#Proclamation of Neutrality

[angelsdean]

I really really love the language both Misha and Jensen have been using re: the "confession"

Like Misha repeatedly stating "homosexual declaration of love"

declaration: a formal or explicit statement or announcement. announcement. proclamation.

It's just, stating something, making it known.

Then there's Jensen correcting himself from saying "confession" to "testament"

Jensen: "he gave a confess- or he gave his - his testament"

testament: something that serves as a sign or evidence of a specified fact, event, or quality. a tangible proof or tribute. an expression of conviction. creed. attestation. related to testimony: a solemn declaration. an open acknowledgment.

These words are more neutral / positive statements than "confession." Cas's feelings just are, and he is declaring them proudly, attesting** to them. Speaking his truth. Whereas "confession" connotes shame.

confession:

a formal statement admitting that one is guilty of a crime.

an admission or acknowledgment that one has done something that one is ashamed or embarrassed about.

a formal admission of one's sins with repentance and desire of absolution

All of these imply that something about what is "confessed" is shameful, embarrassing, sinful. There's guilt associated with the "confessed" thing, and that's not what Cas felt in the moment of his True Happiness.

In that moment he felt proud, he felt elated to finally declare his feelings, and also in his speech to Dean, which imo is a big part of Cas's happiness, getting to tell Dean how he sees him, how many actually see him, as a being of love, as someone who is always trying and fighting for others. as someone who loves so fiercely and strongly that he taught Cas how to love in this way too. And none of those feelings are shameful, he's proud to tell Dean these things. He's happy to finally get to say them.

So I really like the language they're personally using when talking about this scene. It's really not a confession. Cas's love isn't some secret, shameful thing. In that moment all those feelings burn brightly, happily in him. In that moment he is making his solemn declaration to Dean about his feelings and all the things about Dean that he loves, openly acknowledging what has sat quietly between them for years, not hidden, not shameful, just unspoken.

**to show, say, or prove that something exists or is true

[reywritings]

The View from Here

A chance meeting on a balcony might just lead to a new daily routine.

Jason Todd x Reader, No use of Y/N, Gender Neutral Reader

This is my first time posting. So here goes, I guess?

______________________________________________________________

In all honesty, you were pretty sure your neighbor hated you.

Nobody got particularly close with their ‘neighbors’ in this apartment building, but you wouldn’t have exactly minded getting close in this one instance.

Your recently new neighbor was… big. ‘Built like a tank’ big. ‘Built like a brick house’ big. He wore those worn, leather jackets and had a strikingly beautiful face, with soft scars across his cheek bone. And yet... he had this quiet air about him. A mystery, and you did enjoy a good Agatha Christie novel.

You barely interacted other than waves in the hall, but you could swear he picked his pace up when you were in the hall, alone together. He definitely wasn’t afraid of you, not when he could probably throw you at the nearest wall and leave a you-shaped hole like some looney toons bit.

So, the obvious choice was that he simply disliked you. Which wasn’t a big deal at all! You don’t even know him, why would you care?

…you cared SO much.

It was around the fourth month of you being neighbors, when it happened.

Jason had been having a rough night. A rough week—a rough life. He could still feel the bruises on his side from the previous night. He hadn’t seen the tail swinging his way– and when he hit that cement wall, he swore he heard something crack. Next time, Dick can call Tim or Cass to help him reign in Killer Croc.

Ultimately, his typical ruminating, and now sore side, led to lack of sleep—so here he was, the next afternoon, on his balcony for a smoke break. What a view—an overlook of the turnpike, an old Denny’s and NJ Transit tracks. Yeah, definitely worth the balcony prices.

He hears a sliding door open and glances over to see—oh shit. His neighbor. They were standing there holding some books, a mug of either coffee or tea, presumably, and a surprised look on their face.

…he wasn’t sure if this was an upside to his day or not.

Don’t get him wrong, he liked his neighbor. A bit too much.

So, when you gave a small, stilted wave and took a seat on the old, plastic chair that came with the apartment balcony, he nodded back. And that was it.

…Although, he was a bit curious as to what you were reading. Maybe a peek couldn’t hurt. If that peek didn’t turn into him turning his head to try and read the title, which was turned at just an angle that he can’t see it.

He sighs, looking back up to see you already glancing at him. Did you see that?

Okay. Embarrassing, but it’s fine. It’s not like he had outright made a fool of himself in front of you.

“I like books.” Why did he have to say that?! He blinks as you look up from your book, eyes widened at his sudden proclamation. “...I have a big collection…also...”

There’s a singular beat and he ponders if a fall from this height would kill him.

“Really?”

The question isn’t mocking or in disbelief, just… almost an undertone of excitement to it.

You glance around; a bit nervous—but this was your chance.

“...do you have a favorite boo—” You cut yourself off. “Sorry, dumb question. I mean who can pick ONE favorite. Okay, what are some of your favorites?”

And suddenly, it was like Jason’s tension left his body.

“That’s for sure. I appreciate a lot of the classics. The Count of Monte Cristo is a great one, Frankenstein, too.” He was deeply aware of how ironic his choices were, not that you knew.

“I love Mary Shelley.” You blurt out and then realize you might have been a bit TOO excited. “…I appreciate her literature and overall gothic nature…”

Jason laughs at that. Of course you had good taste. This… this wasn’t good. He should pull away again. Put his cigarette out, go back inside and pretend this never happened. Right?

“So what are you reading now?” He hears himself ask.

“Anna Karina. I just started it.” You smile at him, and God, was it devastating.

He feels himself give a soft smile back. “You’re gonna love it.”

“…So.” You decide to take your chance. “Aside from your ‘big book collection’, what else do you enjoy?”

You can’t help but notice how quiet he gets and curse yourself for being so forward.

Please don’t be scared away, please don’t be scared away—

Meanwhile, Jason’s mind blanks as he racks himself for a hobby aside from vigilantism, sparring and training for said vigilantism, cleaning his guns—

“I cook.” He says, albeit a bit stilted.

Oh. Oh. Really? He’s charming, handsome, smart, reads and cooks? You come to terms that you’re already long gone.

“So that’s what smells so good? I think our vents are connected… and I can smell something good cooking from somewhere. Now I know.” You grin. Okay, maybe the words were a bit flirtatious, but hey—seemed like tonight was all about uncharacteristically taking chances.

“…you think so?” A compliment. A genuine one. Jason wasn’t sure how to take that... but if you kept smiling like that when you said them, maybe he could get used to it.

“Is that what you do for work? It sure smells professional.” You say, fully buttering him up at this point—but also not lying. It did smell like a Michelin star restaurant from the vents on your shared wall. You wondered where he learned that.

“Ah, no. I do security work.” Jason lets his usual cover slip out, and kind of wishes he hadn’t. It seemed too suspicious—what if you thought he worked for Penguin or someone? That surely would drive you away… not that what he actually did was any safer.

“...like at bars?” You question.

“Yes. Bars, clubs… the like.” Yes, that sounded better. Jason pats himself on the back, although it was you who proposed it unknowingly.

“Yikes, that would freak me out. I mean—running security in Gotham?” You joke a bit, but there’s a serious hint of concern in your tone. It’s touching. You barely knew him and yet…

Jason smiles, shaking his head as he puts out his now stub of a cigarette.

“Nah, I can handle myself. Don’t worry about me.”

You eye him, and he internally squirms under your gaze. His job had him reading people all the time but… he seemed at a loss when it came to you. You and your deep, understanding gaze.

“…I’m still going to. But thanks for the reassurance.” You say, softly.

Oh. Jason is at a loss again, and he sees you move to stand up, your face only illuminated by the glow from within your apartment, behind those sliding glass doors.

“Oh wow, when did it get so late?”

He hears you ask as he drags his eyes away from you, letting them fall onto the turnpike and train tracks below. Eyes following the ashes of cigarette, chasing the after essence of the burn. The earlier commute traffic dwindled. The dim roads, illuminated by streetlights now.

“Yeah, it is late…” Jason frowns. “I have work soon.”

You look back with an understanding nod. He swears he sees a hint of disappointment in your eyes.

“That makes sense. Night shift and all…” You trail off a bit. “…I oughta get inside anyways. Can’t read in the dark, anyways.” He watches you open the sliding door again, pausing to glance back at him. Jason can study the way the light falls in soft streams from behind you. He finds himself wishing he had a photographic memory in that exact moment.

“…stay safe for me?”

He blinks and then feels himself nod. “Yeah. Will do.”

The guilt of the empty promise is soon replaced when those words earn him that saccharine smile.

“See you tomorrow…?” You ask, rather hopeful. A wishing of ‘let this be the first of many’ hidden under your plain question.

In that moment, Jason decides maybe his promise wasn’t so empty after all. He’d make sure to be extra careful tonight.

“See you then.”

After all, he had something important tomorrow. 

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Yandere Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

Warnings: 18+, Depictions of Smut, Implied Non-Con, Breeding, Kidnapping, Restraining, Yandere Miguel, Obsessive Miguel, Possessive Miguel, Implied Female Reader, Implied Gender-Neutral Reader, No Pronouns used for Reader Except ‘You’.

You took him in after you found him collapsed on the rooftop of your apartment, a thick, bleeding gouge along his side. And, initially, he was very suspicious of you, found your generosity – your eagerness to clean and dress his wound, to bring him a fresh change of clothes, to offer him a warm meal – a cause for alarm.

But, you made your intentions with him quite clear; that you only wished to help, to make sure he was fully-healed before he descended upon the world once more.

He did try to leave. Truly, he did. But your proclamations that he needed rest and the nice warm bed you’d offered him forced his body to succumb before his mind did.

As convincing as you may be, Miguel is still highly cautious of you. Tuning into his senses, trying to detect poison in his food or a hidden enemy in your apartment.

But, for the days he’s there, Miguel picks up nothing.

You tell him about yourself – anything and everything he’d like to know – often sitting by his side and answering every question he asks of you: your name, your job; the basics. And, eventually, he opens up to you. Marginally. Tells you a little bit about why he’s here.

He only tells you he - and his associates – are in pursuit of a highly dangerous target. Of course, he omits the part about the fate of the Multiverse hanging squarely on the success of this mission, and he just can’t seem to bring himself to as your eyes fill with wonder and curiosity, your attention solely on him.

And he can’t help but indulge you when you ask him if he has any stories about his time as a superhero.

He relents. Tells you of missions which bear little weight on the universe you reside in – nothing that could endanger you should you tell another soul. And you listen with an eagerness he wished his subordinates would display, even if only for theatrics’ sake.

You tell him how lucky the world is to have a hero like him – how lucky you are to even be talking to him, seeing as you’re just a civilian.

Your earnest nature makes something in him tick. Something he can’t place his finger on.

As the days fly by, he finds himself racking his brain for more stories to tell you, more tales to regale where he comes out on top, ever the hero he is.

It helps bury some of the guilt that lingers in his heart, fractals of a universe he’s shattered. Makes him feel as if he’s not entirely a failure.

Whenever you leave the apartment – for work or for shopping – Miguel wanders around, watches some TV, formulates his game plan for when he has to leave.

That last one brings him a little too much anxiety for his liking, so he often finds himself thinking of you instead to ease his nerves.

Something, initially, he’s somewhat shocked by. But the longer he does it, the more natural it feels. The more vivid his daydreams become.

He tries never to let them stray into lewd territory, but after he accidentally caught sight of you undressing, his mind has been urging him to visit some...unsavoury places.

He only permits brief trips there when you’re out of the house, and never for very long.

The two of you fall into a routine while he’s healing; you come home and prepare him dinner, he comes and helps you – even when you tell him he should be resting. Then, you eat together and watch a film.

One evening, close to his departure – Miguel knows he hasn’t long with you left – you fell asleep on him, your face resting on his shoulder.

He dared not move for fear of disturbing you, losing you.

Then, his heart…fluttered.

And, as you slept soundly on him, with all the trust in the world, he realised that nobody had been this close to him – physically – since…

Since he lost his universe.

The idea that someone could take this for granted, the simple act of trust, that they could take advantage of yours, shot through him, a bullet of realisation. And the pain only sears as he looks upon your face, oblivious to the thoughts racing through his mind, through the minds of others – criminals and low-lifes who would kill you for no reason.

He couldn’t leave you.

Not here, and not on your own.

He knows it’s selfish, but, in another vein, he believes he’s saving you. Being the hero you see him as.

The next day, he’s fully-healed. And he has a proposition for you.

“Go…with you ?” you say, eyebrow raised. “Miguel, I don’t underst-”

“You don’t need to,” he says. “But what you do need to know is that you’re not safe here.”

“What makes you think that ?” You cross your arms over your chest, as if to contain – hide – the suspicion growing there. Miguel brings a hand to the back of his neck, rubs it, tilts his head back.

“Listen, I just know things– things that make me qualified to tell you that you, on your own, in this universe, are not safe.”

Miguel knows he’s getting nowhere with you. Especially since he made no effort to explain his multiversal goings-ons to you when he first arrived. So, he shows you.

He takes you by the hand and, willingly, you go with him. To him, that’s confirmation – submission. Your compliance with his whims.

He brings you to a universe where everything is oddly…liminal. Like an early 2010’s Microsoft desktop wallpaper. Just green hills, a distant forest encircling the land, and a house. Big enough to fit a family of considerable size.

Made to fit you and Miguel.

By the time you realise anything’s wrong, out of the ordinary (aside from being shown inter-dimensional travel), Miguel’s dropping a bombshell on you.

“This is your new home,” he says, standing behind you. He’s so close you can feel his warmth against your back. He places a hand on your shoulder. Squeezes it. “Our new home.”

Any shock that overcomes you is overpowered with the sense of dread that you’ve walked right into Miguel’s trap. That, just as he’d warned you, someone had taken advantage of your kind, trusting nature.

You can fight as much as you want, but Miguel’s got his heart set on you. And your future here.

You see, while you were caring for Miguel, showing him the concern and attentiveness he’s been starved of for years, his mind had begun to wander. Wondered what you’d be like with him if you were always together. Wondered how you’d act if you were to care for a child. 

His child.

He’ll try to convince you of this ideal, that this is right and is what’s best for you, but if you keep resisting, you’ll see his possessive side emerge. His anger.

Red eyes, pinning you to the wall, nostrils flared; he is not losing you. And if he needs to frighten you into this new life, then so be it. Though, he wants you to adjust naturally, to want what he wants, to, dare he say, love him as he loves you.

And if you’re not going to submit to him willingly, he’ll take it by force.

If you’re capable of bearing children, he creates a strict regiment wherein he takes you, filling you with his load. At first, this was once a day – every two days if he was busy.

Initially, he’d string you up to the ceiling by your legs after finishing, “To make sure it takes,” he told you. And it doesn’t matter how hard you struggle; his webs are steadfast. Stubborn.

But, as he became more ravenous, more enemaoured by the prospect of keeping you, of breeding you, he became sloppy. Desperate. The thought of you swollen with his offspring hits him while he’s at work, during the downtime between missions.

At which point he just takes care of himself, panting your name in the bathroom stall before finishing and returning to work as normal.

Then it became more frequent, occurring while he’s on missions, during integral moments. At this point, he tries to suppress it, save it for later. After all, it’s not like he has a choice.

And that’s when he’d come and pay you a midnight visit, girthy and stiff and eyes red with the carnal need to fill you again and again until your stomach bulged.

That regime he’d set up unravelled, and now he takes you at every convenience, every chance he gets, pinning you to a web and making sure you can’t struggle if you’re particularly resistant.

At first, he did feel guilty about this; guilty that he was the one hurting you, causing you to cry, to beg for him not to finish inside you as you told him you weren’t ready to have a child.

And, during this period, he would wear his mask. He thought it would offer him some protection against your tear-streaked, anguished stare, your pleas for him to let you go, to return you home.

It didn’t.

He tries to comfort you, to tell you that you’ll “Love being a parent – just give it a chance,” as he pumps his hot load into you, holding you close to him.

Depending on his mood, he can be very gentle or very rough.

When he’s gentle, he whispers in your ear, tells you how much you mean to him, how he loves you more than you’ll ever know.

When he’s rough, he’s merciless. And gone is the tender love he’d subject you to, replaced with growls and claims that he needs you, that he won’t stop fucking you until you’re filled with his offspring.

He has a web created specifically for when he breeds you – where he attaches you to it upside down, making sure your chances of pregnancy are maximised. He fucks you here too, sometimes. And while blood is rushing to your head from being upside down, Miguel’s pounding the life out of you, panting, sweating, moaning your name.

He can go for many, many rounds. His superhuman stamina and strength make him unstoppable when it comes to you.

He’ll keep going long after you’ve finished or while you’re unconscious and exhausted from his barrage, never ceasing until he stuffs his cum into you, holding you to him, pressing kisses to your face as he tells you what a good job you’ve done, how well you’ve taken him.

If you do end up pregnant, Miguel is never letting you go.

You can say goodbye to any chances of getting back to your universe when he finds out you’re bearing his child.

And you can’t hide it from him, either. His hearing and perception tell him you’re expecting even before you’re aware of it.

By that point, the only thing you can do is just accept that this is your life now. Doing so early on will make your existence with Miguel little more than bearable. Because if you aren’t excited or tolerant of this child, Miguel will string you up in your bedroom.

“For your own good,” he tells you, his eyes flickering down to your stomach. His eyes soften, fill with warmth. “And the baby’s.”

If he suspects you’ll try to hurt yourself or the baby, he’ll take drastic measures to ensure neither of those things happen; restraining you, placing you into an induced sleep, cocooning you.

If you can’t have children, he’ll simply take one from another universe and tell you that the two of you will raise them together.

If he suspects anyone or anything else is going to try to hurt you or the baby, he’ll destroy it. No questions asked.

He’s indiscriminate, too.

Even if it were one of his associates – someone he’s worked alongside for years – they’re all superficial to him.

His only concern is you.

And he’ll make sure you’re loved and cared for forever.

Masterlist Masterpost

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

[city-of-ladies]

A complex figure, Irene of Athens (c.750/755 - 803) was the first woman to rule the Byzantine Empire in her own name. For over two decades, she dominated imperial politics with a rare blend of resilience, cunning, and charisma. She also stood out for her philanthropic initiatives and enduring cultural legacy.

Empress consort

Irene was born in Athens between 750 and 755, into the Sarantapechos family—a locally influential clan of unclear standing, likely outside the upper echelons of the aristocracy. Her marriage to the young Emperor Leo IV in 769 was likely arranged to bind Greece more closely to Constantinople’s authority. Irene arrived in the capital that November and was crowned empress shortly after.

Her father-in-law, Constantine V, was a staunch iconoclast, while Irene already showed signs of favoring the veneration of religious images—a theological rift that may have created tension with her husband.

In 771, Irene gave birth to her only child, Constantine VI. When Leo IV died suddenly in 780, she was left to protect both her son’s inheritance and her own position.

Irene in power

Irene swiftly seized control of the government, and she and her son were proclaimed co-rulers. But her authority was soon challenged. Leo’s half-brothers, each holding the title of Caesar, conspired to overthrow her and install the eldest, Nikephoros, as emperor.

Irene dealt with them decisively. She punished their supporters and forced the princes into clerical life, effectively neutralizing their claim. Symbolically, she had them serve at the Great Church during Christmas Mass and restored a crown that her husband had removed from the Hagia Sophia—an act rich in political and religious significance.

She soon appeared alongside her son on imperial coinage and took a leading role in foreign affairs. In 781, she arranged his betrothal to Rotrude, daughter of Charlemagne.

Aware of her precarious position, Irene surrounded herself with loyal servants, notably eunuchs, whom she promoted to high office. Though often capable, their presence in military leadership roles drew resentment from the army. As a woman unable to lead troops herself, Irene depended on these trusted men—and the strategy was not without consequences, for some of her allies later proved treacherous and corrupt.

In 781, she dispatched an expedition suppress a rebellion in Sicily, which successfully restored Byzantine control over the island. Yet in the East, her policy faltered: a general defected during a campaign against the Arabs—perhaps out of hatred for the eunuch Staurakios, or due to Irene’s purge of Constantine V’s loyalists. The fallout forced her to pay a massive tribute to secure peace.

Pacifying Thrace

On the northern frontier, however, Irene scored lasting victories. In 784, she sent Staurakios to campaign against Slavic tribes in Thrace and Greece. His triumph brought back booty and captives, and Irene celebrated his return with honors.

In May of that year, she embarked on a public tour of Thrace with her son—a gesture that left a powerful impression. She fortified and renamed Beroia as Eirenoupolis (“City of Irene”), symbolizing renewal and imperial authority. Her efforts stabilized Northern Thrace that had largely escaped imperial control for two centuries. She cemented these gains by founding a new theme (the military-administrative division): Macedonia.

Champion of icons

A devout patron and builder, Irene founded the Convent of the Mother of God on Prinkipo and played a crucial role in resolving the iconoclasm controversy.

In 787, after carefully neutralizing potential military opposition, she summoned the Second Council of Nicaea. There, she overturned her father-in-law’s policies and restored the veneration of icons, marking a monumental shift in Byzantine religious life and reviving iconophile art.

Constantine VI attempts to rule alone

By 788, Irene’s name began to precede that of Constantine VI in official proclamations. She dominated his life and eventually broke off his engagement to Rotrude, arranging a new marriage with Maria of Amnia. She opposed Charlemagne’s growing influence in southern Italy and launched a military expedition that ended disastrously.

Frustrated, Constantine sought to assert his authority. In 790, provincial troops acclaimed him as sole emperor. He had Irene’s eunuchs punished and exiled, and confined her to the Palace of Eleutherios.

Yet his reign floundered. After a series of military defeats, including a humiliating loss to the Bulgars in 792, Constantine reinstated his mother as co-ruler. Their uneasy joint rule descended into chaos. As the chronicler Michael Psellos wrote:

“They went for each other, hit and hit back in turn, and now Irene exercised absolute power, now Constantine took possession of the palace alone, again the mother, again the son, until their conflict resulted in a disaster for both.”

Constantine further alienated the court by divorcing his wife and remarrying—an act that scandalized the clergy and nobility alike.

Sole Ruler of the Empire

By 796, Irene had outmaneuvered her son. She won over the army and her household through persuasion and bribes. In August 797, Constantine attempted to flee the capital but was captured by Irene's allies. Irene had him blinded in the porphyra, the chamber where she had once given birth to him.

Blinding, though brutal, was seen as a merciful alternative to execution. Whether he survived is uncertain; some sources suggest he lived until 805.

Now ruling alone, Irene struck coins bearing only her image. She used the masculine form basileus on some of her legal documents and used the masculine title autokrator, asserting full sovereignty.

Her rule wasn’t, at first, met with much opposition. Irene had carefully prepared her ascension.

Imperial philanthropy

Irene’s reign was marked by a deep commitment to philanthropy. Her concern for the poor seemed genuine, not merely political. She abolished taxes levied on soldiers’ widows and exempted orphanages, hospitals, and religious institutions from hearth taxes— a relief her successor would later revoke.

A prolific builder, she was interested in developing the capital. She funded public works, established soup kitchens, retirement homes, and free graveyards for foreigners and the poor. She reduced taxes and, in 799, distributed coins to the people during a ceremony.

The last years

Irene’s later years were fraught with challenge. In 798, she sent envoys to both the Arabs and the Franks, striving to keep military conflict at bay, but failed to secure peace with the Arabs.

She extended imperial administration into the Balkans and possibly created new provincial units in Greece. Her treasury remained strong, with substantial reserves at her disposal.

She fell ill in 799 and the crowning of Charlemagne as “Emperor of the Romans” by the Pope in 800 seriously undermined her legitimacy. The Byzantines considered themselves the true heirs of Rome, and the coronation was a major blow to Irene’s prestige.

She seems to have proposed marriage to Charlemagne, possibly to unite the eastern and western empires and ensure peaceful cooperation. Frankish ambassadors arrived in Constantinople, but the plan came to nothing.

By 802, dissatisfaction at court had reached a tipping point. Irene’s failure to designate a successor led to her downfall. Her finance minister, Nikephoros, staged a coup and was proclaimed emperor. Deserted by her allies, Irene was exiled—first to Prinkipo, then to Lesbos where she was closely guarded, most likely because she had plotted against her successor.

She died on August 9, 803. Her remains were later returned to the convent she had founded. That she managed to hold power for so long—despite lacking support and governing in a deeply patriarchal society—testifies to her extraordinary political acumen.

If you enjoy this blog, consider supporting me on Ko-fi!

Further reading: 

Garland Lynda, Byzantine Empresses - Women and Power in Byzantium AD 527-1204

Herrin Judith, Women in Purple: Rulers of Medieval Byzantium

[tojisun]

!! smut - minors dni; undiscussed kinks; mutual stalker vibes; mutual possessiveness; gender neutral anatomy for reader

there is much to be said about simon’s act of possession; how, in the rarity of his attachment, it turns into a spectacle when he finds one he fixates on. he postures, baring his fangs before snapping his jaw because hunger swells in the jowls of his cheeks. his desperation bloats, peaking in the back of his throat until he feels like throwing up.

he never did learn how to control his hunger once it forms.

it consumes him feverishly, almost manically. his limbs twitch, his body poised for a hunt. a part of him begins to rationalize his desires; begetting him to stake his claim.

so he does.

it’s why the squad knows him intimately. why they taught themselves to adapt to simon’s new routine—feather-light steps, the rustling of apparel, the unusual weight on their mattresses, the stagnant breathing, the hyperawareness of being watched—as an act of their acceptance.

of simon’s devotion being reciprocated.

but it’s all so different with you.

you’re soft. a civilian. simon knows that no amount of his justifications can make you understand.

(he doesn’t know the hunger settling in the pool of your stomach.

how, late at night, you drag your fingers across your chest before dipping them along the expanse of your stomach, feeling it fluttering at every ticklish touch as you imagine that it were simon touching you so.

he doesn’t know how, in the comfort of your room, you press your fingers into yourself, feeling the wet squeeze of your walls twitching at every push, at every inch, as you think about him.

he doesn’t know how, dug from the depths of your mind, you cum with his name spilling from your lips.)

but simon’s grown addicted. attached.

words fly from the edges of his mind and he’s left panting, whining, grunting his pleas on your supple skin. he breathes you in, bypassing the tremors that overtake your body, because—“let me take care of you, love. please.”

(you could barely tamp down your giddiness, your body racked with minute shivers.

simon stares at you, desperate. unknowing.

you bite the insides of your cheeks to corral yourself, leashing the tides of your need lapping at your feet. you’ve reached so far. you know you can’t unfurl now.)

he watches as you lick at your lips, before parting them for a breathy gasp.

then, “okay,” you said with a dimpled smile.

simon bears down onto you with a hungry growl.

—

he sinks his teeth on your skin, marking you up all for him. it doesn’t matter to him that you’re going to stuff the proclamation of his ownership under your clothes because you two both know of it anyway—his branding of you, right there, close to your chest.

simon fucks you with intense passion, all snapping teeth and rumbled croons. he folds you unto yourself, presenting all that you are to his greedy eyes, and makes you watch as he fucks his cock into you. your walls grip him deliciously, skin stretching in protest every time he pulls out.

it makes him laugh, teasing, his thumb sliding beside his cock as it breached your fluttering rim again.

“si!” you scream, head tipping back to expose your throat at the added stretch.

“shh,” is all simon says, his teasing finally reaching its apex. “you’ll get used to it soon.”

your head thrashes on the pillow, loosely-balled fists thumping against his chest weakly. new bouts of tears spill, staining your cheeks once again. you keen, breathless, words sputtering when simon fucks his thumb and his cock in-and-out in succession.

you’re so goddamn adorable.

“s’too mu’! s’too mu’!”

simon grins, sly, and takes pity on you.

he nuzzles his nose along your damp cheek, peppering you with ghosting kisses.

then, he says, “this is just a little punishment, baby.” he pecks your cheek. “y’really didn’t think that i wouldn’t know about your little perverted secret, did’ya?”

he feels more than hears the moment your breath gets stuck on your lungs. simon puffs a fond huff.

“don’t worry,” he coos. “you’ll feel good, i promise.”

after all, simon learned everything that makes you gush like a little slut.

[the-witty-pen-name]

💋🔑🧸 with Billy pleeease

Thank you so much for the request anon! 💕

Word count: 368

Warnings: fluff

Reader is gender neutral but is described to wear lipstick/makeup and has a scrunchie

Billy didn’t know when you managed to leave your mark in every little part of his life. He didn’t do the whole relationship thing but somehow you were different. At first, it was your mark on his skin- lipstick stains on his lips and his jaw and neck left behind from you. He’d pretend to hate it, reddish marks left behind all over his face when you’d pepper him with kisses, but he secretly loved it. He’ll scrunch his nose up in fake disgust but he loves when you do it. He’ll bring down his sun visor and survey your work in the mirror, smiling to himself.

But then, it was the tube of your favorite shade that found a home in the cup holder of his car. Actually- looking around, a lot of things have ended up in his car. Makeup wipes in the glovebox, your scrunchie on his gear shift, and your empty coffee cup that you left behind was in the side cup holder on the door. He’s surprised that he’s so fond of it, and it catches him off guard, not sure where to put all of these feelings. He looks down at his key ring, pausing before he starts his car, and looks at the key to your apartment next to his car key.

He loved that you were everywhere.

Backing out of his spot, on his way to see you, he turns around as he maneuvers his car in reverse. Situated on the middle of his back seat is a tiny teddy bear that you won for him- yes you won for him- at the Hawkins High Carnival when you first started dating. He thought you had been kidding when you made the proclamation you were winning him a prize. He had just shook his head and scoffed, playing it off. Then when you handed him the little bear with the heart shaped nose- he knew right then that he loved you. He played it off like it wasn’t a big deal, but it was the sweetest thing anyone had done for him.

He turned on the radio, and turned down the street- smiling to himself the whole way to see you.

[goodqueenaly]

If King Viserys had picked Laena as his bride, but kept Rhaenyra as his heir, how do you think house Velaryon would respond to that. Would they be the new “Greens” working to get their bloodline on the throne or do they accept Rhaenyra as future Queen? Could the Dance of the Dragons have been avoided if Viserys married differently? Rhaenys was originally meant to be Queen but if her daughter marries Viserys, it combines the lines of Aemon & Baelon.

I firmly believe that any family whose daughter married Viserys I following the death of Aemma Arryn and the proclamation of Rhaenyra as heiress would have been anticipating that daughter’s (expected) sons to replace Rhaenyra as the king’s heirs, and I think that’s true of the Velaryons as well. As Gyldayn notes, “there were many in the realm, at court and beyond it, who still hoped that Viserys might father a male heir, for the Young King was not yet thirty”. Likewise, given Corlys’ unsubtle royal ambitions for his offspring, his fury when Laena was passed over for Alicent, and his insistence at the outset of the Dance that his grandsons were Velaryons, rather than Targaryens, I think it’s fair to say Corlys fully expected to have royal, ruling grandchildren via Laena, rather than having his descendants play dynastic second fiddle to Rhaenyra. If Corlys had failed to promote either his wife or his son as the rightful heirs to the Iron Throne, I think he decided he would have the next best thing - a grandson, through his daughter, who would someday be king. Nor indeed would such a thought have been totally irrational; after all, nowhere in continental Westeros but then-independent Dorne followed absolute primogeniture, and the accession of Jaehaerys I ahead of elder sister Rhaena may have only reinforced the expectation that a future son of Viserys I would nullify the proclamation that had made Rhaenyra heiress.

Now, is it possible that in such a scenario, the Velaryons would have pushed a son of Viserys and Laena to marry Rhaenyra (just as Alicent hoped for Aegon the Elder IOTL)? I would not at all be surprised. Not only would such a marriage follow in the incestuous tradition of the Targaryens, but it would also (so I think Corlys may have figured) be a neat way of neutralizing both Rhaenyra’s own claim and her ability to pursue such a claim independent of the Velaryon faction. However, again given Corlys’ proud correction of his grandsons as “Velaryons” rather than “Targaryens”, I could see where Corlys would have been clear to emphasize that his grandson was king by right, rather than co-monarch or king jure uxoris (not to say there would not have been issues in the division of power in such a marriage).

If Viserys wanted to avoid the Dance, as I’ve said, he needed to not remarry. While such a decision would not have eliminated Daemon’s royal ambitions - and it’s far from clear how Daemon would have acted in such a scenario - it would have taken away the ability of a legitimate, dynastic son of the king to argue exactly that - namely, that by being the king’s legitimate, dynastic son, he automatically had a better right to the throne than the king’s daughter. Any family united by marriage to King Viserys would have had every reason to expect and want its daughter’s son by the king to succeed, and to act accordingly, and I don’t think the Velaryons would have been the exception to this rule.

(Once again, this is not about That Other Show and I’m not welcoming discussion of That Other Show.)

[sulumuns-dootah]

Can I request headcanons for Belphegor, Astaroth, Bimet, Sitri, Zagan, and Belial reacting to being stuck in close proximity with gn crush please?

WHB demons stuck in a room/area with their crush II.

⟡ Masterlist ⟡ 

Characters: Sitri, Astaroth, Belial, Zagan, Bimet, Belphegor

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Well, Sitri's face is immediatelly red

And what's worse is that being this clcose to you, he's able to hear your heartbeat and it's now the only thing he can hear

If Amy anyone came up and teased him about the sudden change in his body language, he'd obliterate them on the spot out of embarassment

If he's by chance lucky enough to be carrying some paperwork, he'll try to hide himself by pretending to carefully read through it

       ༺☆༻

Ah, his time has finally come

Now you can't escape him so easily

The moment he realises there's no way out of thisencounter for you, he's making his way confidently towards you

Let the corrupting game begin

He'll start off subtly by complimenting you

And then the suggestions start flooding in

'You look stressed, perhaps you'd like to take a long vacation somewhere away from all of this and not have to lift a finger the whole time.."

       ༺☆༻

Uh oh

If there's two things Jiyu can't do, it's keep secrets and be discrete

*tiny high pitched inhale*

"OH HEY, BELIAL ISN'T THAT ONE OVER THERE YOUR CRUSH, THAT FUCKFACE?!"

And if you're in the room/area just the two of you? Oof, stuff gets awkward

At first you freeze at that loud proclamation meanwhile Belial chucks Jiyu towards a nearest wall where he comedically splats

As you gasp out at the extremelly rare violent outburst, the demon signs 'sorry' to you and quickly moves to leave

Only after Belial's gone, Jiyu peels off the wall and falls to the ground, muttering all sorts of curses

       ༺☆༻

Zagan is so quiet you don't even notice him, but if you do, he's a blushing mess despite trying to put on a neutral look

Hopefully there isn't Ppyong around or he'll alert you to the rosy-cheeked demon in the corner of the room

Luckily you're too busy talking with few other demons about something

You might be with your back turned towards him, but Zagan will try to avoid looking in your direction just in case you might look in his direction and accidentally lock eyes

The last thing he needs is making you feel like he's stalking you and scare you off

After leaving the shared space you find not one, but three talismans attached to you

       ༺☆༻

The B in Bimet also stands for bold as we already know

Having that said, if you happen to get into close proximity, there are two scenarios (I also mentioned them in the other crush series):

If you're rich enough in Bimet's eyes, he's al over you, courting you and trying to please you, treating you like a deity

But, if by some magical miracle he's crushing on you but you don't meet his standard, he's disgusted with himself for stooping that low and will blame you for it

So expect being treated like something absolutely disgusting to him and getting insulted

       ༺☆༻

Belphie is like a PC

If you leave him alone for a minute or two on his own, he's fast asleep

Not really sure how it would come to it since the only time he's not in his bed he's on some really important meeting of kings of Hell

And even there he's fast asleep with Beleth by his side

Unless...

You appear to him in his dreams

He's not willing to give up sleep, but you constantly being in his dreams means he has to do something about you

Hm... Maybe once he sleeps on it, he can roll his dice and decide whether to let his void crush you or make you his co-ruler

[upside-garden-of-dreams]

Sunshine Boy, Golden Love [Hybrid!Jake x Reader]

Genre: fluff

Warnings: none at all~

General info: Reader is kept pretty gender neutral, Jake is a golden retriever puppy/dog boy, please excuse the typos

[More puppy Jake]

There's something about this boy and his cuteness that made my brain flare up with these couple hybrid ideas! I craved some more petting Jake's ears, so this came into existence Do take a read and enjoy this little story ~! 🐶💛

Silky golden locks danced around your fingers as you and Jake laid facing each other in bed.

Floppy ears twitched with every delicate movement of your hands atop his head.

Your adorable puppy boyfriend hummed in enjoyment, tail wagging and thumping on the cushioned matress.

But then, the most wonderful duo of words escaped your mouth:

"Good boy~"

Jake's heart leaped and fluttered inside his chest, cheeks dusted a pretty pink. Brown eyes looked at you shyly.

On the outside, it seemed your lover wanted to stop you from continuing your train of thought, but his excited tail betrayed his bashful act.

"Such a good boy, the cutest puppy ever," you mushed his cheeks to make him pout slightly, "Adorable doggy, yes you are!"

One peck.

Two pecks.

Three pecks.

And then, a multitude of kisses were peppered along his heated cheeks and puckered lips.

"My cutie boy!"

"Jakey, you're too adorable!"

"The Goodest Boy to Walk on Earth~"

"Good pup! Aaaah, I wanna kiss you so much!"

With every new compliment, a rainfall of sweet and playful kisses landed all over his handsome face.

The dog boy became overwhelmed. Internal vibrations of joy and adoration sparked his entire being until...

A high pitched whine of "More~!" tore through his throat before he grabbed your waist and threw himself back into the fluffy blanket under him, bringing you in tow towards him, making you stradle him as you seeked to continue your ministrations.

Such was his excitement that this embarrassing instinct manifested.

Tongue out, short pants of excitement, and the swishing of a tail going a mile a minute gave him away.

You lost no time in peppering even more kisses all over his cute face while massaging the base of his ears with more enthusiasm.

Seriously, he'll give you a heart attack with the amount of cute aggression he's making you feel right now!

"My Bestest Boy Ever, Jakey! I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you!" On and on you repeatedly professed your affection.

With every proclamation of love, a new kiss was placed on his lips, leaving the poor dog boy drunk and dazed from such indulgence.

The dummy look on his face as his brown eyes looked at you made it seem like hearts were floating all over his head.

All cute laying there, tip of his tongue peeking from between his lips, hair and ears a mess from all the petting, golden tail ever revealing his emotions....

It's impossible for someone to be this adorable!

With a soft smile, your lips landed on his one more time. Adoration and love making the gesture last longer than before.

Once separated, Jake could not control his animal side, that ever embarrassing pull taking control of his mind before he could stop it.

A long swipe of his tongue crossed over your lips towards your cheek.

Jake licked your face in a trance before reality downed on him a second after. It felt like lightning stroke his spine from how he flinched and froze in place, tongue still out with the lingering taste of you taunting his senses.

Mortified, his wide eyes examined your next move. The mirage he was in broke like a mirror with no hopes of being repaired.

However, it's you he just licked, it's you who witnessed his slip into the more mindless side of his self.

With you, there's nothing to be insecure about

Sure enough, your lips turned into the brightest smile ever, hugging him close to your chest as you giggled.

Jake immediately returned to his dreamland of love while squeezing you back in happiness. Tiny laughs of his own escaped to create a beautiful melody alongside your giggles.

Gentle hands pushed back the hair on his face to look into his eyes, "You're so adorable, Jake~ Perfect as you are~" You said with a smile.

Your boyfriend couldn't help but fall in love all over again as your confession shot an arrow straight to his heart.

With the way his smile relaxed into a peaceful one and his thumbs rubbed circles on your skin, it was evident your comment touched him.

" Wouldn't change anything for the world. "

What option did you give him, other than to seal your pomise with a tender kiss?

[ END ]

GOLDEN RETRIEVER!JAKE IS JUST TOO ADORABLE, I HAAAD TO 🥺💛 may more hybrid thoughts come to mind 🙏🏻 Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to like, reblog, and comment~

[kemetic-dreams]

Jamil Abdullah al-Amin (born Hubert Gerold Brown; October 4, 1943), is an American human rights activist, Muslim cleric, African separatist, and convicted murderer who was the fifth chairman of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) in the 1960s. Best known as H. Rap Brown, he served as the Black Panther Party's minister of justice during a short-lived (six months) alliance between SNCC and the Black Panther Party.

He is perhaps known for his proclamations during that period, such as that "violence is as American as cherry pie", and that "If America don't come around, we're gonna burn it down." He is also known for his autobiography, Die Nigger Die! He is currently serving a life sentence for murder following the shooting of two Fulton County, Georgia, sheriff's deputies in 2000.

Brown's activism in the civil rights movement included involvement with the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). Brown was introduced into SNCC by his older brother Ed. He first visited Cambridge, Maryland with Cleveland Sellers in the summer of 1963, during the period of Gloria Richardson's leadership in the local movement. He witnessed the first riot between whites and blacks in the city over civil rights issues, and was impressed by the local civil rights movement's willingness to use armed self-defense against racial attacks.

Brown later organized for SNCC during the 1964 Mississippi Freedom Summer, while transferring to Howard University for his studies. Representing Howard's SNCC chapter, Brown attended a contentious civil rights meeting at the White House with President Lyndon B. Johnson during the Selma crisis of 1965 as Alabama activists attempted to march for voting rights.

Major federal civil rights legislation was passed in 1964 and 1965, including the Voting Rights Act, to establish federal oversight and enforcement of rights. In 1966, Brown organized in Greene County, Alabama to achieve African voter registration and implementation of the recently passed Voting Rights Act.

Elected SNCC chairman in 1967, Brown continued Stokely Carmichael's fiery support for "Black Power" and urban rebellions in the Northern ghettos.

During the summer of 1967, Brown toured the nation, calling for violent resistance to the government, which he called "The Fourth Reich". "Negroes should organize themselves", he told a rally in Washington, D.C., and "carry on guerilla warfare in all the cities." They should, "make the Viet Cong look like Sunday school teachers." He declared, "I say to America, Fuck it! Freedom or death!"

In this period, Cambridge, Maryland had an active civil rights movement, led by Gloria Richardson. In July 1967 Brown spoke in the city, saying "It's time for Cambridge to explode, baby. Black folks built America, and if America don't come around, we're going to burn America down." Gunfire reportedly broke out later, and both Brown and a police officer were wounded. A fire started that night and by the next day, 17 buildings were destroyed by an expanding fire "in a two-block area of Pine Street, the center of African-American commerce, culture and community." Brown was charged with inciting a riot, due to his speech.

Brown was also charged with carrying a gun across state lines. A secret 1967 FBI memo had called for "neutralizing" Brown. He became a target of the agency's COINTELPRO program, which was intended to disrupt and disqualify civil rights leaders. The federal charges against him were never proven.

He was defended in the gun violation case by civil rights advocates Murphy Bell of Baton Rouge, the self-described "radical lawyer" William Kunstler, and Howard Moore Jr., general counsel for SNCC. Feminist attorney Flo Kennedy also assisted Brown and led his defense committee, winning support for him from some chapters of the National Organization for Women.

The Cambridge fire was among incidents investigated by the 1967 Kerner Commission. But their investigative documents were not published with their 1968 report. Historian Dr. Peter Levy studied these papers in researching his book Civil War on Race Street: The Civil Rights Movement in Cambridge, Maryland (2003). He argues there was no riot in Cambridge. Brown was documented as completing his speech in Cambridge at 10 pm July 24, then walking a woman home. He was shot by a deputy sheriff allegedly without provocation. Brown was hastily treated for his injuries and secretly taken by supporters out of Cambridge.

Later that night a small fire broke out, but the police chief and fire company did not respond for two hours. In discussing his book, Levy has said that the fire's spread and ultimate destructive cost appeared to be due not to a riot, but to the deliberate inaction of the Cambridge police and fire departments, which had hostile relations with the African community. In a later book, Levy notes that Brice Kinnamon, head of the Cambridge police department, said that the city had no racial problems, and that Brown was the "sole" cause of the disorder, and it was "a well-planned Communist attempt to overthrow the government."

While being held for trial, Brown continued his high-profile activism. He accepted a request from the Student Afro-American Society of Columbia University to help represent and co-organize the April 1968 Columbia protests against university expansion into Harlem park land in order to build a gymnasium.

He also contributed writing from jail to the radical magazine Black Mask, which was edited and published by the New York activist group Up Against the Wall Motherfucker. In his 1968 article titled "H. Rap Brown From Prison: Lasima Tushinde Mbilashika", Brown writes of going on a hunger strike and his willingness to give up his life in order to achieve change.

Brown's trial was originally to take place in Cambridge, but there was a change of venue and the trial was moved to Bel Air, Maryland, to start in March 1970. On March 9, 1970, two SNCC officials, Ralph Featherstone and William ("Che") Payne, died on U.S. Route 1 south of Bel Air, when a bomb on the front floorboard of their car exploded, killing both occupants. The bomb's origin is disputed: some say the bomb was planted in an assassination attempt, and others say Payne was carrying it to the courthouse where Brown was to be tried. The next night, the Cambridge courthouse was bombed

Brown disappeared for 18 months. He was posted on the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Ten Most Wanted List. He was arrested after a reported shootout with officers in New York City following an alleged attempted robbery of a bar there. He was convicted of robbery and served five years (1971–76) in Attica Prison in western New York state. While in prison, Brown converted to Islam. He formally changed his name from Hubert Gerold Brown to Jamil Abdullah al-Amin.

After his release, he moved to Atlanta, Georgia, where he opened a grocery store. He became an imam, a Muslim spiritual leader, in the National Ummah, one of the nation's largest African Muslim groups. He also was a community activist in Atlanta's West End neighborhood. He preached against drugs and gambling. It has since been suggested that al-Amin changed his life again when he became affiliated with the "Dar ul-Islam Movement"

On May 31, 1999, al-Amin was pulled over while driving in Marietta, Georgia by police officer Johnny Mack for a suspected stolen vehicle. During a search, al-Amin was found to have in his pocket a police badge. He also had a bill of sale in his pocket, explaining his possession of the stolen car, and he claimed that he had been issued an honorary police badge by Mayor John Jackson, a statement which Jackson verified. Despite this, al-Amin was charged with speeding, auto theft and impersonating a police officer.

On March 16, 2000, in Fulton County, Georgia, Sheriff's deputies Ricky Kinchen and Aldranon English went to al-Amin's home to execute an arrest warrant for failing to appear in court over the charges. After determining that the home was unoccupied, the deputies drove away and were shortly passed by a black Mercedes headed for the house. Kinchen (the more senior deputy) noted the suspect vehicle, turned the patrol car around, and drove up to the Mercedes, stopping nose to nose. English approached the Mercedes and told the single occupant to show his hands. The occupant opened fire with a .223 rifle. English ran between the two cars while returning fire from his handgun, and was hit four times. Kinchen was shot with the rifle and a 9 mm handgun.

The next day, Kinchen died of his wounds at Grady Memorial Hospital. English survived his wounds. He identified al-Amin as the shooter from six photos he was shown while recovering in the hospital[citation needed] Another source said English identified him shortly before going into surgery for his wounds.

After the shootout, al-Amin fled Atlanta, going to White Hall, Alabama. He was tracked down by U.S. Marshals who started with a blood trail at the shooting site, and arrested by law enforcement officers after a four-day manhunt. Al-Amin was wearing body armor at the time of his arrest. He showed no wounds. Officers found a 9 mm handgun near his arrest site. Firearms identification testing showed that this was used to shoot Kinchen and English, but al-Amin's fingerprints were not found on the weapon. Later, al-Amin's black Mercedes was found with bullet holes in it.

His lawyers argued he was innocent of the shooting. Defense attorneys noted that al-Amin's fingerprints were not found on the murder weapon, and he was not wounded in the shooting, as one of the deputies said the shooter was. A trail of blood found at the scene was tested and did not belong to al-Amin or either of the deputies. A test by the state concluded that it was animal blood, but these results have been disputed because there was no clear chain of custody to verify the sample and testing process. Deputy English had said that the killer's eyes were gray, but al-Amin's are brown.

At al-Amin's trial, prosecutors noted that he had never provided an alibi for his whereabouts at the time of the shootout, nor any explanation for fleeing the state afterward. He also did not explain why the weapons used in the shootout were found near him during his arrest.

On March 9, 2002, nearly two years after the shootings, al-Amin was convicted of 13 criminal charges, including Kinchen's murder and aggravated assault in shooting English. Four days later, he was sentenced to life in prison without possibility of parole (LWOP).He was sent to Georgia State Prison, the state's maximum-security facility near Reidsville, Georgia.

Otis Jackson, a man incarcerated for unrelated charges, claimed that he committed the Fulton County shootings, and confessed this two years before al-Amin was convicted of the same crime. The court did not consider Jackson's statement as evidence. Jackson's statements corroborated details from 911 calls following the shooting, including a bleeding man seen limping from the scene: Jackson said he knocked on doors to solicit a ride while suffering from wounds sustained in the firefight with deputies Kinchen and English. Jackson recanted his statement two days after making it, but later confessed again in a sworn affidavit, stating that he had only recanted after prison guards threatened him for being a "cop killer". Prosecutors refuted Jackson's testimony, claiming he couldn't have shot the deputies as he was wearing an ankle tag for house confinement that would have showed his location. Al-Amin's lawyers allege that the tag was faulty.

Al-Amin appealed his conviction on the basis of a racial conspiracy against him, despite both Fulton County deputies being black. In May 2004, the Supreme Court of Georgia unanimously ruled to uphold al-Amin's conviction.

In August 2007, al-Amin was transferred to federal custody, as Georgia officials decided he was too high-profile for the Georgia prison system to handle. He was first held in a holdover facility in the USP Atlanta; two weeks later he was moved to a federal transfer facility in Oklahoma, pending assignment to a federal penitentiary.

On October 21, 2007, al-Amin was transferred to ADX Florence, a supermax prison in Florence, Colorado. He has been under an unofficial gag order, prevented from having any interviews with writers, journalists or biographers.

On July 18, 2014, having been diagnosed with multiple myeloma, al-Amin was transferred to Butner Federal Medical Center in North Carolina. As of March 2018, he is incarcerated at the United States Penitentiary, Tucson.

Al-Amin sought retrial through the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals. Investigative journalist, Hamzah Raza, has written more about Otis Jackson's confession to the deputy shootings in 2000, and said that this evidence should have been considered by the court. It had the potential of exonerating al-Amin. However, the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals rejected his appeal on July 31, 2019.

In April 2020, the U.S. Supreme Court declined to hear an appeal from al-Amin. His family and supporters continue to petition for a new trial.

[the-sin-hole]

headrush

stanxreader flashfic, 1k words gender neutral, smoking, no warnings apply

+++

“I don’t give a shit what Saturn looks like,” Stan says, trying to sound abrasive, but the smile forming around the unlit cigarette between his lips betrays him. “S’far as I’m concerned what happens up there is nunna my business ‘til some aliens come down here and try to abduct me.”

You’re standing in the yard of the Mystery Shack under a sea-dark sky slathered in bright white pinholes. Stan threw another party at the Shack and most of the cleaning fell to you two. A month ago you’d expect him to order the kids do it. But you’ve watched him soften over the weeks since they came, and tonight he only made them clean up half of all the spilled drinks and tracked-in dust and scattered confetti before allowing them to call it a night. He toothlessly harangued you to stay late and help under the guise of owing him one after letting you drink all the Pitt from his fridge yesterday, but you didn’t need convincing. It was enough just to spend one on one time with him.

After doing a perfectly respectable half-assed cleaning job, the two of you retired to sit on the porch for some well earned smokes. Stan quit for the sake of the kids, but sometimes he can’t help himself from bumming a stray or two from you. You handed him one before he even asked as you stepped outside into the warm summer night air. You were immediately struck by the sky, letting in a small gasp of air at the sight of so many clear stars. You pulled Stan by the crook of his arm into the grass with you and started pointing out the celestial entities you were familiar with. Stan wasn’t looking at any of it. His eyes were fixed on you.

Your voice faltered as you pointed out Saturn, when your eyes darted back to him and found his gaze. It was unreadable. Part of you thought, if you tried really hard, you could see something in that gaze that looked a little soft. The thought made something in your gut writhe.

You broke the eye contact, instead putting the cigarette in your mouth and holding up your lighter to its end. It took a few spins of the flint wheel but it lit, and you pulled in the meager flame, sucking the filter several times in quick succession to let the heat gain purchase before letting the lighter falter. You handed it to Stan, risking regained eye contact and catching his small smile just as he claimed his indifference to the stars.

You snort and roll your eyes at the bold proclamation. “Oh wowwww, mister cool guy here is too big and tough to care about the vast wonder of space, huh?”

“You better believe it,” he replies, tilting his head down to meet the lighter in his hand and shifting the cigarette between his teeth at the front of his mouth. He spins the wheel a couple times to no avail, a little harder each time, furrowing his brow as he repeats his attempts. “What’s space ever done for me, anyway?”

You smile as you pull on your cigarette. He makes a frustrated “Eh” as more clicks of the lighter prove fruitless. His eyes dart up and he looks at you through his thick grey brows— his gaze is once again unreadable, but it sends something through you. He’s been doing that to you a lot, lately. Just being close to him can make your heart beat fast, something that at first was highly frustrating, but now you can’t help yourself from chasing the small highs, each casual graze against his arm or lingering eye contact feeling just as good as a deep inhale of fiberglass and nicotine.

You’re about to interrupt your current inhale to ask why he’s looking at you when his eyes dart down to your lips.

He reaches a hand up and lightly grabs your jaw, four fingers on one side, thumb on the other. You feel like you’ve been punched in the stomach. Heat radiates from that gut punch through your entire body in an instant. The two fingers you had gently resting on either side of the filter in your mouth twitch, almost flinging the cigarette out of your mouth entirely. His eyes are cast down, not looking you in the face, which you’re grateful for, as you’re sure you look ridiculous. You can feel your eyes widening, the heat flooding your face.

Stan leans in. The smoke you just inhaled is now caught swirling in your lungs as you hold your breath. He positions the tip of his cigarette to yours, the fingers grasping your jaw tightening just a little bit to make sure you don’t throw off the alignment. He purses his lips and draws in the heat, igniting it. He could pull away now, if he wanted. But he draws just a few more times. After seconds that stretch into an eon he slowly leans back. He leaves the fingers on your jaw for just a moment longer than he needs to. Just long enough to send another punch to your gut.

His hand finally leaves you, moving to the filter in his mouth, ready to take it once he’s finished his first long drag. He straightens up and finally meets your eyes once again. You’re still holding your breath. He removes the cigarette from his lips and exhales through his nose, the smoke coming out in great furls. You can see a slight smile behind the smokescreen as he says,

“Space is for suckers. I got everything I need right down here.”

You finally pull the filter from your mouth. His eyes dart down quickly to watch you let out a deep exhale, smoke spilling from your lips as they twist into a smile. The windless night lets the smoke hang in the air between you, small plumes lazily intertwining. When his eyes find yours again, there’s no mistaking it. His gaze is soft.

[kawaiigirly21]

“House Vaelnaris has yet to swear fealty to anyone. They remain neutral.” Otto Hightower spoke. Upon hearing the name, Aegon perked up. “Vaelnaris? Lady Naerya is from that house is she not?” He questioned with a small smirk on his face. He knew Naerya well. She was his first love. A highborn girl who was sweet as she was passionate.

“Yes she is your grace.” Another council member spoke up. “Good. Send a raven immediately. I wish to marry her.” Aegon smirked. Hs grandfather and hand of the king was quick to respond. “Your Grace, I must speak against this marriage proposal. We know not of who her family swears to!” Aegon countered with his own argument.

“I know that. So we take their loyalty by force. Political marital force. Naerya is the only heir to House Vaelnaris. I marry her, I have her house’s loyalty and their large army.” Otto fought to roll his eyes at his grandson. “And what of the rumors of her being impure? Her supposed affair with Daemon?” Aegon looked at his grandfather with an expression that could only be read as frustration.

“Rumors. Thats all they are. From those damn pig fuckers! They’re all just pissed that she would never stoop to their level and allow their flaccid cocks to bruise her jewel. Not like me!” The keep froze in dead silence at their king’s bold proclamation. “Not like you? What do you mean by that Your Grace?” Otto asked lowly. “When we were only children, she promised herself to me and me only. She would never betray me. I know that. Now send the damn raven!” That night, House Vaelnaris stirred with the news of a proposal to their Lady Naerya.

“Are you going to accept?” Vaenar, Naerya’s uncle asked with genuine curiosity. The man watched as his niece laid on her bed staring at the tiny parchment with and unreadable expression. At least to him. For Naerya, she was close to combusting with excitement. The boy of her dreams sent her a raven. A marriage proposal! She couldn't possibly turn this down.

“I'll accept. It would be good for our house, imagine the prestige?” In truth, she couldn't have cared less about the prestige of being queen. She cared about marrying Aegon. Not his name or his status as king. She just wanted him. Ever since they were children, Naerya was deeply in love with the prince, now king and protector of the realms.

It only took a week before Naerya arrived in Kings Landing and was escorted to the palace. Once there, the young woman was taken to a room to see Aegon, who just so happened to be out on business concerning their upcoming wedding. She was told to wait for him there. As she looked around the room, Naerya spotted a beautiful dragon statue with her name carved on the wing.

Her fingers traced the wings and the scales ever so slightly before turning around when the door to the room opened. Seeing the silver white hair and the black clothing, she knew immediately that man was her beloved. Running to him, Naerya placed a kiss on the man's lips. “Aegon! Oh how I missed you! It's been too long! I must ask, what happened to your eye?”

Moving to touch his eye patch, Naerya felt her heart jump as the man caught her hand and placed a gentle kiss on her fingers. “Oh Aegon you charmer.” Suddenly a voice interrupted the two. “A charmer? Is that what you think? I'd hardly call it so. Right, Aemond?” Naerya turned her head to the man who had her in his warm embrace.

“A-ameond? That's you? Oh my goodness… by the gods I… I'm sorry! I didn't recognize you! I thought-” Pulling her out of his brother's arms, Aegon pressed a sweet kiss to Naerya's temple. “Beautiful. It's quite alright. You haven't laid those gorgeous eyes upon me for so long, you mistook my brother for me. It's nothing to cry over. I'm not mad.” Aegon spokesman sweetly.

He only reserved this tone for her. Strictly for her. He then leaned in for a steamy kiss. His lips never left hers but his eyes found his brother's. He knew even as a child, Aemond wanted to marry Naerya. He knew he loved her. That's why Aegon pursued her, at first he thought courting her was a chore. Now everytime he thinks back to those days, he holds no regrets.

Through his game to try and hurt his brother, he found love. True mind blowing fire burning love. “Come, I wish to show you something my love.”

I need your help guys! I'm not too sure on this chapter. What are your thoughts? Any feedback before I commit to this plot line?

[ladythornofrivia]

Kingdom of Fire & Blood || (Part Seven)

🐉 MASTERLIST 🐉

Next Chapter

summary: lady greenstar’s ceremony is all but merry, and the offer that could change the course of her life forever.

pair: aemond x reader

warnings: smut, violence, p in v sex, sexual content, aemond being arrogant, modern reader doesn’t know how the world of GOT works but is a Aemond stan, praise kink, breeding kink, spitting kink, voice kink, fluff, angst—family drama, oral sex, hate sex, stalking, jealousy, virginity loss, obsession, reader is neutral; neither a green or black supporter, reader being sassy and aroused, sweet moments with reader and aemond. Reader is a huge GOT & HOTD fan. Aemond becomes king instead of Aegon. (P.S. Alys who? I only know Aemond x Reader)

a/n: sorry it took forever to write the chapter! It’s finally here! Woo! Reader’s backstory is finally revealed! Woo! If you enjoy, please leave a comment.

Chapter Seven: The Price of Heart

On the proclamation from the Iron Throne, King Viserys granted a ceremony and anointed a young maiden to unite both factions, Blacks and Greens, and renamed her as Lady Greenstar, a star that befell and shook the cores of Westeros, to which have known for causing disruption and awakened in the realm.

Apart from previous accomplishment on saving Princess Helaena and Prince Jacaerys, Lady Greenstar, a newcomer to Westeros, has its gaze is as deadly as a thorn. Upon a gaze of a maiden, men’s hearts fickle in delight, and women’s hearts enraged with fright. And among others, she is nothing but an air of mystery, but her appearance is no more than averagely simple and unimpressive (claimed by Mushroom). Lady Greenstar, whose maiden name is unknown, the time of Viserys’s reign may have yet to be remain, as Lady Greenstar is in an absolute self-merry and encourage the nobles and commoners alike to a celebrate at her unimportant arrival at a tedious ceremony.

~Your POV~

The nightmare hadn’t stopped.

You want to destroy—set ablaze everything into ashes.

In a soundless blight rising in your chest, you managed to gather yourself in the midst of ceremony. You wanted to scream. Heating anger risen within you; you are nowhere near happy with the proceedings. You just wanted to go home, anticipated that this no more than a fever dream, a weirdly filter episodic moment that is meant to be unseen.

Unable to gaze upon the crowd, despite your head is held high, your roundish headpiece wrapped atop your tucked hairstyle; your hairline styled and slicked back, yet your longish manes flowed and adorned your figure, clad in a floor length ivory gown, your arms heavies a wide bishop sleeves, but your forearms are fitted, ends of your v-pointed sleeves rested on the back of your hands. Your bodice, from bust to waist, the ivory corset is encrusted in pearls and gold embroidery, aligned and patterned with black and green stones as your long skirts in mermaid-shaped flowing, not strictly.

Bowing to Blacks and Greens, the ever so watchful gazes on the crowd are perplexed, yet so many spectators are grateful for your deeds. Some women’s gaze directly lanced at your direction with envy, perhaps displeasure of King Viserys’s announcement. As for men, however, it’s unreadable for you, but with unknown gazes may have yet proceed to either have notable rancor or the deepest of illest intentions.

In Westeros, you knew that you could trust no man. For now, trusting the Targaryens is your only option, a sole bargain, a wager to your existence. Nothing has ever come to simple or as festive. All you wanted was to stay in the sidelines, watching the events unfold, not to be a part of one. The real question is: who sent you here, and what was the real purpose? Of course not, you’re just a simple and honest modern woman—or at least what anyone thought of your outward appearance, which prevailed by the designed precision of Queen Alicent and Lady Rhaenyra’s plan of softening image.

You weren’t meant to be here.

The scream emerged.

All eyes snapped away from your direction. One man grabbed—dragged away and pointed it’s knife at Princess Helaena’s throat at the centered floor, the guards had their swords up, as one of them demanded for the man to release the princess.

“None should accept a woman as a knight on the throne,” the man spattered, yellow teeth gleaming, his voice grating with delight, continuing to drag the princess away bit by bit.

“Mother,” Helaena pleaded quietly, the knife pressed onto her ivory skin, trying not to flail.

“It’s either the cause for the great nobles, or the cause of the war.”

Alicent is frightened for her daughter’s fate.

And so, you watched, palm clenched and unclenched. Hands behind your back, your body veiled with a silver sparkling cloak, but one hand seized the spare knife—your knife you had in your clutched purse, moving with caution as you descend the steps without anyone spotting your intentions.

“Let her go,” you said, before turning your eyes to theirs.

Soothe the realm.

The men flabbergasted at your appeased state. “What?”

“Did I stutter,” you said, ambling, the cloak floated a little. “You’re ruining the King’s celebration. Do you want to be executed? You’re in the presence of Targaryens.”

“I won’t lay rest until I see no woman standing beside the Iron Throne. I won’t serve by the likes of you!”

Shaking your head as you said, “Who said it’s about me?”

The man uttered no response but a heaving breath, near Helaena, furrowed with concern.

Unblinking, your head tilted to the side. “You want me, right?”

The man carefully laid his eyes on you.

“You don’t want the princess,” you resumed, drew nearer. “You want me.”

Soothe the realm.

Your eyes indicated to one of the guards to hold him down, but none succeeded on reading your body language. Looking at your side, Queen Alicent’s widened eyes glazed with warning, a reminder to soften the image. Prince Aemond still abide, his violet eye gleamed, his eye stated something more, wanting more of the anticipation of what you’ll do next.

“Let her go, and I’ll give you what you want,” you negotiated.

“What makes you think I could negotiate with such a pathetic woman?”

“Because I’m not a liar,” you declared, hand stretched. “Release her.”

After moments of hesitation, Princess Helaena has been freed into your arms, shaking. You lightly shoved her towards Alicent as you walked onward without looking elsewhere.

And before you knew it, a knife stabbed behind your belly.

The gasps ensued as the fight broke out, leaving the Blacks and Greens emerged with apprehension, still safe and guarded.

Turning around, the knife you held plunged into the backstabber’s throat, but missed—instead it became a slight deep scratch on the cheek and his hand smacked against your cheekbone. Falling down, you pulled yourself back up again and knocked him out unconscious and rushed to Helaena’s side again and escorted her out, leaving the guards to assign fate to the intruders.

The fate became crueler; the man separated you and Helaena, shoving Helaena aside the intruder hooked you by the arms, trapped. When another opponent came, you lifted yourself in the air, and punted the opponent’s chest with both of your feet, leaving you and the large man collapsed. Rolling back, you gathered yourself again and escorted Helaena back at the corridor.

A young boy screamed—Prince Lucerys—his arm being yanked through the crowd. Briskly, you aid to their side, shoving the crowd apart, you casted your cloak—aiming at the foe, and lanced the man’s neck, trails of blood exploded, smearing the young prince’s face and placed him back Rhaenyra’s side.

A tall figure suddenly shielded you; the knife flew at your direction; Aemond deflected the attempted shot with his spare dagger. Queen Alicent and Lady Rhaenyra rushed altogether—guards protected all and ushered back into the corridor, leaving you breathless.

The pain has been numbed due to the shock implanted.

Far back at the pillar, you watched Rhaenyra and Alicent exchanging with altercation while you find yourself leaning on the stoned pillar with your left hand clutched your bleeding waist beneath the white dress.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Rhaenyra stated in shaky breath.

“Of course not,” Alicent seethed. “King Viserys should’ve thought of bringing Lady Greenstar to the Iron Throne to soothe the realm before the commotion erupts.”

“I hadn’t known,” Rhaenyra argued back, cradling Lucerys in her arms.

“You did this. Lady Greenstar warned that this would happen. A private ceremony should’ve been suffice.”

“We need Lady Greenstar to unite both factions—father suggested to that.”

“Your ideas may influence others, but you’ll never influence with me from the misguidance of your indulgence.”

“I have made no declarations and decisions—it is my father who has done it so!”

Bellows of altercation continued as Prince Jaecerys stood nearby you, given you an awkward tight-lipped expression with his hands laid rest upfront.

Blacks and Greens watched two ladies quarreled with venom as your chest heaving. Gazing below onto your hand, the gold ring sparked on your fourth finger; you brought it up to your lips and kissed it.

Everything will be alright, a gentle voice reminded.

Lidded eyes hazed as the hand placed on your back shoulder; Princess Helaena walked over to your side and consoled you with diminutive smile.

Instead of returning the offer, you patted Helaena’s hand your half-lidded eyes in a suggestion that everything is alright. The concentration in your mind has been misplaced that Helaena began to tie your strands to tiny braids. You’ve inspected everyone. So far, it went smoothly—you’ve found no wounds, but when your eyes meet Green sons, your head inclined to a subtle bow. While Prince Aegon bowed back with his smugness, Prince Aemond is as elegant and unreadable. His eye still lay onto you as you faced back, watching the princess and the queen.

Altercations and debate went ongoing.

The aggravating pain hadn’t ceased.

“Stop,” you groaned.

The abrasion struck you so hard that you let a long groan, your head hung back, relied on a cold pillar.

“Lady Greenstar,” Jacaerys said.

“I’m fine,” you assured, eyes watery. “I’m fine.”

Daemon, no doubt, is suspicious. Shielding Helaena with your might, you held onto her spare hand.

The quarrel wasn’t far from over as you sauntered, the belly scorched again, pinching your nerves and coiled your stomach to a point of punishment you couldn’t withstand.

The cough unleashed, veiling the spots of blood.

Someone…

And collapsed onto your knees, trembling with cold sweat, fell onward.

“Lady Greenstar,” Jacaerys called aloud, as he caught you into arms, soon follow by your feet, your body weakened, slipped away.

“You’re safe now,” you said, darting at Aemond, offering him your sweetest expression laid on your lips.

Gradually, your eyes fluttered with slow blinks, choking. Then your vision faded to nothing.

~Aemond’s POV~

“My Queen, Lady Greenstar has collapsed,” Criston announced.

Queen Alicent and Lady Rhaenyra halted, and veered back to your lifeless body in Jacaerys’s arms.

Both women’s anger replaced with fear. “No…” Rhaenyra uttered.

“Take her to the Maester at this instant. We can’t afford to lose her,” Alicent ordered.

All the while, Aemond, the king’s second son, is devastated, powerless and hopeless as the life slipped between your parted lips. Piqued as he was eyeing on the golden ring rested on your fourth finger.

~Your POV~

What the hell was that?

“The life flashes before your eyes,” it said.

Your head snapped to the noise.

“Poor little woman, who’s life has been tormented one after the other,” a voice rang into your ears in a darkened void. “A life of a woman is no ordinary, but will soon be free.”

“Who are you?”

“My, you’re just a thing of beauty. A shame that comes price with it—ever so ethereal but with a demonic spirit residing in you since your childhood, all but bad luck,” it taunted. “You have killed and tortured the mundane, both men and women, especially in your days where you were trying to save your dying lover—born a thief and a liar—the evil men have taught you well.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I want to make an offer, an offer to which it might entice you. Right now, your very soul is on the bridge between life and death.”

“I know that!”

“Of course you knew. But you didn’t believe that we exist.”

“All are anything but real.”

The voice’s rang into your ears with its taunting laugh. “But if you wish to remain alive and well, I offered you choices, one which the cost of your life to be rekindled. One which you cannot turn your back into—and I offer you this; stay in Westeros and serve the realm, serve the dynasty and find a new purpose and bond. Even if it means of forgetting your dead lover. Or, the Gods will offer a sweet and merciful death—your pathetic and tragic life will soon meet its end and face your maker.”

“I want to go home,” you objected.

“Going home is no longer an option; if you go there, chances are your death will be as quickly repulsive and vile; death is near at your doorstep as soon as your consciousness blurred.”

“What do you mean?”

“The men from your former clan are hunting you down. They have found you. You thought running away from a syndicate after burning everything to ashes would be simple.”

“Why Westeros? Why send me there? Who sent me here?”

“Those questions are irrelevant; time is ticking.”

“At what cost?”

“The price you’ll pay, it’s either your eyes, ear or mouth. Or I will decide for you.”

Goosebumps flooded over you, heart struck with quiver.

“I can’t,” you whimpered. “I can’t!” Fell onto the ground, hands veiled your face, walls you’ve built tarnished as your cries echoed through the void, cried longer than you should’ve.

“Sweet summer child,” it cooed. “Time is running short. The elder man of Hightower wants to burn your body.”

Another shiver ran.

“I know everything. Submit yourself to me, and I shall grant the desire—the offer I gave you—your life will start anew. What do we say to the God of Death?”

“Not today.”

“Good!” the voice rang, enchant. “I knew you have come to made your decision.”

The green light sprang and ran into your heart—your voice reached high into bellows and wails. Nails digging into your chest firmly, nails dragged with blood, already on the floor, knees on your chest. Ears rang in high-pitched noise; ears bleed as nose, and mouth drained in red flow, crying in agony.

“Don’t worry, child, you’ll soon meet the fate that you’ve been longing for,” it said. “You’ll find your purpose here. The history of Fire & Blood, alongside yours, will be rewritten.”

In that moment, you knew the unknown being wasn’t lying.

@ aemondswifffeeeyyy - all rights reserved

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[whencyclopedia]

Battle of Queenston Heights

The Battle of Queenston Heights (13 October 1812) was a major battle in the War of 1812. A US army, under General Stephen Van Rensselaer, crossed the Niagara River in an attempted invasion of Canada but was repulsed by a British, Canadian, and Mohawk force. The British victory came at the cost of General Isaac Brock, killed in the fighting.

Death of General Brock at Queenston Heights

John David Kelly (Public Domain)

Background: Fall of Detroit

In late June 1812, shortly after the United States had issued its declaration of war against the United Kingdom, the US began preparing for an invasion of British-controlled Canada. Ostensibly, the purpose of the invasion was to deprive Britain of a staging ground from where they could launch their own attack into US territory. But many of the 'War Hawks' – as the prowar faction in Congress was called – envisaged a more permanent outcome, believing that the invasion would result in Canada finally joining the Union. The annexation of Canada would greatly increase the United States' dominion over North America and would, in the words of one war-hungry congressman, "drive the British from our continent" (Berton, 98).

The invasion was to be four-pronged. Brigadier General William Hull, sitting with his 2,500-man army at Fort Detroit, would lead the first thrust, crossing over the Detroit River into Upper Canada (modern-day Southern Ontario). He would be followed by Major General Stephen Van Rensselaer, who would cross the Niagara River to capture Queenston, and by Major General Henry Dearborn, who would sail up Lake Champlain to capture Montreal, while a fourth US army crossed the St. Lawrence River to wreak havoc in Ontario. Most Americans believed it would be an easy campaign, that the Canadians, oppressed by the tyranny of British rule, would welcome their southern brethren with open arms. As former President Thomas Jefferson predicted, the invasion was expected to be nothing more than "a mere matter of marching" (Wood, 677).

But of course, it would not be so easy. General Hull began his invasion on 12 July, crossing over the Detroit River and establishing a base of operations at the small town of Sandwich, where he issued a proclamation calling on all Canadians to either join him or remain neutral. But Hull soon lost his nerve; deathly afraid of Native Americans, he was disturbed by reports of more Indigenous nations joining the British side and, moreover, feared that the arrival of enemy reinforcements could cut him off from US territory. On 8 August, after nearly a month of dithering on Canadian soil, he retreated to Detroit, where he was soon besieged by an Anglo-Indian force under Major General Isaac Brock and the great Shawnee chieftain Tecumseh. Brock and Tecumseh utilized psychological warfare to convince Hull that their army was larger than it really was, leading the American general to surrender both his army and Detroit without a fight on 16 August. The Siege of Detroit not only thwarted the first part of the US invasion but also left the British in control of the entire Michigan Territory.

Hull was widely castigated for his defeat – indeed, he would later be court-martialed and sentenced to death, before the sentence was commuted to dismissal from the army. But he had at least set foot on Canadian territory, which was more than can be said about his counterparts. General Van Rensselaer had tried, but he did not have the necessary supplies or reinforcements to mount a successful crossing; what militia forces he did have refused to cross the Niagara, arguing that they were merely a defensive force and were not obliged to fight outside the United States. General Dearborn, likewise, was stuck at Albany, New York, unable to fill the enlistment quotas needed for an attack. "We have as yet a shadow of a regular force," his second-in-command would write, "inferior, even in numbers, to half of what the enemy already has in the field" (Taylor, 182). Dearborn was therefore relieved when, on 9 August, a British major arrived at his camp to offer an armistice. Dearborn readily accepted before passing along news of the armistice to President James Madison for his approval and instructing Van Rensselaer, his subordinate, to do nothing that might provoke the British. The invasion had, therefore, completely failed, leaving the US in a worse position as the armistice settled over the Niagara frontier.

Continue reading...

[shewrites02]

Prompt Nine |Ace x Male Reader | -“What a disappointment I must be to you.”

A/n: This is written with a male reader in mind, but I do think it's written pretty gender neutral. I lost the ask this requestf came from and I"m so sorry it took so long, more info about the 400 follower event will come at the end.

This is apart of my 400 follower event. I've decided the prompt will be more of drabbles, than full fics. Check the prompt list here: 400 follower event

I hope you enjoy :)

Words: 520

The silence in the room presses against your chest. Forces your breathing into something more labored. Something weak. As though gravity is too strong of a force for your lungs to fight against. You have spent days hoping, praying to feel Ace in your fingers again. So, why do you not feel at ease? Why does your heart still go searching for relief in the midst of his presence? Why doesn’t he feel safe being held in your arms ?  

"I'm not going anywhere." Fire fist reassures you. "You don't have to hold me like I'm going to slip away!"

Ace wears a smile that spans the width of his face as he tilts his head up from your chest. A weak laugh leaves your lips. Though you begged it to sound more lively. More real. The commander is unconvinced. He sits up to lean against the headboard of the tiny bed, so he no longer has to crane his neck to look at you. 

"What's wrong?" He asks. 

Bashfully your eyes glance away from Ace to stare out the porthole of his quarters. You don't want to tell him the truth. To tell him you were still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Still waiting for the Navy, or Blackbeard, or whatever foe remained to come and drag him away again. 

"Nothing." You force a smile. Place a hand on the pirate’s thigh as a sign of good faith. "I'm just glad you're home." 

Ace lets out another chuckle. This one is lower, reserved, before reaching out to sweep a thumb across your cheek. The touch has your inhibition melting. Has the truth clawing its way out your throat. 

"You sure?" He questions again, snapping the thread of restraint that kept your emotions at bay. 

"Ace- Don't leave me again." 

It is an unreasonable request. You aren't even sure if you mean it when it comes tumbling out your mouth, but it has been the only consistent thought swirling in your mind since his return. “Don't leave. Don't ever leave.” Don't go out of eyesight. Stay here where you can watch the air fill and exit his lungs. Where you could protect him.  

"I'm not." 

"Don't die!" You demand, tears brimming in your eyes after a shaky exhale. 

"I won't" 

"Stop making promises you can’t keep." 

The reassuring smile Ace has painted on drops at your proclamation. His eyes soften in the most disheartening way. There’s a shift in his demeanor, one so obvious it makes the tension in the air palpable. Ace’s eyes roam the room in search of a safe landing spot, a spot where he doesn’t have to see your tear soaked expression staring back at him so vividly. 

“I hate to see you crying over me. I’m so sorry I wasn’t strong enough. I promise I’ll get stronger- I know what a disappointment I must be to you. I’ll g-” 

“Portuguese D. Ace!” You scold. The tone of your voice is harsh, but your hands are gentle as they cup the pirate’s cheek forcing his eyes onto you.  “Don’t you ever refer to yourself as a disappointment.” 

If you enjoy my content or if you have $5 to spare , please consider donating it to Besan . she is a mother trying so desperately to get her family out of Gaza. She is still so far away from her go fund me goal!

Operation Olive Branch Spreadsheet

I know everyone may not have the means to donate, but if by some chance you have an extra $5 to spare please consider donating it to the families trying to escape the Gaza strip.

Sooooo Luvbugs lets discuss the 400 follower event.

1st. I apologize for anyone who submitted a request and felt like I forgot about you. I really wanted to get everyone's submissions done, but life got in the way and I started to feel uninspired by the prompts I picked.

2nd. Ik I said I have some prompts finished and I do, but they will all be drabbles very similar to this. If anyone is still interested, I would be more than happy to upload them.

3rd. With that being said I would still like to do something for those who would still like a fic. I hate the idea of not coming through for you guys, but I'm so uninspired lol. So I would love feedback and suggestions on how I can make up for it.

[wisdomfish]

"To hear the Scriptures as the Word of God means to hear them as a word which is addressed to me, as kerygma, as a proclamation. Then my understanding is not a neutral one, but rather my response to a call."

Rudolph Bultmann