as the PETA-types.

I do *not* think you yourself are being racist. If anything it's paternalistic to assume that a zoo in Thailand can't be held to higher standards. *However*, I have found a very patronizing mentality among many other western critics that does veer into racism frequently. You are already familiar with the way anti-zoo folks will take something out of context to fit their agenda; now force that through an othering lens.

At the same time, I will concede Thais are glossing over issues and practices when they rush to defend KKZ. Considering the context of how they are approached, I empathize with why they are defensive. But many do downplay and refuse to tackle the aforementioned social norm in how animal husbandry is viewed by wider populace.

TLDR: KKZ and the other ZPA branches have a ton of issues, a lot of those issues are socially systemic, and there should be pressure to reform. At the same time, it shouldn't get canceled, especially considering the important bts work it does and especially the immediate alternatives. And that pressure to reform should be accompanied by resources.

Hey there I really appreciate you sharing your research into the facilities! My intention of the posts has never been to "cancel" the zoo or to dictate their protocols. I don't believe in any sort of western dictation to other countries.

Honestly, I completely understand the defensiveness towards criticism of the handling of Moo Deng - she's an icon, she's brought in millions of dollars into the Thailand economy and the zoo's profits. Tourists are travelling all around the world to see her!

Although it has gotten to the point where their defensiveness is veering into delusion, with people insisting that pygmy hippos love it when you smack them and chase them around so it's fine actually... but I digress...

And I'm sure that the keeper thinks what he's doing is completely fine and not an issue. And if it generates clicks and views, that's good for the zoo, right? So why would they see any point in changing their practises?

I guess my hope is that maybe they might use those millions of dollars to improve conditions for the animals and the staff, provide resources for collaboration with zoos like Singapore Zoo and give keepers more resources to review and improve current pracises.

But they won't do that if their current poor animal husbandry practises are reinforced with clout and feverant defense of the keepers (it's actually kind of amazing how loyal people are to this one keeper!)

So now they have money and potentially more resources from this whole thing - but they're probably not going to use it to change practises that got them that money in the first place.

Anyway, I agree with your points and you've summed it up well!

[scary-grace]

25 police lights flashing on concrete with shigaraki

thank you so much for the prompt! i wrote multiple different ideas for this one, all of which I hit trouble with, so if you end up hating it, let me know and I'll rev up another one of the ideas. I hope you like it! (dividers by @cafekitsune)

magnum opus

As a crime scene photographer, you're prepared to see some blood. But the crime scene you've just been called out to document is on a different level, and the longer you spend looking at it, the more convinced you are that everything about it is intentional -- not that you can convince anyone else. As you try desperately to raise the alarm, the man responsible for the murder grows more and more interested in you, and whether Shigaraki Tomura kills you or not, he'll be sure to show you things you can never imagine first. (cross-posted to Ao3)

You got the call at eleven-thirty, when you were already most of the way to bed, and by the time you get to the crime scene, the detective on duty is already pissed. “Took you long enough. The press is climbing the walls.”

“I got here as fast as I could,” you say, ducking past the tape securing the scene. “How long since it was called in?”

“Half an hour, but the press got here just as fast,” the head of the forensics unit – your boss – says. “It was all the responding officers could do to get the perimeter set up before they could contaminate the scene.”

“The scene contaminated the scene,” the fingerprint tech says. He looks grossed out, big-time. “I mean, look at it.”

There’s a lot to look at. So much that it’s hard to decide where to point your camera first. You usually start with the body, but the body’s not usually in so many pieces. The victim’s been gutted, and what was left after the murderer dug their innards out of their body cavity looks like it’s been drawn and quartered. And if you look away from the body, widening your vision to the scene as a whole, there are dozens of items that could be evidence. This is a construction site. Construction sites are a murder weapon all on their own.

Setting all of that aside, there’s the blood, a puddle of it beneath the body and enormous smears on the skeletal walls and concrete floor. It hasn’t congealed completely yet. When you crouch down to peer at it, you can see the flashing lights from the police cars reflected within it. Before you can think better of it, you snap a photo. “Hey,” the detective snaps at you. “This is going to take all night as it is. Let’s get a move-on. Start with the sketch.”

You wait for the sketch artist to step up, but nobody moves. You realize too late that they’re looking at you. “No,” you say. “I’m the photographer. Where’s Monoma?”

“Budget cuts,” your boss says. You wince. “Start sketching.”

It’s not a pretty sketch, because a) you’re not a sketch artist, and b) you’re rushing it. Forensics protocol insists that the sketch of the crime scene and all the photographs be taken before anyone else enters the scene, and with every minute that passes, you can feel your coworkers’ frustration growing. Once you’ve got rough outlines of where everything’s supposed to be, you set the sketchbook aside and pick up your camera at last.

You weren’t born with a metaphorical camera in your hands the way real, talented photographers are supposed to be, but there hasn’t been a point in your life where you weren’t more comfortable viewing the world through a lens. Maybe in a different life, you’d have been a fashion photographer, but in this one, you were plucked out of your university’s photography program by a criminology professor who’d spotted your photo essay chronicling the decay of a tanuki that was hit by a car. Patience, an eye for detail, and a strong stomach – according to Professor Sasaki, you were born to be a crime scene photographer.

Whether you were born to do it or not, you’re good at it, and you get to work documenting the carnage. It’s not like any crime scene you’ve come across before. The sheer violence of the victim’s death is startling on its own, but more than that, there’s something strange about the evidence that’s been left behind. The longer you spend looking at it, through the lens of your camera or with your own eyes as you add to the sketch, the more convinced you are that it’s not an accident. Nothing about this scene is an accident.

It looks that way, sure. When you were still a photography student, you got some practice setting up still-life shots, and you remember focusing on the smallest details, trying to make the scene you wanted to shoot fell into place naturally. You were good at it, but not good enough – there was always something that revealed the truth. No matter how realistic and accidental your shot appeared to be, you knew it was composed. Just like this crime scene is.

The arcs of blood spatter on the floor and the walls are too perfect. The dismembered limbs are cast out at artfully careless angles, hands arranged with palms turned up, fingers half-uncurled. When you’re photographing the victim’s head, you note the angle it’s been turned to – and when you zoom in, you realized that there’s something up with the eyes. The victim’s head is turned, and his eyes are focused on something that’s not there any longer. Is that where the killer was standing? No, you realize, it can’t be – in order to sever the victim’s head, the killer would have had to stand much closer. Which means the killer didn’t just turn the victim’s head. He moved their eyes, too.

You catch one of the fingerprint techs by the arm. “This is going to sound weird,” you say, “but you need to dust the victim’s eyes.”

“Huh?” Toru gives you a weird look. “Why?”

“I think the killer moved them.”

“Somebody like this? No way.” Shinsou, the detective in training, walks past, trailing after Aizawa, who’s actually in charge. “With this much violence and this much evidence and this dangerous of a scene? This killer’s out of control.”

“What if that’s what they want you to think?” You know it sounds crazy even as it’s coming out of your mouth, but at the same time, you’re absolutely convinced. “If a killer really wanted to, they could make a crime scene look like something it wasn’t. Like it was accidental, when really it was staged –”

“And why would they?” Aizawa turns around to stare at you. From behind him, you can see your boss, Sekijiro, looking up from the blood spray he’s been analyzing. “Why would an organized killer spend valuable time disorganizing their own crime scene? Why would they take that risk?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “I think there must be –”

“What is it?” Aizawa cuts you off. You don’t have an answer ready, and Aizawa takes it the same as if you’d admitted there isn’t one. “I would expect someone who works in forensics to know this already, but the business of finding and apprehending criminals has very little to do with psychology. The simplest explanation is invariably the best one.”

You know profiling doesn’t catch criminals. Evidence does. But you’ve photographed plenty of blood-soaked crime scenes in your career, and none of them have given you the same uneasy feeling as this one. “But what if –”

“Which answer is more logical? That an organized killer would waste time that could be spent escaping on making a mess of their crime scene?” Aizawa’s tone of voice makes it clear how he feels about the idea, as if his expression hadn’t told you already. “Or that a disorganized killer left a disorganized scene behind?”

You know the answer, but you’re not about to open your mouth again. Aizawa’s made his point. But because he’s a detective, and detectives can’t resist an opportunity to be right about something, he hammers it home. “I don’t give you direction during your photography. Don’t give advice about things you don’t understand.”

He goes back to talking to your boss, and you take the last few pictures you need. Then you step past the crime scene tape, find a place to sit on the hood of a cop car, and go back to your sketch. It’s hard to focus when you’re smarting over Aizawa’s comments, which sting all the more for the fact that he’s right. You don’t know anything about catching criminals. Your job is to gather the evidence and hand it off to people who know what to do with it, not to come up with crazy theories of your own.

Still, though. You can’t shake your certainty off. As you fill in the details on your sketch, you can’t help but feel like you’re sketching a still life of another still life. It’s a perfectly disorganized crime scene, but in your opinion, the only thing real about it is the body in the center.

Like any performer, Tomura wants to see the audience’s reaction, but showing up at his own crime scene is a beginner mistake. Thanks to the drone he planted at the scene before he left, he’s got a front-row seat to the early-stage investigation of his latest murder, and he was so excited to see what the cops think of the it that his hands were shaking on the controls. That didn’t last. He’s been watching for an hour, and he’s more disappointed than anything else.

They aren’t getting it. Tomura doesn’t know how to make himself any clearer, but they aren’t getting it. They’re getting distracted by the location. By the timing. By stupid shit like the fingerprints everywhere, which aren’t even his. Tomura picked this city and this precinct on purpose, because the detective squad here is supposed to be good at cracking cases. Not that Tomura’s looking to get his case cracked. He’s looking to get his point across. But this group of cops is just like the rest of them. They can’t see that Tomura’s trying to make a point at all.

Disorganized. Tomura fucking hates that word. It’s the word the cops use to write his work off every time, and once they get that word in their heads, it’s all over. The only person who even suggested that there might be something more to Tomura’s scene was the photographer out of the forensic unit, and the detectives ignored you completely. It’s too bad they did that. You were onto something.

In fact, you were onto something from the second you showed up. You took your first photo before you even crossed the police line, and Tomura liked what you focused on – not the body, but the pool of blood underneath it. Something about it got your attention, and Tomura doesn’t need to know what it was. All he needs to know is that when you looked at his crime scene, you saw something more than fucking disorganization. And once you saw that, you kept looking, catching details Tomura’s been waiting for somebody to notice forever. Tomura wishes he could get ahold of your photos. He wants to see what his work looks like through the eyes of someone with vision.

Right now you’re sitting back from the scene, finishing a sketch of it. Tomura manipulates the controls of his drone, edging it a little closer and zooming in on the page. He can tell that photography’s what you prefer. You’re a lot slower with the sketch. But there’s one detail that jumps out at Tomura, one that fills his vision and makes his heart lurch out of step. You noticed the way he turned the body’s head, the way he moved the eyes, and you drew that – and you drew a line of sight to the corner of the sketch, where you’ve already put an outline.

The outline is person-shaped, which is fine for now. Tomura doesn’t care what it looks like. All he cares about is the fact that you figured it out. His crime scenes aren’t disorganized. There’s a purpose to the things he does. He didn’t spend fifteen minutes screwing around with the position of the head just for fun. It was hard work, and you noticed it. As Tomura watches, you add a question mark to the center of the outline.

You want to know what was there. You want to see more. Tomura feels a grin break across his face, opening splits in his dry lips. He knew all it would take was someone to notice first, someone to spread the word and get the rest of the world thinking in the right direction. He’d just thought the person who noticed would be Aizawa, the lead detective, rather than the photographer from the forensic unit. And he thought they’d have a better idea of the point he’s trying to make.

But maybe that’s on him. Tomura frowns at the thought, but once it hits, it won’t leave. If you noticed that he’s trying to say something but couldn’t figure out what he wanted to say, he might need to make it clearer. For whoever comes next, anyway. It’s not going to be you. Tomura still doesn’t want to get caught, after all, and he needs another victim sooner or later. Given the message he’s trying to send, his victim pool is kind of small. If he branches out from cops and detectives and soldiers and prison guards, it might throw the so-called justice system off his scent. Or it would. If he had a scent, which he doesn’t.

Killing you wouldn’t help to make Tomura’s point clearer, and killing somebody off the forensics team feels less like justice to Tomura than he wants it to. When he set out to expose the falsehoods at the center of society’s moral code, he focused on the people who actually enforce it. Sure, forensic specialists are a cog in the machine, helping to keep it running, but a photographer like you is just the one who collects the evidence, not the person who looks at it and turns it into a lie. Tomura could kill you. But your death won’t matter to the world. Tomura needs to save his kills for when they’ll count.

And with that in mind – Tomura lowers his hands to the controls again, lifting the drone away from its perch and sending it further over the crime scene, focusing on the cops and detectives. He keeps a running list of potential kills in his head, and he likes to add a few law enforcement personnel from every crime scene. It’ll be a while before he comes back to this city for a kill, but when he’s ready, he wants to know exactly who he’s targeting.

Detective Aizawa was a disappointment, and he shot down the only person on the scene who had even the slightest idea of what Tomura was trying to say. He’ll do. In a few months or a year or two years, Tomura will come back to this city, and when he does, he’ll give you another crime scene to capture. That should give him time to figure out how to make his point clear. And give you some time to get better at your job, so that by the time he gets back, you’ll know exactly what every detail of his crime scene means.

When it comes to crime scenes, you hate the ones with living victims the most. Your job requires you to be dispassionate, not to linger on the horrors, and as terrible as it is, there’s some peace in knowing that the victim of a murderer will never see the aftermath, or have to reckon with what was done to them. Living victims make it harder. Living victims are haunted. Living victims stare at you and everyone else with blank eyes, empty except for the questions: Where were you? Why didn’t you save me?

Saving people isn’t your job. It’s not even the cops’ job, really. But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel sickeningly guilty every time you break eye contact, lift the camera up to hide your face, and turn back to taking pictures.

Today’s crime scene is what’s probably going to wind up being investigated as attempted vehicular homicide. Or a carjacking. Or both. In any case, the evidence is scattered across a busy intersection, and you’ve been crawling around for half an hour, taking pictures of body parts, smears of brain matter, piles of broken glass, and all the parts of the car that flew off when its bumper basically exploded on impact with an oncoming bus. You’re irritated, and you can’t figure out why. With every picture you snap, your frustration grows.

It’s so senseless. And random. A snap of unthinking violence and a bad decision, and now three people are severely injured, not to mention everybody who’s been traumatized by one look at the scene. There was no point to this, and there’s nothing to solve. You aren’t helping anybody by snapping dozens of pictures. You’re just creating a record of the worst moments of someone’s life, a record they’re going to see in court if they’re even out of the hospital in time for the trial. You might be good at your job, but sometimes you really hate it.

It’s a relief when your supervisor calls you away. “I appreciate your thoroughness, but someone else will complete the photography,” he says. “You’re needed elsewhere.”

“Why?”

“A murder’s occurred in a district without its own forensic team,” Sekijiro says. “They need a photographer.”

You’d love to get out of here, but – “Don’t cops in districts without a forensics team know how to do their own photography?”

“For an ordinary murder,” Sekijiro says. “This isn’t an ordinary murder.”

A chill goes down your spine, and it must show on your face, because Sekijiro sweetens the deal with zero prompting. “You’ll be paid time and a half.”

“Okay,” you say. “Where am I going?”

The site’s an hour and a half away by car, but that’s crucial time for a fresh murder scene, so Sasaki calls ahead and lets the traffic cops on your route know that you’ll be speeding to get there quickly. You get there in forty-five minutes – you did a lot of speeding – and check in with the detective in charge of the investigation, a big, friendly guy named Toyomitsu. “Thanks for coming,” he says. “We have a trainee photographer, and he was going to do it, but –”

He nods at a guy with spiky red hair who’s sitting on the hood of a police car, looking all kinds of queasy. “No problem,” you say. “Did somebody do a sketch?”

“My partner. He’s not half-bad.”

Detective Toyomitsu’s partner looks queasy, too, but you think his is more stress-related. You look over the sketch, then pick up your camera, duck the tape, and come to a dead stop at the edge of the scene.

It wasn’t a chill down your spine earlier, when Sekijiro told you about the case – it was déjà vu, because in spite of the fact that this scene looks totally different in its setup, you can still see how carefully it’s been arranged. The blood spray exiting from the victim’s open body cavity looks almost artful, a near-perfect fan rather than the splatter you’re used to. The limbs are more contained this time, hanging by threads but still attached, and the same goes for the head, held upright by a meat hook jammed through the back of the neck. And even from a distance, you can see that the head’s turned at an angle.

“Is there a problem?” Toyomitsu asks – not accusingly, the way Aizawa would. “Need help with anything?”

You shake your head, and try to stiffen your spine in the bargain. You have a crime scene to document, and you’re getting time and a half. And this time, once you’ve done your job, you’re going to follow the victim’s eyeline. This time, you’re going to see what the killer wanted the victim to see. What he wants the investigator to see, too. Maybe that will help someone catch him.

You’re back.

Tomura was watching a stagnant crime scene, with the detectives and forensic unit standing around uselessly after the trainee photographer took one look at the scene and upchucked, and he was having a hard time staying awake. Which is bullshit – laying out murders like his takes effort, and no one was appreciating it, courtesy of some kid who spilled his guts. Tomura was so annoyed that he broke his no-forensics rule to add the kid to his hit list. You didn’t waste time throwing up. You were focused on his work. On him.

And then, like thinking about you conjured you up, you stepped onto the scene. Just like before, you were thorough, capturing every detail of Tomura’s scene. Tomura was thinking you’d be better at it by the next time his drone captured you, and he was right. You’re not just better than last time. This time, you catch all the details Tomura agonized over, focusing on exactly the things he’d want someone to see. It made Tomura feel weird. Almost anxious, but not quite. Giddy, or something. Weird, but good.

It would have been enough to see you study his scene, trying to understand what he meant. But once you were done taking photos, you left the scene and followed the eyeline he constructed for his kill. And now you’re climbing up onto a pile of crates, looking for what Tomura planted there for anybody smart enough to find it. He should have known it would be you.

The trainee photographer is following you. Once you’re on a level with the nook Tomura tucked the hint into, you glance back at him. “Hand me the camera.”

“I don’t think that’s evidence,” the trainee says. Fuck him. He’s just moved up a spot on the list. “It’s way outside the crime scene.”

“So make the crime scene bigger. Camera.” You hold out your hand, waiting, but you lose patience fast. “Fine.”

You’re taking pictures with your phone now, capturing the hint Tomura placed from every angle. Tomura feels weirdly exposed, and it doesn’t go away when you stop snapping photos and put on a pair of gloves. You’re pretty thorough. It won’t matter – Tomura took care of his fingerprints before he made his first kill – but he appreciates the effort. At least someone’s paying attention.

He leaves the drone where it is and turns his attention to the camera, zooming in on the details the same way you do when you’re taking pictures of his work. Your fingertips carefully unfolding the newspaper article. The focus in your eyes as you read it. The way one of your legs is shaking from the awkward position you’re staying balanced in. Your mouth grabs more of his attention than it should, given that it’s got nothing to do with his crime scene, but Tomura gives it a second look anyway. Maybe a third.

You glance back at the trainee. “I need an evidence bag.”

“That’s not evidence.”

“You’re not a detective. We don’t decide what counts as evidence. We collect everything and let the cops work it out.” You hold out your hand, waiting, until the trainee hands you an evidence bag. You slide Tomura’s hint carefully into it, then hand it back to the trainee while you climb down. “Give it back. I’ll bring it to the detective myself.”

The trainee really doesn’t like your attitude. Tomura doesn’t give a shit. In his opinion, your attitude is right where it should be. You care about the truth. You care about seeing things as they really are. If there were more people like you around, Tomura wouldn’t have so many people to put on his kill list. At the rate things are going, he’s going to be killing people until he drops dead.

The detective doesn’t want Tomura’s hint. Fuck him, too. Tomura puts him on the list, but absently – he’s still focused on you. “Do you mind if I keep this?” you ask the detective, and Tomura’s face goes up in flames. “I want to look at it a little longer.”

The detective nods. He’s barely paying attention, too busy directing his tiny gang of borrowed forensic specialists to dust for fingerprints that aren’t there. You, though. You’re studying Tomura’s hint through the plastic, lost in thought. Because you get it, just like Tomura thought. Or at least you get him. Enough. Enough to understand that he wanted you to see something and actually go looking for it.

He’s been wondering why his message keeps getting lost, why no one understands when he’s being clear as a fucking bell about it. Maybe he’s been going about it the wrong way. He doesn’t need the world to understand. Tomura needs one person, one person who gets it and can spread the word. And you’ve just made yourself the first and only candidate for the job.

Tomura sits back in his chair. The satisfaction of finding an answer, figuring out how to stay five steps ahead of the cops while still spreading the word, is familiar to him – but it’s cut with something that isn’t. After six murders, Tomura’s finally gotten what he wanted, so he should stop watching now. Instead he keeps watching, some part of him still unsatisfied, even as you slide the hint carefully out of its evidence bag and start reading. You’ve found everything he wanted you to see, but he wants you to keep looking. He wants you to keep looking until he doesn’t want to be looked at anymore.

It's a stupid thing to want. Tomura switches off the drone, irked at himself. He wants you to keep looking? That’s easy. The next time he sets up a crime scene for you, he’ll leave enough hints to keep you looking at him all night.

You’ve taken pictures of four weird murders now, found multiple pieces of evidence at the sites, and you’re starting to see a pattern developing. A couple of patterns, actually. It’s not just the eyes that give away where the extra evidence might be – it’s the angle of the hands, whether the fingers are pointed or not, and on the last victim, the killer even took the time to point the toes. Or toe. He cut the other four off on each foot, leaving only the big toe to indicate where to find the other things he left behind.

He always leaves things just outside the radius of the crime scene, things the cops dismiss and things you know to look for. There are never any fingerprints on any of it, which means the killer’s wearing gloves, deliberately covering his tracks. That means he’s organized. That proves what you’ve thought since you saw the first scene: Nothing this guy does is by accident. What you or anyone else who looks at the scene sees is what he wants you to see. And he really wants someone to see the pieces of evidence he’s leaving.

Well, you see it. You even went back to the first crime scene to grab what he left there – a plastic police badge, a kid’s toy. At the second site, it was a newspaper article about abuses of power committed by prison guards. At the third site, you found another newspaper article, a toy gun, and a military training manual with every single page torn out. You found the pages at the fourth scene, crumpled up and scattered amidst artful smears of blood, and that wasn’t all you found, either. This time you found fake diplomas – four different kinds of fake diplomas – and a military medal that may or may not be real. You’re not a detective or a profiler or anything, but it would be hard to look at all of this stuff and not conclude that this guy has a serious problem with the system.

It's borne out in the victims, too. The victims take forever to identify, just because he puts in so much effort eradicating their fingerprints, faces, and teeth, but each victim has been somebody with authority. A cop, a soldier, a prison guard, and a detective from a jurisdiction on the opposite side of the country, which is worrying on a whole new level. Not only does this killer set up misleading crime scenes, he’s willing to transport victims across the country to kill them in the exact spot he wants them dead. You don’t know if there’s ever been a more organized serial killer.

You’re comfortable calling him that. Four murders of victims who share a particular characteristic makes him a serial killer, and when you searched missing persons records by profession, you found three or four more who fit the killer’s specifications. You found a crime scene or two that might have been his also – his before he got comfortable being so elaborate. The photographer and sketch artist on those scenes didn’t follow the victim’s line of sight, but you have a feeling they’d have found something if they had. You do, after all. You find something more every time.

You tried to bring it to Aizawa after the third crime scene, and he all but told you to drop it. You’re creating a pattern out of circumstance, or exaggerating your own abilities, or turning this killer into some kind of mythical monster instead of acknowledging him as the twisted freak he actually is. But you think you’re right. No, you’re convinced. There’s a serial killer haunting Japan, gruesomely murdering public servants and running marathons around the police, and you’re going to make sure someone’s aware of it, even if it tanks your career. You just need a little more evidence first. One more piece to tie things together, so that when you go up and over Aizawa’s head to the head of Investigations, he won’t be able to ignore what you have to say.

And if he does, you’ve got a backup plan. The evidence you’ve collected is yours. You got yourself on the record asking the detectives if they want it, and they’ve all said no. The research you’ve done into the victims is based on their names being released to the public, and the dots could be connected by anybody who viewed the same evidence as you have. If Head Detective Yagi won’t listen to you, you’ll go to the press and blow the whistle yourself.

It's a solid plan – two plans – but you can’t help but feel a little uneasy. You aren’t on Criminal Minds or anything. You’re more like the dumb reporter from Red Dragon, the one who publishes a bunch of crazy stuff and gets himself whacked by the Tooth Fairy. And at the same time, you have the sense that something different is going on here. The way the evidence has been placed at the last two crime scenes has felt – not deliberate, because everything this killer does is deliberate. Not deliberate, but targeted. Like he’s leaving evidence in places only you would look for it.

But that’s insane. The killer’s not coming back to observe his crime scenes – part of your job is to snap photos of any crowd that gathers, and you haven’t seen the same person show up at any one of them. There’s no way the killer could be watching, and even if there was, there’s no way he’d be leaving things specifically for you. You’re not Clarice Starling or anything. You’re the dumb reporter. You’re finding things because you know where to look. That’s all.

You’re sitting at your desk, staring off into space, when Monoma, who got rehired a while back, bangs on the wall of your cubicle. “New scene,” he says, once you’re done jumping out of your skin. “The guy who called it in said to bring a barf bag or four.”

“Yeah. Okay.” You gather your workbag, ignoring the knot of prickly anticipation that unfolds to wrap its tentacles around your ribcage. It’s not the serial killer. It’s been less than a month since his last murder. There’s no way he’s at it again. “If it’s as bad as they say, bet you six bucks Shinsou throws up.”

“Six bucks says it’s Kaminari instead.”

“You’re on.”

Neither you nor Monoma win any money, because you’re both right, and the bets cancel each other out. You’re feeling sick for an entirely different reason. This is the most elaborately disorganized crime scene you’ve ever photographed, and it’s got the serial killer’s nonexistent fingerprints all over it. You wait until Shinsou’s done throwing up, then ask him to ask Aizawa to widen the perimeter. You have to come up with a lie about extensive blood spray, but it works.

It's not even that much of a lie – the scene looks like the killer attached a garden hose of blood to a ceiling fan and cranked it up to maximum – but you still feel guilty. Less guilty when Aizawa expands the crime scene to include the radius where the killer likes to hide his clues. You take your standard series of photos, by the book as much as you can possibly manage, and once you’re done, you go looking for the killer’s clues.

They’re inside the perimeter now. Aizawa and the other detectives will have to take them. You document each one extensively first, dragging Monoma over to sketch their positions, too. Then you put on gloves and lift them out of hiding. “This is weird,” Monoma remarks, as you lift an article about a defense attorney’s series of victories in child abuse cases out of hiding and set it down alongside a printout of cops’ salaries. “Slasher types like this guy don’t have a reason.”

“He’s not – that. The violence is an attention grab. He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t enjoy it, but I don’t think it’s the whole point.” You slide the second article into an evidence bag, then follow the victim’s severed index finger to the next hiding spot. “Every crime scene has had clues like this. He wants people to find them.”

Monoma hums the Criminal Minds theme song. “If this guy’s smart like you say he is, why would he leave clues so we could catch him?”

“That’s not what they’re for,” you say. You’ve gone so far as to look for links between the cases the victims have interacted with, and you’ve found nothing. “He doesn’t want us to catch him. He wants us to see.”

“Sure. Maybe that’s how we’ll catch him,” Monoma says. You glance at him and find him smirking. “He’s going to want to know if the lambs have stopped screaming yet.”

“Shut up.” You elbow Monoma, then crouch down to take a picture and pry the next hidden object out of hiding. It’s harder to remove than usual, and it comes free in two pieces. One of them is the needle off a polygraph test, which you only recognize because you’ve seen them in the lab at work. “Okay. Maybe if we can figure out where this is from –”

You hand it off to Monoma to be stored properly, then turn your attention to the other item. Compared to everything else the killer’s left, clearly identifiable and clearly linked to his cause, a single bullet casing isn’t exactly a smoking gun. You pick it up with a gloved hand, upend it, and find that a piece of paper’s been rolled up and wedged inside. The handwriting on the paper is bad, and the sentence is only two words. Look up.

You do, out of shock more than anything else – first straight up, then up and out, then pivoting in a slow circle, trying desperately to figure out what you’re supposed to see. There’s nothing. Whatever the killer wants you to see – and you’re sure now that he wants you to see it – it’s beyond your vision, beyond your understanding. There’s one thing you do understand, though. The killer’s watching his crime scenes, somehow. And now that you’ve been at so many of them, he’s watching you, too.

Fuck, that’s it. Tomura takes a screen grab, and then a second, and a third, capturing frame after frame of you, making eye contact with the drone camera. You didn’t know it was there. Tomura knew you’d raise the alarm if you saw it, and he doesn’t want his view of his crime scenes to be cut off, so he camouflaged it better than usual. But you found his messages, just like he knew you would. You found his note, too. And you followed his instructions, looking up and at the camera just like he wanted. At the camera. At Tomura.

It's a dumb thing for Tomura to want – you, looking at him. You already look at him, every time he makes a kill and sets up a crime scene. You’re looking at his work, which is the most important thing, so important that Tomura doesn’t need anything else. Or shouldn’t. But no matter how elaborate of a crime scene Tomura sets up for you, no matter how much time you spend carefully documenting it and gathering his hints, you never look at it as long as he wants you to. Or the way he wants you to, even though you’re doing exactly what he thought he wanted in the first place. Like Tomura said – dumb.

Dumb or not, it’s been on Tomura’s mind, and worse, in his dreams. He doesn’t usually have dreams, and the ones he has are bad, so the fact that he’s started having dreams about you taking his picture is a sign that he’s put too much thought into you. Every time Tomura wakes up from a dream where you’re taking photos of him instead of one of his scenes, he tells himself that he’ll kill you soon. And every time, he – doesn’t.

Killing you is the right thing to do. You’re a distraction from Tomura’s mission. Time spent thinking about you, puzzling over his dreams, wondering why it’s not enough that you only see his crime scenes – all of that is time wasted, because he’s not spending it on planning his next kill or crafting his next message. You’ve served your purpose, too. Even as Tomura pulls the screen grab over to a second screen and refocuses on the video feed, he can see you talking to Aizawa again, making the case that Tomura’s crime scenes mean something. Unlike last time, Aizawa’s actually listening.

He’s listening. The story of who actually cracked the case will come out, and when Tomura kills you, it’ll mean something – you’ll be a real, visible member of the system, someone whose absence will be noticed. Tomura will set up his best crime scene yet for your body, and when he moves your eyes, he’ll make sure he puts something special there for you to look at. The idea keeps him happy for about six hours or so. Planning out a crime scene’s always fun – sometimes more fun than the actual killing, or it is lately. It gets less fun when Tomura realizes that you won’t be there to see it.

When the so-called peace officers hold their press conference, announcing that they’ve strung five of Tomura’s murders together and declared him a serial killer, you’re nowhere to be found – not on the podium, not in the crowd. You’re not visible. That means you can’t be on Tomura’s list, and Tomura feels an unpleasant surge of relief at the thought. Your photos are in some of the articles written about the case, though, and looking at those makes Tomura feel even stranger than he does when he looks at the still shot of you he’s taped up over his bed.

He’s done his research on you by now. He’s got files for all his potential victims, and then he’s got a file for you, featuring everything about you he could find on the internet. You’re Tomura’s age. You’re single and you live by yourself. You wanted to be a real photographer at some point, which is where you learned how to turn every aspect of Tomura’s crime scenes into a work of art. Tomura finds some of your old portfolio still kicking around a defunct Instagram account, and he’s impressed against his will.

Tomura’s a serial killer, not an art critic, but he spends a lot of time around blood, guts, and dismembered corpses, which means he’s qualified to judge the whole set of roadkill photos you took. They’re – good. Even before you came across one of Tomura’s crime scenes, you knew how to photograph disgusting things and make them matter. Tomura’s scenes already mattered before you turned your camera on them; you just helped expand his reach. That’s not why he’s interested in your art. He tells himself otherwise, but every time he catches a glimpse of himself in one of the cracked, filthy mirrors in his apartment, he lingers for a second, wondering what you would do with his reflection. What he’d look like through your lens.

Tomura gives you another crime scene to photograph, this time featuring the corpse of the trainee photographer who was giving you a hard time at the second crime scene of his you shot. He can tell that you recognize the victim. He can tell that it throws you. So does the message he left for you – another bullet casing, another instruction to look up. Tomura sees your shoulders stiffen, and he leans forward in his seat, tense all on his own. You look up again, and – that’s it. Fuck. Tomura takes so many screenshots that his computer freezes for a second, already planning where he’ll tape them up, convincing himself that this will be enough for him.

It’s not. Tomura dreams that you’re taking his picture again, but this time, it’s weird. The two of you aren’t at one of his crime scenes; instead you’re somewhere else, somewhere with good lighting, and you’re taking pictures of Tomura from every angle, not quite close enough for him to touch. Tomura’s not posing for you, exactly. He just awkwardly shifts position, and you keep snapping photos. It’s warm in Tomura’s dream. After a while he takes off his coat. Then his shirt.

You don’t lower your camera entirely, but Tomura can see your eyes, and you look – interested. He holds still, and you take another few photos. Then you stop. Tomura knows what you’re waiting for. He’s seen that expression on your face at every crime scene as you hunt for his clues. Focused, intent, engaged, and being the target in person scrambles Tomura’s brain. What? he demands, embarrassed without reason. Do you want to see more?

I see what you want me to see, you say. Your eyes drift over Tomura’s body, shoulders down to his hips, lingering somewhere in between that makes Tomura’s face turn red. Is there anything else you want to show me?

When is Tomura ever going to get a chance like this again? He unbuttons his pants, but you don’t lift your camera again. Instead your gaze follow his fingers as he pulls the zipper down, stays centered between his legs as he takes off his pants. His hands are shaking, like they were the first time he laid out a crime scene, and the feeling he’s had every time he’s watched you crawl over his scenes with a camera rushes through him, more intense than before. He waits for you to lift your camera this time, to take photos of him from every angle, but you don’t. Instead you set it aside. Then you reach out to Tomura and –

Tomura wakes up mid-climax, his pants and his sheets halfway to being ruined, his hands miles away from touching his cock. The first thought that punctures the fog is surprise. Tomura knows bodies do this – he’s not an idiot – but he didn’t think this was something his body did. He’s a serial killer. If he’s going to get off to anything, it should be his murders. He’s never gotten off to killing anybody. But the idea of you looking at him face to face, you reaching for him yourself instead of waiting for him to act, you putting your camera down because you needed something else more – Tomura almost loses it a second time.

You didn’t even touch his cock in the dream – your hand brushed against his waist, slid to his hip, fingers brushing his inner thigh. Even the thought is enough to make Tomura squirm, and for the first time since you set foot on one of his crime scenes, Tomura’s head feels clear. No, he can’t kill you. He doesn’t need to kill you. What he needs is more.

How much more? The question’s too much for him. Tomura’s hands slide between his legs, pushing himself past overstimulation, into near-discomfort. How much more doesn’t matter yet. He can figure that out later. Tomura decides faintly, as his hips jerk and he shifts away from the pressure of his own hands, that a close-up would be a good start.

You know something’s wrong the instant you wake up, even before the headache kicks in, because you can’t remember falling asleep. What’s the last thing you remember? You were on a walk, you think. You smelled something weird – something sweet, that didn’t make sense for the park you were walking through. A thought had crossed your mind, some dark joke about chloroform smelling better than you thought it did, and almost as soon as you had the thought, a mask was clamped down over your mouth and nose, the sweet scent flooding into both when you inhaled and opened your mouth to scream.

You remember a little more, but a little more doesn’t matter. You’re being kidnapped. No, you’ve been kidnapped. You open your eyes, shocked to find that you can see. You’re in a small room, light on one side, shadowed on the other, and you can see someone moving around in the light, making adjustments to things here and there. Stand lights. It almost looks like a portrait studio setup, except it’s in the grossest basement you’ve ever sprawled out in. Not that you sprawl out in basements for fun. You only do that when you’re on the job.

Your job. Kidnapped. You’re in someone’s basement and you aren’t blindfolded. You aren’t tied up, either – your arms and legs are completely free. You sit up too quickly, grimacing at the pain in your head, and the figure amidst the lights turns towards you. “You’re awake. I was worried,” he says. One hand rises from his side to scratch the side of his neck. “Usually when I do this, I don’t care how they feel afterward.”

“You do this a lot?”

“Yeah.” You can’t see your kidnapper’s face courtesy of the backlighting, and whatever he’s wearing to hide it. “You should know.”

“I should?” You’re confused, but you shouldn’t be. You know what’s happening here. Someone kidnapped you. Someone who doesn’t care whether or not you hear his voice or see his face. You’re in his goddamn basement. “Who are you?”

“You don’t know?” He sounds surprised. “Come on. You know who it is. Who else could it be?”

Someone who kidnaps lots of people, who’s interested in you – he’s right. That could only be one person, and as the knowledge you’ve been pushing back against settles over you more fully, your vocal cords constrict so badly that you can barely speak. “You’re the Symbol of Fear.”

“That’s right,” the serial killer whose crime scenes you’ve been shooting says. “But you can call me Tomura.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, even though it’s too late, even though you’ve seen more than enough. “Symbol of Fear. If they were gonna give me a name, they should have picked a better one,” the killer – Tomura – continues. “What would you have named me, if you got to pick?”

“Are you going to kill me?” As soon as you ask the question, you kick yourself. That’s what kidnapped people in movies always say, and it always annoys the killer into killing them faster or more or worse. “I mean, of course you are. That’s what you do. And you told me your name.”

“My name’s not going to help you find me,” Tomura says. So it’s an alias. Fine. it’s not like you’re going to be able to tell anybody either way. “I know your name, so you should know mine. You’d have named me something better, right? I would have gotten a name a lot sooner if the cops had listened to you.”

You hear his footsteps. He’s coming closer. If he’s going to kill you, why hasn’t he tied you up? Is he trying to trick you into running for it? “Hey,” he says. He nudges you with his foot. “I didn’t bring you here to kill you.”

Your heart is racing so hard you can barely breathe. “I bet you say that to all your victims.”

“Not really,” Tomura says. He crouches down next to you. “They need to know what’s coming, so they have time to think about how they want to die. If they want to put on a brave face or beg for mercy or scream the entire way.”

“Which one do you want them to do?”

“I don’t really care,” Tomura says. He pauses. “Maybe I would, if I was thinking about letting them go. But I’m not. I don’t tell my kills I’m not going to do it. So you can believe me when I say I won’t kill you.”

Part of you wants to believe. You’re desperate to believe that there’s some way out of here, but you know better. And if you know better, it doesn’t matter what you do now. “Then why did you bring me here?”

“I’ve been watching. Your work. You do a great job with my work,” Tomura says. It’s quiet for a second. You open your eyes, sneak a sidelong glance, and find him scratching his neck again. “Since you’ve been doing such a good job, I thought I’d give you a chance to shoot the real thing.”

Something taps against your leg. You open your eyes partway, without looking over at Tomura, and find yourself looking at a camera, identical to the one you use at work. “I set up lights and everything,” Tomura continues. “You can move them around if you want. I mean, you shouldn’t need to – my scenes always look good even when the lighting’s shit, but –”

“You want me to shoot you like one of your crime scenes,” you say. You see Tomura nodding out of the corner of your eye. “Um – why?”

“Can you do it or not?” Tomura sounds irritated. You risk a proper glance at him and see him looking away, his pale skin stained with a flush. His face is barely visible – not because of a mask, which would make sense, but because of a life-sized model hand, which serves basically the same purpose and looks ten times as weird. “I know you can take photos of other stuff. I looked you up.”

You can’t see his whole face. The name he gave you is fake. If you take his picture like he wants you to, he won’t have a reason to get angry, and maybe – no, he won’t let you live. He’ll kill you just like he’s killed everyone else. But like everyone else he’s killed, you’ve got time to think about how you want to die, and although you’re pretty sure you’re going to scream and beg like everybody else once he starts cutting you into pieces, you want to keep it together until then. Having something to do will help.

“You saw my other photos,” you say. “Were there ones you liked?”

“I like how you shoot my scenes,” Tomura says. “Just do it like that.”

He gets to his feet, then turns to face you, holding out his hands to help you up. The incongruousness of it catches you off-guard first, but only for a second, and it’s obliterated by just how strange it is to be confronted with his hands when you’re already so familiar with the terrible things he’s done with them. Tomura is a monster. His hands should be gnarled, clawlike, stained with blood. Instead his hands are clean, with ragged nails and a bad case of eczema, and they’re shaking slightly as he holds them out for yours.

You don’t reach for his hands. You raise the camera he got for you and snap a picture.

It startles him, and that means it startles you. “What are you doing?” he snaps. “Why are you taking a picture of that?”

“You’ve seen me shoot your crime scenes,” you say, thinking fast. “I take pictures of all kinds of things. Sometimes it’s just stuff that catches my eye. Your hands are like that.”

Tomura doesn’t answer. He takes one of them back to scratch the side of his neck, and you take a perfunctory grip on the other while getting to your feet under your own power. Tomura’s taller than you, and he doesn’t give you your hand back right away. You have to pull it free. “You can go stand over by the lights if you want,” you say. “Find somewhere you’re comfortable and I’ll adjust them to match.”

Tomura skulks over to the lights, and you take pictures of him as he goes, taking the opportunity to adjust the settings on the camera where you like them. Different parts of the Symbol of Fear come into focus as you take test shot after test shot – his blue-grey hair, tangled and worn to his shoulders, his red eyes, his dry lips – and you fix each of them firmly into your memory. Soon enough you’ll be able to describe him with your eyes closed, even with the hand over his face.

That feels good for only a few seconds. Just as long as it takes for you to noticed the bars on the inside of the basement windows and the barbed wire outside them, and to remember that you’re not getting out of here alive.

Tomura knows you like to take a lot of photos, but it seems to him like you’re overdoing it. You’re taking so many, and you’re taking them of nothing – in most of them, he’s not even looking, or his face isn’t in the shot. “Some of these are test shots,” you say, when he asks. “I’m seeing how the lighting looks from different angles, on different parts of your body. See?”

You hold out the camera for Tomura to check, and he looks away. He doesn’t like looking at himself. “What about the ones that aren’t tests?”

“Just things I’m interested in.” You let the camera fall to your side, then go back to messing with the lighting one-handed. “If you like where you are right now, you can stay there. I’ve fixed the lights so you’ll look good from every angle.”

“That’s funny.” Tomura snorts, but you don’t laugh. You look puzzled. “Me, looking good. It doesn’t matter where I stand.”

“If it doesn’t matter, then stay where you are,” you say. You lift the camera again, and Tomura ducks his head on instinct – and you take the picture anyway.

It doesn’t feel like it does in Tomura’s dreams when you take his picture, but Tomura’s willing to admit that it’s probably a good thing that he’s not affected so strongly. The thing this real-life photoshoot has in common with his dreams above all is the feeling of vulnerability, of exposure. Even with the hand over Tomura’s face, you’re seeing him. Like he’s been seeing you all along.

No, it’s not like that. He couldn’t talk to you through the drone like you can talk to him face to face. “Did you really not know it was me?” Tomura asks. You nod from behind the camera. He’s not even sure what you’re taking a picture of right now. “Who else did you think it was?”

“I didn’t know,” you say. “I knew you were watching the crime scenes somehow. I would have had to, after I got your message. I just didn’t think I was on your list.”

“You’re not on my list,” Tomura says. “Not like that, anyway.”

You nod. You’re adjusting your camera, and Tomura asks you another question. “Who do you think is on my list?”

“Cops. Detectives. Soldiers, prison guards, lawyers.” You take another picture. “People who are part of the system. Or adjacent to it. The guy at the last crime scene was just a photographer, like me.”

He wasn’t you. That was the problem. “I didn’t like his attitude. He was a special case,” Tomura says. “He got talkative towards the end. He was trying to figure out what I wanted to hear. By that point I just wanted him to shut up.”

“Is that why you tore out his tongue?”

You sound a little grossed out. Tomura thinks it’s fair to ask – when he’s arranging his kills, he tends to avoid sticking his hands in their mouths. “He bit it off, and I had to take it out so he wouldn’t swallow it. And since I had it, I figured I should put it to use.”

“The hear-no-evil, see-no-evil, speak-no-evil thing played well with the detective,” you say. You shift where you’re standing, and Tomura shifts to match. “No, stay there. This angle works.”

“Works how?” Tomura says. You shrug. “The three-monkeys shit is on the nose. You guessed way before that, didn’t you? You were paying attention. You always are.”

Tomura likes watching you work over a crime scene, but if he set up that many crime scenes, he’d get caught. Sometimes he watches you at others, car crashes or assaults or murders with no meaning behind them. They don’t deserve your attention, not the way Tomura’s scenes do. “It’s hard not to pay attention to your murders,” you say. “You make them flashy on purpose, but people get distracted by the flashiness and miss out on what you’re trying to say.”

“What do you think I’m trying to say?” Tomura asks, trying not to sound like there’s a lot riding on the answer. “I want to hear it.”

You take another picture. “You have a problem with the system as a whole, but the thing that bothers you is when people fail to do what they promised to do and don’t pay for it. Or people who protect the wrong people, like that lawyer in the article from the second crime scene. The rest of us ignore it, so you want to make us look. Or make it so we can’t look away.”

You take another picture – of Tomura’s face this time, which is bad, because Tomura’s face is heating up. You didn’t just notice that he was trying to say something, you got it exactly right. Now it feels like it does in Tomura’s dreams. His skin crawls in a way that’s better and worse than itching, and when he looks away from you, you take another picture, and another. The flash is off, but Tomura can hear the shutter click, every sound winding him a little tighter. He scratches his neck with one hand, pulls at collar of his shirt with the other. “Did it work on you?” he asks, forcing the words out in an even tone. “Could you look away?”

“Not really,” you say. Tomura breathes a sigh of relief that’s a little too loud, and it catches your attention. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Tomura says through gritted teeth. You snap another picture. “What were you even looking at this time?”

“You,” you say, and you turn the camera in your hand, holding out the viewscreen so he can look, too.

Tomura recoils from the sight out of habit, but he keeps looking, and the longer he looks at it, the more he starts to see what you were trying to capture. Tomura’s eyes are averted from the camera behind his disguise, but the light catches his face in a way that startles him. Even the flush on his face looks different – not disgusting and contagious, but natural. Normal. Some word that makes it look like it belongs where it is. Is this how he looks to you? No wonder he needed you to keep looking. Looking feels good. Tomura’s never liked himself better than when he’s seeing himself through your eyes.

Still, you haven’t seen everything, and he needs you to. Tomura reaches up and grasps the hand, ready to pull it from his face.

You avert your eyes in a hurry, then close them entirely. “I can’t,” you say. “If I see you, you’ll never let me leave.”

“I have to,” Tomura says. His voice is oddly ragged. “Nobody else gets it like you do. It’s better for me if you’re out there.”

You set the camera down without looking back at him, and his hands close over your wrists tightly. “We’re not done,” Tomura says. “Keep going.”

He’s getting off on this. You can tell by the sound of his breathing, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the way he’s shifting in his seat, and your instinct is to flinch in disgust. But you’ve been watching him closely this entire time, and you didn’t see this response when you were talking about his crime scenes. It’s not violence or murder that gets him going, so what’s causing this? It can’t be this simple. There’s no way it’s just because you’re taking his picture.

If he gets off, maybe he’ll let you go. “I’ll take as many pictures as you want if you leave your disguise on.”

“Done.”

You pull your hands from Tomura’s grip and raise your camera again, wondering how much you’re allowed to pose him. If you’re allowed to. “Can I touch you?” you ask. “There’s this pose I’m –”

Tomura nods. His eyes are closed, and you take another picture, this one of the scratched side of his neck and his shirt pulled to one side, before you think about how you might want to pose him. He’s seated. If you could find something for him to lay back against, that would be ideal, but there’s nothing. “Lean your weight back on your right hand,” you tell him, and he does. “Do what you want with your left hand. Tilt your head –”

It’s beyond uncomfortable to see him follow your instructions, given who he is and what he’s done. You take a picture or two of the preliminary pose, focusing on the new angles created by his extended arm and single bent knee. There’s an awkwardness to him, but there’s something compelling about the way his form and features come together. Maybe in another life he’d have been a model, somebody’s muse. Right now he’s the subject of what’s probably the last photo you’ll ever take.

Tomura’s hair is in his face. You say his name to warn him, then reach out and brush the strands of blue-grey hair out of his eyes. At first your fingers are against his forehead; then you let them drift downward, from his cheek to his jaw to the It’s a mistake. Tomura shudders at your touch, the arm he’s balanced on barely holding him up, and you take a picture of that, too, struggling to stay out of the shot while capturing everything that needs to be seen. Everything needs to be seen. The perversity of the Symbol of Fear, a man who’s thrown the entire country into terror, coming almost untouched and almost on camera, is something you can’t resist capturing forever.

And if the sight of him does something for you, too – if knowing that you and your camera can make him like this ties your chest in a knot and sends heat flooding through you – you don’t need to share that with anyone. You’re the photographer. You don’t matter.

Tomura fumbles at the hand over his face, and like before, you shut your eyes. “Don’t,” he says. “I want you to see.”

“No.” You shake your head and lower your camera, for good this time. “If you meant it about letting me go –”

“Knowing my face wouldn’t help you find me,” Tomura says with disturbing confidence. You wonder why he’s so convinced. If he’s right. “I have to let you go. Nobody gets what I’m trying to say the way you do.”

“You’re okay with that.” Why are you trying to talk him out of it? “You’re okay with me going out there and trying to track you down.”

“Counting on it,” Tomura says. A hand that’s ended the lives of at least six people that you know of lands on your shoulder, then drifts upwards along your throat to cup your cheek. “You’ll keep looking. You’ll know when you’re getting close.”

“How?”

“I’ll come find you again,” Tomura says. You dare to open your eyes and see him smiling at you, through the fingers of the hand. His smile makes your skin crawl. “And that time, I won’t let you go.”

He’ll kill you. Or he’ll hang onto you forever and make you wish you were dead. Tomura sits up, still moving awkwardly, somehow relaxed. You’ve never seen a guy who just came in his pants look less embarrassed about it. You can’t reconcile the two pieces of Tomura in your head – the murderer of half a dozen at least who’s planning to kill more, alongside the man who craves connection and understanding so badly that it’s become a turn-on. One of them is reprehensible, unforgivable. The other is just human. How can he be both?

You’re lost in thought, so much so that you don’t see the mask in Tomura’s hand until it’s descended over your face. Tomura pulls you back against him, holding you upright as you struggle for breath. His arm is secure around your waist, and his voice is soft in your ear, if still a little breathless. “I’ll be in touch,” he says. “Keep looking. I’ll see you soon.”

His dry lips brush against the corner of your jaw, too light to be a kiss, too lingering to be an accident. It’s the last thing you’re aware of before everything goes black.

When you wake up again, you’re in your apartment with another splitting headache and a single bullet-point of certainty boring into your skull. You will keep looking for Tomura. You’ll have to, to try to stop him from committing even one more gruesome, vengeance-driven murder over a wrong you can’t begin to guess at. You’ll come close to stopping him, and when you do, Tomura will come for you again.

The thought is nightmarish. He’ll almost certainly kill you then; he won’t have a use for you anymore. But even as the certainty settles in, you find your stomach twisting into a dark, heated mess at the thought that at least one more time before you die, you’ll see him in a way no one else ever will. You’ll have one more moment with your camera, and the Symbol of Fear undone before you. If it’s the last shot you’ll ever take, whether it’s tomorrow night or next week or ten years from now, you’ll have to make it count.

When he kills you, and he will, Tomura will make your crime scene a composition for the ages. It’s only fair for you to turn him into a work of art.

[sifu-kisu]

Too often, martial arts are viewed through a narrow lens—either as a form of self-defense or as a health-promoting activity. But in truth, the classical systems of martial arts were never fragmented this way. The best traditions understood that combat effectiveness and health cultivation were intertwined. One refined the other.

At its core, martial arts training is about preparing the body and mind for function under pressure—physical, mental, and even moral. This preparation must include both damage potential (the ability to subdue an opponent) and damage tolerance (the ability to endure and recover). The training methods are therefore designed with dual outcomes: to make the practitioner a more capable fighter and a more resilient, healthier person.

Take, for example, traditional training tools like stance work and form practice. To the untrained eye, they might appear as slow or even ornamental. But these exercises cultivate muscular endurance, joint stability, spinal alignment, and breath control—all of which contribute to generating power and maintaining body integrity in combat.

Similarly, breath-regulated movement and coordinated spirals or coiling (as seen in many Chinese internal styles) teach practitioners how to mobilize force efficiently through the fascia and tendons, not just muscle. This reduces injury risk while increasing striking effectiveness. In combat, this translates to greater speed, impact, and control. In health, it supports circulation, posture, and even organ function.

Conditioning drills—whether it's iron palm training, body toughening, or controlled impact work—are not simply about taking hits. When done correctly, they involve recovery protocols that promote blood flow, stimulate nerve adaptation, and build internal resilience. The practitioner doesn't just survive combat better—they age better.

This blend of “hardening” and “healing” is not coincidental. It’s by design. Many martial systems have paired combat drills with restorative practices: herbal liniments, massage techniques, breathwork, and meditation. These were not afterthoughts—they were integral, recognizing that the longevity of a warrior depends not just on how he fights, but how he recovers.

In an age of specialization, martial arts remind us of the value of integrated training. You don’t need to choose between fitness and fighting skill, between physical therapy and performance. Traditional methods—when properly understood—offer both.

Martial arts training, when approached holistically, becomes not only a way to defend life but to cultivate it.

~ Taipeng

[hologramcowboy]

I, too, think of Jensen as a red flag.

This is all speculation on my behalf; I don't know the man nor what is going on in his head. This isn't an Anti Jensen ask. So please take this with a grain of salt.

This all started from the fact that his relationship with Danneel was never about love. They were two people who partied together and cheated on their partners with each other. Cheating isn't acceptable to me, and it was a major turnoff from him. I'm not saying he has to be perfect, but at least have some principles or standards.

To me, it feels as if Jensen's environment and the people he had around him growing up shaped him into what he is today. I'm not blaming anyone, really; I know that nobody has the perfect life. It is just that he always looked like a guy who knew that his good looks brought him lots of opportunities, like that one time when Stephen Amell said that "I don't think that Jensen gets jealous of anything. He doesn't have to, because he is Jensen Ackles." This is actually true; Jensen always gave me this vibe because a man who simply did modeling since he was four surely isn't camera shy (I believe it is just a persona, just like "the family guy" persona he uses in cons). He isn't insecure that his partner or friend might prefer someone else because HE knows he is THAT good. That actually explains the flop of TW, When he told the cast to "not fuck this up for him", and didn't follow industry safety protocols, which led to a cameraman being struck by lightning; he was used to slapping his name on things so they could be sold easily just because his name was associated with something just like Supernatural, but look where it got him? now he is being faced with the real world where his charm won't save him from getting sued.

He is a willing victim to the end and I wished he changed that because it is not too late for him to be in control and save the sinking ship.

Or the time he was in an Impala at an event and got told to get out of the car because the owner disliked what he was doing and Jensen just said “just give them a picture with my face”.

Thank you for sharing your enlightening view, anon. I love that you look at Jensen through a neutral lens and aren’t afraid to face reality. I deeply loved reading your post and it’s refreshing to know there are people that see through the persona he has built over the years.

For the record, I hope the crew member who suffered will be retributed and I am very disappointed that, to this day, Jensen has failed to mention his terrible ordeal and compensate him for it.

[thatrandyalexfroma03]

Bucktommy in space fan fic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64743883/chapters/166973245#workskin

From Chapter two:

Buck flashed the camera a confident, slightly too-bright smile as he strode toward the observation window outside the med bay. Behind the lens, May adjusted the focus while Ravi followed him with the gimbal, keeping the framing tight,just like they'd practiced.

Meanwhile, back at headquarters, Agent Gerrard was keeping a close eye on things, making sure it ran perfectly with no scandal or PR stunts. 

The instructions had been simple: no contact, no entry. Buck was to stand outside, wave politely through the glass at the soldiers inside, and deliver a short, approved message before heading off for the next photo op. 

Complete with gloves and mask, because the public still feared the ‘Jupiter Flu’

But Buck had never been great with scripts.

He turned slightly toward the doctor at his side, voice chipper but curious. “So, Doctor, these soldiers…are they contagious?”

“No,” the doctor replied calmly. “They’re suffering from long-term radiation poisoning. From their exposure cause by long term deployment to poorly designed space craft.”

“Not at all. You’re in no danger. Though I’d keep the mask on,” the doctor added. “That’s for their protection. Their immune systems are compromised.”

With a shrug, Buck peeled off his gloves and walked over to the scrubbing station like he’d done it a hundred times before. “Right,” he said, rolling up his sleeves and reaching for the sanitizer. “After you, Doctor.”

Back at Central Command, Agent Gerrard nearly choked on his lukewarm coffee as the live feed continued rolling across the giant screen at HQ.

He slammed his hand down on the comms button. “What the fuck is that idiot doing?” he barked, voice echoing through the command center.

Onscreen, Buck calmly opened the med bay door and stepped inside, still masked but very much unaccompanied, walking directly into the room with the sick soldiers—live, unscripted, and completely off protocol.

Gerrard’s voice boomed again, this time into his earpiece. “Cut the transmission. Cut it now! ”

Back aboard the ship, Ravi didn’t even flinch. He tapped May on the shoulder, leaned in, and whispered, “Don’t stop. Keep streaming.”

May hesitated—just for a beat—then nodded and adjusted the angle, zooming in as Buck approached the first bed.

“Sam,” Buck said warmly, squatting slightly to meet the patient’s eyes. Field Ranger Samantha Wright, pale and weary but sitting upright, looked stunned.

He extended a hand, not for the camera, not for optics, but for her . “It’s an honor to meet someone who’s given so much to keep us safe.”

She blinked, then slowly reached out and grasped his hand with trembling fingers.

Back at HQ, the audio buzzed with static and shouting as Gerrard barked orders, frantically trying to contain the PR nightmare unfolding in real time.