#Thread: Two Hundred And Thirty Six | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thecapricunt1616 · 1 year ago

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Cinnamon - (c.b. one-shot)

Snippet (more BTC): “Can I- take your panties off…p-please?” He asked shyly “wanna make y’feel good - wanna taste your pussy I miss it s’much - tastes so good baby please lemme taste you” he said and his whiney husky voice mixed with his breathlessness from being shoved into the fabric of your dripping cunt made you clench around nothing.

♡ One Shot Inspo: Cinnamon invokes lust and is considered an aphrodisiac. It can be used in love spells as well as for sex magic. Burn cinnamon to stimulate your spiritual powers and increase your psychic ability and awareness.

♡ Summary: Carmy hasn't had pussy in 2 weeks....he nearly died (he's a drama queen, but you love it) So, being the loving amazing GF you are you Mountain Dewed it up down left right (oh!!) switched it up like Nintendo - and did it so well you put his ass to sleep. (I listened to Espresso the whole time writing this its literally all I could think about hahahah)

♡ W/C: 4,140

♡ Posted Date: 05/12/2024

♡ A/N: HEYYYY!!! Okay okay so MORE STAGEFRIGHT because the amazing wonderful talented goddess level writer @l4long-winded sent in ♡THIS♡ big brain beautiful ask, and let me tell you I had some THOUGHTS!!! I have such a worship kink so .... yeah this was v fun to write. I hope you love reading as much as I loved writing. My dear please send in a request whenever you want!! Requests are open per usual :D

♡ Warnings for BTC: Kinda Sub!Carmy, Smut, Fem!Reader, AFAB!Reader, No use of Y/N, No use of physical descriptors, Black!Fem!Reader friendly (i'm pretty sure pls tell me if smth needs editing!), Kinda Virgin!Carmy, Not edited (we die like men)

♡ 𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 ♡ ➵ 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 ♡ ➵ 𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞 ♡ ➵ 𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 / 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘵 ♡ ➵ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 ♡

It had been quite literally a fortnight since Carmy had been able to fuck you. It was all he’d thought about, well - when his brain wasn’t busy going a million miles an hour about the restaurant, which is exactly what had taken up so much of his time lately. He’d usually be grateful for this kind of work, the kind of work that he’s going in at 3:15 and not getting home until 11:30 pm or midnight when you were already fast asleep.

He was exhausted, emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually - but sexually?! He wasn’t sure he had ever been so wound up before. His nightly sessions of jerking his cock in the shower, biting his hand to keep as quiet as he could while he thought of the view of you when he came in that night. One leg hoisted up, nightgown ridden up over your ass. The one you knew he loved, and some of his favorite panties.

You called them your lazy girl panties because you told him you only wore them when you weren’t expecting anyone else to see them, but that very fact meant drooled over them. The slight discoloration from being so old, the little threads hanging off the leg holes and waistband. The tiny hole right in the waistband that he loved to thumb with while cuddling in bed.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty six hours. Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes.

That had been how long he had gone without being inside of you. He didn’t know his dick could get depressed, but his dick was fucking depressed. Getting off felt like a chore. When he’d jack off, he took an extra 15 minutes yanking on the thing because he could barely cum anymore, even though his balls were aching like he needed to.

Every time he got home, he’d stand in the doorway, just watching you. You would be peacefully asleep, chest lightly rising and falling, your beautiful body covered by some loose sleep thing. A loose sleep thing that he fantasized about ripping off into shreds.

Tonight though - he could cry. You were up - you were fucking awake. Through his own selfish desires he didn’t even realize it was abnormal, the only thing he could think about was the blood rushing to his cock at the mere idea you could possibly potentially be in the mood. “Baby?!” He nearly tripped over his own two feet rushing to your shared bedroom.

You were sat up on the bed, book on your thighs - a loose nightgown that accentuated your curves and hugged your peaked nipples uncovered by any bra. He could bust in his pants and all you were doing was reading. Reading what? He could care less honestly because his cock was starting to hurt.

You sat up, putting your legs over the side of the bed to get up and greet him “Bear! How was work love? I wanted to stay up so that we could - what’re you…” you trail off confused as he slinks to his knees before you, between your thighs and lifting up your leg, putting the top of your foot to his lips.

“In…22 minutes” he starts between kissing up your bare ankle and calf “it..will have been..15..days..” he stopped at your thighs, his cheek smushed against the flesh, he looked like he could both cry and that he was coming home. “Since I touched you. Please. Please baby - can I make you feel good? Mm?” He mumbled into your skin. “Please princess? I’m dyin’ here. I’m fuckin- I literally cut my hand t’day thinkin’ bout you. I fuckin need you” he kissed over each little tiny inch of your flesh. He was…worshiping you.

The idea sent waves of warmth flooding your core. “Yeah baby?” You took his hand, seeing a bandage over his knuckle and kissing it gently.

The feeling of your lips to his skin made him whimper “please- please please please” he begged, sitting back on his feet and looking up at you through his bangs, pushing his hair back quickly before his hand found your calf once again, rubbing little strokes into it “please?” He asked softly, his big blue eyes blown wide with lust.

You gently cup his cheek “and who’s fault is it?” You were teasing now. But you knew the bastard loved a challenge, and you also had been horny and your fingers were nothing compared to Carmys.

“Mine. It’s mine. My stupid fuckin job angel I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, how can I make it up? What can I do pretty? Mm? I’ll do whatever you want” he begged you and kissed over your knees and calves, pressing short little pecks to the skin. You grabbed his greasy curls at the root, raking through a few of the knots gently before pulling him to look at you and he moaned gently at the sudden firmness

“Do you know I’ve been fingering myself to fall asleep. All alone - for all those days you said. My poor hand” you held it up and he brought it to his lips on instinct, kissing the pads of your fingers before opening his mouth expectantly. “Good Bear” you purr and his eyes flutter shut as you stuck in your middle and ring fingers, slipping them over his tongue. He moaned at the contact, not holding back.

You smiled a bit, tugging his jaw open and he looks up at you, cheeks flushed and drool beginning to drip down his chin. “You’re pretty” you said softly and he swirls his tongue around your fingers before sucking on them gently, not breaking your gaze. Your stomach flips with excitement, your panties becoming uncomfortably wet but you weren’t going to let that show. He deserved to beg.

“Do you deserve to be sucking on my fingers though?” You pull them away suddenly and he gasps a bit a the unexpected emptiness of his mouth, a pathetic little pout appearing on his lips.

“No” he said softly and you grab his cheeks, smushing them gently “but I can make you feel soooo good - you deserve it” he told you and you pat his cheek gently with your hand, your wet fingers leaving a glistening streak on his cheek.

“I know I do. Are you gonna eat me out? Like a good boy?” You laid back on your elbows, spreading your thigh and resting one of your feet on the edge of the bed, showing your panties that had grown a large wet spot during your conversation. He watches every move you make, his eyes focusing on the wet spot you sighed softly, deciding to take pity on him. “You can sniff my panties, you little freak” you giggle and he looked up at you like a kid on Christmas

He wasted no time shoving his nose right in the wetness, inhaling your sweet yummy scent and groaning “thank you” he mumbled into the curve of your ass, his hot breath against the skin causing your clit to twitch and goosebumps to appear on your skin. You feel him taking another deep breath and nuzzling his nose back and forth to get deeper like a dog and you couldn’t help but giggle, raking through the knots in his curls as he stuck out his tongue and caught the fabric of your panties with his teeth, sucking the juices out of the fabric and moaning hotly.

His hands were everywhere, rubbing over your calves, your thighs, your stomach, pushing your nightgown over your tits and rolling a peaked nipple between his fingers. You bit your lip, head falling back slightly and grinding your hips into his face, using his nose to get yourself off. “Go ahead Bear take off your jeans, you’ve been good t’night and I know you’re probably hurting” you told him

He sighed into you gratefully “y’too nice t’me” he kissed over your clothed pussy a few times as he unbuckled his belt with shaking hands, the anticipation was killing him.

“No me being nice would be telling you that you could touch yourself. And no dripping on my carpet” you told him as he pushed his boxers and jeans enough to let his cock free that was indeed dripping already. His boxers were creamy and wet with pre, he had been pathetically grinding against the boxspring as he sucked your panties like it was his life source.

“Shit-“ he said, wrapping a fist around his weeping tip as he continued tonguing and nosing at the fabric between your legs. “Can I- c-can I please?” He begged pathetically, that softness to his voice you loved so much. A sweet whiney grunt leaves his lips as you pull his hair, forcing him to look at you.

“What have we talked about? Use your words.” You said firmly.

“Can I- take your panties off…p-please?” He asked shyly “wanna make y’feel good - wanna taste your pussy I miss it s’much - tastes so good baby please lemme taste you” he said and his whiney husky voice mixed with his breathlessness from being shoved into the fabric of your dripping cunt made you clench around nothing.

“I wanna cum twice before you even think about touching yourself. Also take your shirt off you’re way overdressed for my taste.” You dropped his hair and he nods obediently, standing and shoving off his jeans and tugging his shirt off by the neck in that stupid jockish way that had you wanting to shove him down back first on the mattress and ride him until his balls were empty.

Instead you kept your cool, crossing your arms over and slipping your nightgown over your head before taking off your panties, flicking them at him playfully to which he balled them up and pressed them to his nose, inhaling deeply. This caused you to laugh as you adjusted your pillow to lay back, spreading your thighs and gathering some of your wetness from your hole, dragging it up to your clit and rubbing little circles into it.

“Mmm are you gonna keep sniffing those like a pervy-puppy or are you gonna come make good on your promise. I’m surprised this poor hand hasn’t fallen off” you teased and he dropped the panties where he was standing, coming and crawling on the bed, laying in front of you and hoisting your thighs over each of his shoulders

“Mmm” he hummed, his eyes fluttering shut and leaning in, resting his cheek on your thigh and inhaling. “Smell so fuckin’ good” he mumbled “mouth is literally watering” he kissed your inner thighs sweetly, ravishing the skin in gentle affection. “God I missed this fuckin missed this s’much. Every morning this pretty fuckin pussy is just beggin me” he kissed your mound gently, dipping his tongue out and moaning at the taste of sweat and lotion on your skin, lapping it up like a life source.

“Yeah? I think you’re the beggar” you mused, jaw falling slack as he licks a stripe up your heat, moaning pathetically at your taste. His eyes rolled back slightly before fluttering shut in pure bliss “mmm so pretty baby” you coo and he smiled slightly, his cheeks a blushy pink that matched the tops of his ears. He nuzzled into you, nose rubbing over your clit in the way that made you gasp, your toes curling lightly “good boy” you praised, voice breathy and light

“Taste so good” he mumbled into your cunt, squeezing your thighs gently with his tattooed fingers. He moaned into you, watching you with wide lustful eyes.

“Those pretty eyes” you said softly, gently brushing his warm cheekbone with your knuckle and he hums into you gently. He sucked your folds between his lips, pulling away slightly and rubbing your thighs up and down with his calloused palms, squeezing gently. You moaned hotly and couldn’t contain the cry that followed when he finally stuck his middle finger in your dripping hole, hips bucking to try and get more of him.

“So soft, so so soft” he mumbled into your clit before kissing it gently and taking the now swollen throbbing bud in his mouth, flicking his tongue over it quickly. His fingers twist and curl as he pumps them in and out at a languid pace. You felt that familiar jolt of pleasure as the pad of his finger brushed your g spot.

“Augh- ah- yes bear” you mewled, “right there- there” you grab his wrist and squeeze it and in response he curled his fingers the same way and you dug your feet into his shoulder blades in pure extacy, causing him to grunt into you and curl and uncurl his fingers in a rhythm that had your eyes screwing shut and loud strings of curses and moans tearing from your chest as you came undone over his fingers, dripping down his wrist already. But with how long it had been since you had him this way, that was to be expected.

“Good - good bear good bear” you mumble praise as your orgasm washes over you he works you through it, resuming pumping his fingers - your dripping arousal being able to be put to use as lube. The schlick,schlick,schlick sound of his fingers is what you come back to, your mind fuzzy and swimming through a warm sea of pleasure, sweet jumbled moans and whimpers coming from your lips.

“God you sound so fuckin’ pretty baby I love you so fuckin much m’so sorry m’so sorry I haven’t been around as much” he mumbled into you and you shake your head

“S’okay shhh- shh just keep doin’ what you’re doin’” you push his head back down, watching as his eyes flutter up to look at you and he sweetly offers his other hand for you to hold, your heart melting at the gesture. “Such a sweet boy” you coo, taking his hand and lacing your fingers together. He smiled a bit in response nuzzling his nose against your clit, his lips making cute little smacking noises against your cunt.

“You’re so messy” you giggle a bit, seeing as the tip and bridge of his nose were wet with your slick, as was his chin and entire mouth area. “Your face is so wet baby” you told him and he looked up at you

“Mmm m’neck is wet too” he paused to say before resuming and you gently caress his cheek, the only sounds filling the room being the wet drill of his fingers and the smacking of his lips, like he was trying to devour a popsicle before it melted.

You felt your second orgasm quickly approaching, your walls fluttering around his fingers, he curled up into that spot and that was your undoing once more, your hips pushing back into the mattress and spine arching off the bed towards the ceiling slightly as your orgasm crashed over you with no mercy to be had.

“Jesus- fuck!” You cried out and he held your thighs open for you so you wouldn’t crush him by mistake, your hands shaking as you went to wipe the tears that had gathered in your eyes that were screwed shut from the intensity and Carmy stops you, carefully wiping your cheeks with his dry hand and removing his other carefully, wiping it dry on the sheets he always changed for you afterwards and cupping your face while you came down.

“You did so good baby, so so good” he kissed your forehead gently, rubbing your hair and caressing your back with loving strokes. When you were finally coherent enough once again, although you were exhausted - you realized Carmy was still rock hard, pitching a full tent in his boxers that were wet with pre as he coaxed you through your orgasm.

“That’s gotta hurt” you told pull the fabric, causing his cock to come down with it and when you release it it springs back up to full standing causing you to giggle a bit

“Mm does but m’back. I can’t go t’night babe. I was gonna go take care of it in the shower don’worry” he yawned, rubbing over his face you furrowed your brow, slightly offended.

“What? Is my pussy not good enough?” You teased

He looked at you quickly “wha- no - I mean- I mean yes? No- no your pussy is good your pussy is- is perfect I fuckin’ love y’pussy but I can’t go tonight baby my back fuckin’ hurts” he explained

“I can ride you you know” you said and his big blue eyes widened a bit. You’d been together for 6- no 7 months, and it was true you’d never ridden him, not yet anyway.

Carmen was a missionary man, not in the boring way, in the way that he’d get home from work and fuck your brains out while going on and on about his frustrations from the day.

People wouldn’t usually call it dirty talk, but something it turned you on more then anything that between calling you perfect and beautiful and made for him that he was just casually going on about his shitty day like his balls weren’t essentially spanking your ass with how hard he needed it.

“Uh- oh-o-okay. Yeah. Sure- I. Mmhmm” he said and fixed his pillow, adjusting his hips for you “hop on I guess” he said shyly and you laughed at his sudden switch in attitude.

“Have you never been ridden you poor thing?” You asked and his cheeks went cherry red as well as the tips of his ears and bridge of his nose as you straddled him easily, resting your hands on his abs for leverage.

“No.” He muttered. “I- I just…I dunno it never..came up” he swallowed thickly, averting your gaze nervously.

“Hey.” You said “eyes” you told him and his eyes met yours immediately, “I’m honored to be the first person, yeah? I’ve told you a billion times bear - I love you. I love being able to show you new ways to feel good, it makes me so excited” you held his hips gently and he wrapped his hands around your wrists, needing to be touching you somehow.

“It just…it doesn’t make me seem like…like a bitch does it?” He mumbled shyly, insecurity lacing his voice. You tucked your hands under his warm back, laying yourself over him fully, embracing him and resting your forehead on his.

“You know how I feel about that word, and no it doesn’t make you seem less manly baby. If anything, it’s super sexy and it’s so sweet that you felt brave enough to tell me. Thank you for telling me. I’ve heard for the guy it feels really good cause all you gotta do is lay there, you wanna try sweetheart?” You ask softly, kissing the bridge of his nose gently and a small smile forming on your lips when you tasted yourself on your lips upon pulling away.

“Yes please” he said softly, eyes fluttered shut as you cover his face in little butterfly kisses.

“That’s my brave bear” you place a kiss to the base of his throat and he smiles a bit, cheeks going redder by the second. It was adorable how shy he got when you showed him affection like this, you knew he adored it more then anything - but he’d never be brave enough to ask for it - at least not yet.

You sit up, “can I touch you baby?” You confirm, rubbing your hands down his stomach and his abs tighten at the contact. In response he nods, swallowing thickly and goosebumps rising over his skin. His cock twitches as you grab the waistband of his boxers “so sweet and responsive” you said softly, tugging them down easily as he lifted his hips for you slightly.

“Jesus” you mutter at the sight of it, the tip weeping and pink crying to be touched. “Poor thing, you’ve been neglected- has Carmy been abusing you in the shower huh?” You said in the direction of his cock with a playful voice of concern.

“Jesus fuckin Christ-“ he chuckled, covering his face with his arm a big goofy smile on his face. “You are gonna kill me”

You smiled big, leaning down and licking a stripe up his length and he whimpers softly, abs and stomach clenching at the contact, a large bead of pre gushing from his slit that you catch with your tongue. He shivers adorably, groaning at the feeling of you licking over his sensitive tip. “If y’keep fuckin doin’ that ‘m gonna cum” he breathes, the vein in his neck present seeing as he was holding himself back, his balls drawing up and releasing in a rhythm.

“Jesus baby i dunno if you’ll last that long we’ll have to do this again so you can get the full experience mm?” You grab his shaft, lining you two up and slipping it through your soaked folds, he let out a breathy moan, back arching slightly and you let out a sweet ‘mmm’ when his tip bumps your clit.

“Please please please can I be inside you please” he begged pathetically, voice whiny and shaking - he was going to be coming undone very soon you could tell, which is why he was desperate to be inside of you before he was too soft to do so.

“I dunno can I see those pretty eyes?” You asked, he was still hiding behind his arm, likely still feeling embarrassed this was his first time but you weren’t going to allow that. He shyly removed his arm, looking up at you and swallowing nervously.

“H-hey” he said softly and you smile softly

“There’s my bear” you leaned in, kissing him lovingly as you sink down on him fully, his jaw goes slack so you settle for kissing his chin and cheeks and nose “Feel good?” You giggle into his skin and he lets out a pathetic little ‘uh-huh’

“H-holy oh god” he groaned when you simply roll your hips, getting yourself off with the friction of the curly patch of brunette curls at the base of his cock. You sat up, using his chest as leverage to find a good rhythm bouncing on him and he nearly growls, a sound you’d never heard him make.

“Ooo am I releasing the bear?” You teased and he chuckled a bit

“Shut up- fuck Jesus oh god” his head falls back on the pillow “i-i-shit” he rambled and you giggle a bit, causing him to whine at the feeling of your walls clenching around him as you continued to ride his cock with all the tricks you could remember.

“I don’t think I’ve ever fucked you so quiet before” you tease, sure your hips and thighs were burning from how quick you’d built up to moving, but his eyes were practically rolling back and the whimpers you were drawing out of him were nothing short of heavenly. He was shaking for Christ sakes. “Are you gonna cum? Mm? Y’gonna fill me up baby?” You asked him, rubbing his chest gently

He finally opened his eyes, looking up at you with those big blue eyes, blown out fully with lust, pants falling from his lips and his dirty blonde curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. “Mm-mmhmm” he moaned out, grabbing your hips to have something to hold and the action making him realize he could help you move. His jaw dropped slightly at the realization and he looked up at you for approval.

You smiled and nod a bit “you can help honey- that’s really nice of you” you said and he helped push and pull you off his cock, he looked down, mesmerized by the view of his cock burying inside of you, he pushed you down with more force and you moaned, “just like that baby, you want it harder huh?” You ask and he nods quickly so you rolled your hips a bit harder.

He bit his lip, nose scrunching up cutely. He was holding back. “Bear- I know it feels good but you can cum, you need to sleep” you cup his cheek gently and he looked up at you like a sad puppy

“It feels s’good baby” he whined and you nod, stroking his cheek gently.

“I know honey. We can do it again t’morrow night yeah?” You kiss his forehead and with that he releases into you with something resembling a cry covered with a grunt, of course he had to cover it. He pulled you into a deep messy kiss, wrapping his arms around your back, rubbing gently and reaching down to squeeze your ass, feeling cum dripping out of you down over his balls. He smiled a bit, pulling away to ask “Mmm can we sleep like this?”

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soobinskii · 1 year ago

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k.sunwoo drabble

warnings : fluff, minor angst, kisses, it's really sappy 😭, no smut.

you knew sunwoo had issues staying in relationships, ever since you had met him four years ago. he had many relationships that lasted two to six months each. you knew what you had gotten yourself into by getting with him, but you were willing to take a risk. what you didn't expect was him staying with you for so long.

"thank you.." sunwoo starts, tearing up a bit and voice wavering with each word even if he just started. the quiver in his voice startled you as you tilt your head at him, looking away from the glimmering stars above to look at your boyfriend of over a year.

he takes a deep breath before starting again, "thank you for helping me change my ways. i knew i was unstable with love, but i felt like i could never find the right person.. until i realized that i was just looking for you in everybody." his words make you choke up along with him, so heartfelt that you could basically feel them ring through your chest like a thread through a needle. you could feel that he was truly genuine, with his body language, and the unspoken words like pools in his eyes.

even in the dim light of the stars and moon, you could still see small trails from the few rogue tears that dripped from his waterline. "i feel as if we were meant for each other, you complete me. this might be cliche but, i love you to the moon and back, sunwoo." you say to him, patting his damp cheeks with the sleeve of your (his) sweatshirt. the way he smiles at you makes your heart catch in your throat all over again, just like the first time.

everytime he looks at you, you can feel all of the butterflies in your stomach resurface. especially the way he's looking at you now, it feels as if he's looking at you like you just captured every nebula in the sky for him. you're pulled out of your thoughts when he leans in to kiss you, a hundred unspoken words being put into the way your lips press against sunwoo's.

you feel all of the memories resurfacing. the one from thirty minutes ago, sneaking out of your flat that's shared with a few of his friends, hushed whispers and giggles to not wake up sangyeon who unfortunately fell asleep on the couch.. even one from three years ago, when he came crying to you about his confusing feelings, several blind dates that eric set him up on all failed.

sunwoo pulls away to look you in the eyes, his own being glossy and slightly tear-stained. "you honestly saved me.." he tackles you to the dewy 2am grass and attacks your face with peppered kisses, lightening the melancholic mood.

#sunwoo #kim sunwoo #kpop fluff #sunwoo fluff #the boyz fluff #the boyz #the boyz sunwoo #tbz

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softsan · 2 years ago

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NCT WEREWOLF AU (AESTHETIC)

A remake of this: X

Taeyong

alpha

seven hundred and one years old

suspicious and dubious of humans

puts his pack above all

can be rash and unforgiving

encounters his mate on a non-routine hunt

mate: councilman's daughter

Taeil

elder

eight hundred and fifty-six years old

oldest member of the pack

works as an adviser to the alpha and the betas

breaks up and resolves pack conflicts

stumbles onto his mate who's wearing a disguise

mate: physician

Johnny

hunter

four hundred and eighty-nine years old

has the best sense of smell in the pack

the pack's number-one tracker.

exceptional at mauling his enemies.

left heartbroken by his mate's rejection

mate: rival pack member

Yuta

hunter

four hundred and sixty-seven years old

incredibly quick and stealthy

is labeled the 'ambusher' for his cut-throat hunting tactics

despises the prospect of a mate

believes fate is cruel and callous

mate: city guardian

Kun

beta

six hundred and eighteen years old

second in command

rules in taeyong's absence

known to be morally strict and stern

goes against his beliefs by stealing his mate away

mate: stolen bride

Doyoung

delta

five hundred and thirty-two years old

is the support unit of the pack

on standby to fulfill the duties of ill or injured packmates

finds himself in a hopeless situation

accidentally marks his mate in a poisoned haze

mate: north's princess

Ten

head scout

five hundred and sixteen years old

has an unparalleled control of his inner wolf

works as the pack's eyes and ears in the city

warns the pack of dangers outside their territory

overcomes his heartbreak by meeting a nifty pickpocket

mate: thief

Jaehyun

delta

four hundred and forty-nine years old

strongest member of the pack

formidable opponent in battle

responsible for guarding the pack's territory

comes across his mate in the scorching sands

mate: she-wolf

Winwin

sentinel

four hundred and three years old

routinely patrols the pack's territory

greats new visitors and learns their intentions

will harshly punish aggressive and disrespectful intruders

accidentally kidnaps his mate instead of his actual target

mate: royal governess

Jungwoo

scout

three hundred and twenty-one years old

has great command of his inner wolf

can avoid shifting on a full moon

gathers and shares information for the pack

blown away by his sweet mate

mate: royal maidservant

Mark

delta

three hundred and twelve years old

known to be sunny but stubborn

incredibly fast learner

teaches hunting skills to younger pack members

saved by his mysterious and magical mate

mate: thread coven witch

Renjun

salutary

two hundred and sixty-three years old

is the pack's herbalist

makes tonics and concoctions for his fellow wolves

plagued by dreams of the past

gives the cold shoulder to his mate

mate: old soul

Jeno

hunter

two hundred forty-eight years old

a distinguished pack fighter

often organizes hunts

is the first to volunteer to go on nightly patrols

captured by his formidable mate

mate: general's daughter

Haechan

omega

two hundred and twenty-four years old

rash and impulsive

has poor control over his inner wolf

frustrated by his low status within the pack

taken in by his beloved mate

mate: baker

Jaemin

hunter

two hundred and twenty-two years old

very talented tracker

is the most versed with their territory's terrain

lovestruck by the idea of love and fate

has his memory wiped by his elusive mate

mate: siren

Xiaojun

scout

one hundred and eleven years old

has mastered controlling his inner beast

recently elevated to the position of scout

is eager to prove himself within the pack

rescues his mate from the cruelty of humans

mate: seer

Hendery

hunter

eighty-three years old

loves running under the moon's light

known for his great speed and stealth

recently elevated to the position of hunter

taken down by his fearless mate

mate: assassin

YangYang

omega

twenty-three years old

only recently had his first transformation

is the pack's forager

searches for plants and provisions to help feed the pack

is reunited with his childhood friend and mate

mate: greenskeeper

Chenle

pup

twenty-two years old

is eager for his first transformation

spent his early years on the run with his aunt

thankful to be accepted into a pack

ambushed by his wicked mate

mate: star coven witch

Jisung

pup

twenty-one years old

is nervous about his first transformation

last to join the pack

spent years hiding underground from humans

shyly taken by his doting mate

mate: seamstress

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dailyanarchistposts · 8 months ago

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Anarchist utopias are alive and well, not only in Chiapas or Rojava but also in the heart of capitalist Europe. In Germany, police repression and gentrification have dealt a decisive blow to traditional anarchist strongholds like Berlin, with numerous free spaces closed down since the pandemic started.

But a new form of protest is blossoming. Eco-anarchists are building momentum all over Germany. The black and green flag is stronger than ever and enjoys surprisingly widespread sympathy among the public.

The Dannenröder Forest, nicknamed “Danni,” fifty miles from Frankfurt, is suffering. A highway is being built, cutting through the forest like an open wound. It is a battlefield, a witness to environmental destruction and to resistance. Hundreds of activists occupied the route of the planned A49 highway from October 2019 to December 2020.

They were inspired by protests in the Hambacher Forst, known as “Hambi,” Germany’s most mediatized land occupation with a clear and organic growth from one protest to the other. Out of protesters’ imagination sprang a hundred tree houses, numerous massive wooden tripods and a dense constellation of zip lines, creating a unique ecosystem of resistance.

Organized in neighborhoods, life there was utopic. All decisions were made in a decentralized, unanimous manner, leaving space for activists to live without constraints or hierarchies. Anarcho-feminist, antiracist, and anti-capitalist slogans celebrating life in the forest echoed around the campfires.

But repression was on the way. Last December, nearly 3,000 police with water cannons, led by special commandos, invaded the forest. After destroying all barricades and tree houses, they cleared the way for the deforestation.

Cutting through the dense forest, the future road is heavily protected by barbed wire and massive police patrols. Yet the eco-anarchist resistance has not demobilized. Hundreds of activists reunited in April 2021 for a climate camp to reinvent the protest. They now legally occupy village structures and intend to build a resilient movement based on decentralized direct action.

Forest occupations (Waldbesetzungen) have seven lives. Somehow, being expelled by the police strengthens them. Activists disperse around the country, share their experiences and know-how and create new areas of protest.

An organic network of resistance is being woven across Germany, and sometimes the threads of individual action intersect and create nodes. Climate camps are exactly that—nodes that connect all the struggles.

The first of them began in Augsburg, a conservative Bavarian city. Dozens of climate activists from the Fridays for Future (FFF) group decided that weekly demonstrations were not enough. Last summer, they occupied the city’s central square. They built a wooden utopia in the middle of the shopping district, an eco-anarchist equivalent to Occupy Wall Street.

Like in Danni, they live without authority, cook with dumpstered food and are supported by a network of caring inhabitants. From FFF to eco-anarchy, they were radicalized by the tales of activists traveling from the Danni and Hambi. They, in turn, fostered eco-anarchist resistance in southern Germany.

The intentional family of Waldbesetzungen and climate camps is steadily growing. Central squares are being occupied in six other German cities, as are a dozen forests and meadows.

The Altdorfer Waldbesetzung, called Alti, is the newest. Since January 2021, the woods, close to the tourist city of Ravensburg, echo with the sound of hammers, music, and campfire tales. Protesting the expansion of mining gravel destined for export to Austria, ten to thirty activists live together, building dozens of tree houses in various neighborhoods, following the model of the other forest occupations.

The young anarchist utopia is strongly supported by the local inhabitants, who cook two meals a day for the activists, donate construction material, and flock to visit the occupation on weekends. Since deforestation season starts in October, the Alti has some more months to prepare for the pending police assault. In the meantime, banner actions, demonstrations and pranks against conservative politicians are carried out daily.

The eco-anarchist utopia is alive and well. It is growing steadily as an alternative to the Green Party, which is becoming Germany’s new mainstream, and may even lead the government after the next election.

Feminist, antiracist and anti-capitalist struggles are coming together in the woods, because all forms of oppression are interlinked. Black is the new green.

In times of greenwashing, green capitalism, and eco-fascism, the eco-anarchist Waldbesetzungen and climate camps offer a combative and beautiful spark of hope.

Philippe Pernot is a German-based photojournalist whose work focuses on anarchy, ecological resistance, and the interconnectedness between feminist, anti-capitalist and anti-racist struggles. After studying in France, he worked in Lebanon for one year, reporting about the Palestinian situation and those abandoned by the Lebanese state.

He co-published a report on a LNG-pipeline project in Quebec and a zine about a mall being built in his native village in southern France.

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distinctlywhumpthing · 2 years ago

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Unintentional 27

Previous—Masterlist—Next

CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language, victim self-blame, brainwashing, the usual. Raid/recapture, manhandling, beating, restraints, blood mention, implied nudity (nonexplicit). As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

He didn’t fight.

He couldn’t. Even if his arms weren’t aching from elbow to wrist, they were lead at his sides. His fingers too were immovable under the weight of his failure. If only he could shift them, feel them, curl them into fists to hold onto the fleeting whisper of warm fingers in his but that comfort was no more deserved than it had ever been his to claim.

The finality of it was equal parts devastation and relief. He wouldn’t get another chance, not after this, but he didn’t want any other life than what he’d had here anyway. He welcomed the end.

They were probably no rougher than usual but rougher than he remembered—

Training is the only thing you need to remember. You were nothing before it, you are nothing without it.

Two agents clad in black caught him under the arms, dragged him away and shoved him to his knees unceremoniously. They held him there as a third stepped up, looming above him.

Just a few feet away another group of agents was—

He turned his eyes toward the sky without registering its shade.

“Identify yourself.”

The numbers were on the tip of his tongue.

142836359.

Always spinning away in the back of his mind somewhere.

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine. Snaking into the forefront of his dreams whenever he slept. From the very beginning, when they’d trained it into him. One hundred forty-two million, eight hundred thirty-six thousand, three hundred fifty-nine. An endless cassette ribbon unspooling, threading itself around each synapsis in his head. Repeating over and over until it was laced throughout. A third strand in every double helix.

142836359.

“M-my…” He was suddenly reluctant to lose the single thing he’d been given, even though it had never really been his own. Thinking of defying such a direct order was a hurdle in itself but parsing the words to follow through was another thing entirely. “N-n-name…is—”

A baton cracked across the back of his head and he saw stars. The agents at his sides prevented him from following its momentum to the ground. The leader in front grabbed his chin but he barely felt their gloved fingers over the splitting pain in his head.

“That was a direct order. You will identify yourself.”

He raised his eyes to meet their opaque sunglasses. Defiant. Defective—

Defective companions are immediately returned for evaluation and will be subjected to the most rigorous re-training applicable.

The agent’s fist connected with his jaw. His upper molars cut into the flesh inside his cheek, blood seeping into his saliva. His skull rang and throbbed from two sides now.

“Identify yourself.”

He ground his teeth together. Brittle and raw like flint and steel, sparking fire through his veins. It felt familiar but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. He raised his chin, the feeling flaring hotter.

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

“Little fucking shit.”

He tried not to flinch away from the next blow but the agent to his right held out a hand before it landed.

“It’s no use. You know how they get after something like this. We have a witness and his wrist is enough anyway. Vocal confirmation is just a formality.”

The lead agent took off their sunglasses with a slow deliberateness, holding them out and flipping them from front to back, to inspect the lenses. Directly in his line of sight, though the agent’s eyes only scanned the glasses like there was nothing but empty air beyond them.

Except when the agent reached out to use the fabric of his sweatshirt at his shoulder to wipe away an indiscernible smudge before finally replacing their glasses and breaking the silence. “Did you get a fucking promotion I wasn’t informed about?”

The shielding arm had long fallen. “No, sir.”

Their weight shifted to the heels of their combat boots as they leaned into their dominance. “So I still call the shots around here?”

“Yes, sir.” Quieter than before—

Actions speak louder than words; show me how sorry you are.

The leader let the silence stretch again.

The other group of agents kept their voices low as they dealt with—while they worked. He tried not to look. Better to let his bitter defiance burn through any hope that they’d ever have a last moment shared between them.

“What the fuck are you morons waiting for?” The lead finally barked, making him jump and sending a spike of pain through his aching head. “Restrain him and get him out to the van.”

“Yes, sir.” The agents at his sides chorused and sprang into action. As good as any pair of trainees. Thankfully, the leader had turned away and missed his smirk.

They gagged him first. Four gloved hands holding his head still and prying his mouth open to shove a bit between his teeth—

Speech is a privilege and used only to further demonstrate subservience.

The muzzle covered his whole jaw and nose with mesh that wasn’t quite fabric but wasn’t quite metal. His eyes watered as they tightened the straps over the tender spot on the back of his head, the front digging into his cheeks. Next was a thick shock collar, metal prongs hugging his windpipe and pressing into the back of his neck. More serious than what they used for training. No doubt designed to render the wearer unconscious with a single shock.

The restraints around his wrists were also more severe than anything Archer had ever used in training. Wide and tightened until his pulse beat in his hands and fingers, binding his wrists together in front of him. Similar bands went around each ankle, connected by a short chain that would have restricted his walking to a show shuffle but the agents didn’t give him the chance. They hauled him backwards off his knees and dragged him away.

Just like that, it was all over.

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but of course WRU wouldn’t waste resources on a single Reclamation. From the looks of it, he was the last stop. The others in the van were anchored down in two orderly rows. Eleven collars secured to the white walls, wrists to the white bench, feet to the white floor. Now an even dozen.

Just like the facility, everything white and pristine again. All of these bodies reeking of sweat and fear and failure and worse were in need of sanitization. The first in the row wore an evening gown, mascara streaks disappearing behind their muzzle. Two were completely naked. Some were crying. Another was fighting against the restraints like they had any chance at working themselves free before they got shocked for their disobedience. Though from the looks of the angry red welts rising under the restraints, the agents were letting them carry on with their fruitless efforts. A few were limp, split lips and still-bleeding noses indicating they’d needed a little extra help into the van.

He envied them.

It was impossible to know what might have led the others here. They all must have known what was coming, tried to avoid it in whatever they may have been doing. Most of them would have agreed with him that death was preferable.

A companion across the aisle tried to meet his gaze with pleading eyes but the burn spanning from their hairline to their navel caught his attention first and he couldn’t drag his eyes away. If they were whining in pain, it was lost in the other muffled cries and sounds of struggle—

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

The clip anchoring his wrists to the bench was as thick as his fingers. There was barely enough slack in the anchor at the back of his neck for him to look down to see it fully. None of the locks were of the electronic variety that might release them to the mercy of tumbling in a tangle of immobilized bodies should the van roll.

How many of them would have their necks broken or simply asphyxiate if there was an accident? Blunt force trauma from being so close to the walls of the van would probably do enough damage to cancel whatever re-training awaited them. Or at least for the others.

Better yet, a clean decapitation.

A distorted, muffled sound, distinguishable from all the crying, silenced the rest of the van. It took another beat of listening to the hysterical tail end of it, the inhale past saliva collecting at the corners of a bit before it bubbled out again to realize it was laughter. And another beat to realize he was its source.

All the eyes that were open and could manage the angle, turned to watch. Any distraction was welcome when you were facing hell. Had any of the others been in his cohort? Had he surpassed them in training?

Look at him now, Archer’s ace in the hole—

That really set him off.

But he wound up choking on all of the extra spit and spent the next minute thinking he really was going to die in the back of this van just asphyxiating on his own saliva before he finally managed to drag in a thin breath amidst all of his coughing.

The van was still completely silent once he’d recovered his breath. Some gazes had slid away quietly. Others remained, still happy to watch him unravel.

His cheeks burned under his muzzle but a part of him was sure that none of them could hold a candle to what had led him here.

Some of them might have simply been displeasing. Appearances could only be changed so much. Their simple minds so very, very far from telepathic.

Even after the full-refund window, WRU was happy to offer trade-in credit for an exchange. If that wasn’t possible, they would graciously take care of retiring unwanted companions. It didn’t make any difference if a companion was bought, leased, or only rented. The Handlers made sure it was always, always, in the back of their minds that no placement was certain—

The only certainty is that you are property now.

The rest would go back to being numbers on the training roster.

He would be on a different list.

They were removed from the van for Decontamination one by—

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine

—each brought to their own white-tiled room. Wrists hooked above his head, holding him in place over the drain. He wasn’t sure if these were still agents or Handlers now. A different department of Handlers, maybe. They wore white rubber suits like he could be radioactive or carrying a plague, their eyes hidden behind the mirrored glass window of the suit masks.

The relief of having the muzzle and bit removed distracted him from noticing they were cutting away his clothes. Too late he realized that with them went the last scent of what semblance of a home he’d had, of—

He didn’t have time to swallow the lump in his throat before the spray hit him. Cold and sharp like the water wanted to worm its way under his skin. There wasn’t any slack to get away from it. No way to cross his legs or twist without his shoulders and arms protesting.

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

He yelped when they sprayed it into his ear, gritting his teeth through the other. They pried his jaw open to rinse out his mouth until he was choking. When he was finally released, his spit was pink.

Next was a powder, antiseptic smell sharp and familiar in his nose, making his stomach turn, misted all over his shivering body—

Your body is an object for service, your mind is a vessel for obedience.

They scrubbed it in with brushes until the lather was turning pink too. When they brought back the water it was so hot he screamed. And kept screaming as it scalded him like the soap was turning to acid and boiling through his skin. He ran out of air before they were done, gasping in lungfuls of it, the collar tighter and tighter around his neck. His pulse fast against it, beat, beat, beating—

Beatings break old habits, the collar corrects new ones—

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine.

He was still catching his breath when they held open his jaw to let the water burn through his mouth, his throat, his lungs.

Black spots dotted his vision. Sunlight through leaves, lying on a blanket under a tree. Right beside her. Mira. It hurt.

His chest ached, his heart burned. He vomited up all of the water and some blood. The room spun. He sobbed.

The water was off now.

He was saying it out loud, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his voice echoing, the only sound in the room.

He was alone.

Previous—Masterlist—Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeish @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess @meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup @mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump @aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @lavbug

#bbu #bbu adjacent #bbu whump #box boy whump #box boy rescue #institutionalized slavery tw #pet whump #whump #wru #whumpblr #whump writing #recapture #restraints tw

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usafphantom2 · 2 years ago

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WHAT? No Ice Cream cone?

Before the U2 and the SR 71, the United States used the RB 47E and H. These brave men need to be appreciated for what they did. They risked their life over and over again.

Following its first flight on July 3, 1953, the RB-47E performed some of the most sensitive reconnaissance missions of the Cold War. During its service, at least two of these planes were lost flying missions over the Soviet Union. One incident involving an RB-47E occurred during a photographic mission over the Soviet Union. The plane was intercepted and fired upon by Soviet MiGs and sustained wing damage.

General Curtis LeMay, Chief of Staff of the Air Force, responded to the men telling him that the Soviets had attacked their airplane. ‘What do you do you expect them to do? Give you an ice cream cone🍦”

Fortunately, it could outrun them at altitude and return to base.

My father, Butch Sheffield, graduated from Cadets in 1955. He was selected to go to B-47 navigation bombardier school at Mather Air Force Base , CA. After graduating, he was assigned to Little Rock Air Force Base. Soon after, in January 1957, his squadron went to England to practice bomb runs. The next paragraph is from my father, Col. Richard “Butch” Sheffield's unpublish Book.

“My targets were in Russia and mostly air bases near large cities. I had to know the target so well that I could bomb it in my sleep. Every six months or so, we would change targets. I believe this was because more bombers and missiles were coming into the fleet, and the targets were reassigned to add them.

“We were briefed that if we had to bail out in Russia, we should dig a hole three feet deep, get in it, and wait till the war was over, then go to a safe area where we would be picked up U. S. Forces. This was hard for us to stomach, but we kept our mouths shut. My B-47 Aircraft Commander, Merle JeuDevine, was a real maverick. Our crew was selected by the SAC Inspector General (IG) to brief him on our war plan, and he asked us about how we would evade the enemy on the ground in Russia. He asked what we would do as soon as we arrived in Russia.

Merle told him that the first thing he would do was throw the cal. Thirty-eight handguns we carried as far as he could. The IG looked shocked. He said why? Merle said they would be looking for us with automatic weapons; we don’t stand a chance with that handgun. To my surprise, the General agreed.

Arming Mark 6-mode-6

The bomb we carried in the early part of the B-47 Program was the Mark-6, Mod. -6. It was a six hundred-kiloton weapon. It was like the weapons used on Japan in as much as it needed to be armed in flight by putting the critical mass, U-238 plutonium, into the bomb.

My job was to arm it while we refueled in-flight at fifteen thousand feet in the aircraft's bomb bay. This was hard to do because the aircraft was bouncing around as we refueled behind the KC-97. The critical mass was very heavy, and the threads on the mass were very fine. We were told to do it while wearing our parachute and to wear heavy gloves, neither of which we could do and accomplish the mission. When we landed, the IG would look into the bomb bay before we could taxi back to the park. It had to be done and had to be done right, or we flunked, so we did it.

--Special film of my target

In the late 1950’s, I was told to go to the Wing Plans Division. They took me into a vault, and I was told that I could not tell anyone what I was about to see, even my own crew.

They then showed me a radar film of my target in Leningrad, Russia. It looked like the same type of radar I had in my B-47. I believe it was from an RB-47.”

I asked my friend, Robert Hopkins. He said, “Your Dad was watching films of a bomb run over the USSR. They were movies of the radar track collected in 1956 when SAC flew 156 overflights of the USSR as part of operations HOME RUN crews use the movies taken by RB-47Es for target study.

Written by Linda Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

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dragoneyes613 · 8 months ago

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[A[ll clothing was fearfully expensive by modern standards. The costs involved in making a garment, particularly in processing the raw materials, were enormous. Take sheep, as the most important example. A Tudor sheep, while not miniature, was considerably smaller than those that graze in modern fields. Pictures of sheep with their shepherds, the bones of butchered animals recovered archaeologically, and the weight of butchers' carcasses recorded in the accounts of the great households all point to smaller animals. twin lambs were a rarity among Tudor flocks, whereas nowadays it is the singleton lamb that is uncommon and triplets are not unknown. Flocks grazed outdoors upon upland pastures and overwintering arable fields without the supplementary feeding that helps modern sheep to bulk up and fatten. The resultant fleeces were both smaller and lighter. Direct comparisons between fleece weights can be a little misleading since modern fleeces are sheared all in once and the entirety is weighed, while records of Tudor fleeces often include only the best-quality wool from the back and haunches when weighed for sale, but nonetheless a twenty-first-century fleece of twelve pounds in weight is in a different league from a one-and-a-half-pound fleece of the sixteenth century.

At the end of May, when the weather was warming, shepherds drove their flocks down to streams and ponds where they could wash their charges, herding them up on to clean pasture to drip and dry out. Shearing was a massive operation that called on all the local labour. Modern electric clippers permit the professional shearers of Australia and New Zealand to work their way through many hundreds of sheep in a working day; the equally skilled and hardworking men of the sixteenth century, armed with a pair of hand shears, did well to complete thirty. Once shorn, the fleeces had to be sorted, rolled and packed for sale. Cloth production began with the combing or carding of the wool to clean out any grass, twigs and other filth and to untangle any knots or matted locks. This was all done by hand, keeping many women and children busy. Next it was spun on simple drop spindles, or increasingly, as the era progressed, with a spinning wheel, work again carried out mostly by women or children. It took twelve skilled spinsters working at full pelt to supply enough yarn to keep one weaver in business. Few women totally escaped the job of spinning; indeed the work became synonymous with the unmarried woman (hence the change in meaning of the word). Like the baking of bread or the brewing of beer, spinning was a regular female task, whether for yarn used in the home or for the few pennies it earned.

Weaving itself was mostly men's work, requiring the careful warping up of the loom (threading each of the long threads that run the full length of the finished bolt of cloth through the various parts of the loom and carefully winding up the length on to the back beam) before cloth could be woven. Lengths of twenty-two yards were generally worked at a time, although different types of cloth were legally prescribed at slightly differing sizes. This single length or piece could take a man six weeks to produce. Once woven, the majority of cloth needed some form of 'finishing'. Most webs needed washing, and many were fulled (a process akin to felting, where the fibres are encouraged to mesh together to tighten up the fabric, improving its ability to keep the wind and rain out. Dyers got involved either in dyeing the wool before it was spun, dyeing the yarn or dyeing the piece once woven. The wet webs were stretched out on tenterhooks to dry and regain their legal dimensions. (Nonconforming lengths of cloth could be confiscated, and there was a system of fines to be paid for every small deviation.) Naps were raised by combing over the surface with teasals and the surfaces sheared smooth and flat.

All of these people in their many and varied places of work needed to earn a living from their labour, each adding a little more to the cost of the finished produce. It was a complex industry, involving tools and machinery that required significant capital investment and skilled professionals to operate. The fleeces, yarn and cloth itself moved from workshop to workshop, bought and sold many times over.

- How To be A Tudor, pages 42-44, Ruth Goodman

#how to be a tudor #ruth goodman #history #tudor era

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thejollywriter · 1 year ago

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where did Delilah Jones come from? (pt 1)

Skinner sat quietly in a dark archives on the south end of Redwood proper. Papago Welles was to the south, the Obsidian Pearle the north, and all around him, a kind of anonymity where counties find their borders.

The console glowed brightly, the only source in the dark archive aside from the green EXIT sign above the door, far away.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, rubbed his temples, tried to sooth the growing ache therein. He'd asked around about this Jones character when he'd arrived. It's what his contract stipulated, his mission was singular, but he was neither reckless not foolish.

He'd never failed to apprehend and annihilate his prey. But every target began with research. Know thine enemy, and catch them with their hubris, exploit their patterns, their blind spots.

These points of weakness weren't always easy to find, but there were always indicators of a fault in the metaphysical weld.

But for Delilah Jones, he had a contradictory confusion. His client had a veritable mountain of information that detailed the supposed personality of the target. Except, despite the depth of information, it offered almost no clarity.

The confessionals, stories and encounters drawn from any of a hundred cases that'd occurred across the city of Redwood, California, detailed a singularly driven person with an unparalleled appetite for violence and an unyielding willingness to dish it out.

Such people are not subtle. They are not careful. Skinner's experience reflected a simple reality. Psychopaths such as this are not prone to caution, nor self-preservation.

Which means there'd be evidence, tangible reports, that reflect the reality of such a person. Police reports, news articles, blog posts, incident statements. Dispassionate observers that deal in fact, not speculation.

And yet there was frightening little. Almost no reports. A single police incident where a massive bounty was placed on her head by late CEO Michael Lense. The bounty had been considered collected immediately before a catastrophic PR disaster detailed the ways a vast segment of Redwood's law-enforcement community were criminally compromised by the same CEO.

And nothing before, or since.

But he found a vaguely related thread. The name, Delilah Amelia Jones, was not as old as the thirty-something 'freelancer,' that roamed Redwood.

Pull the thread. The name was legalized seven years ago. And a different name was surrendered in order to assume the new identity.

The thread unspooled rapidly.

Jones was an orphan. Lost her parents, both, in a tragic car accident that miraculously spared her life. She was put into the care of a paternal uncle, the only living family of direct relation that could be found. She was thirteen years old at the time. Reports do not give a reason, but Delilah chafed viciously under her new circumstance.

All of this took place far north from here, in Seattle, Washington, and its outlying counties.

She made a habit of running afoul of law enforcement for fighting, gambling, and hustling, in and out of juvenile detention for the next four years, until she just up and disappeared.

There's only one further incident, when she was twenty-two. During this event, the bodies of four Italian mobsters were found dead, and despite her strongly being suspected, she was released based on lack of evidence and witnesses.

This was the end of her saga in Seattle. Six months, address chance, and this mysterious hooligan brought her traveling circus of violence and chaos to Redwood. And that's when things got really interesting.

***

Not to break character but this is an interesting idea I've had lurking in my brain that I'm going to write as short little narrative bursts that tell the story, from a slight distance, of Delilah's origins. I'll do similar things to talk about Redwood, and where the fictional city came from.

All of this comes from an effort to simply share more of my favorite OC, a righteous gunslinger living in the lawless Cyberpunk city of Redwood, California.

We'll see Skinner again as he tries to come to grips with the LEGEND that is Delilah Jones.

Until next time, if you want to read her exploits yourself, here's a link. Dollar gets access, and from there, there's TWELVE stories to sink your teeth into.

Thanks for reading <3

#the adventures of delilah jones #the redwood files #the jolly writer speaks #lgbt books #lgbt writers

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bubonicplaguefan · 1 month ago

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achan son of carmi, son of zabdi, son of zerah, of the tribe of judah steals a mantle. a flash of gold, two hundred shekels. he buries them and so thirty-six israelites die. one hand reaches past the others and covets, and so all of israel bleeds. that's the key, isn't it. that's the ticket. hashem doesn't punish achan, hashem punishes klal yisrael. collectivism at its most violent. you are responsible and so i am responsible. burden that tastes like a unifying thread caught between your teeth. uprooting when it pulls.

#tanakh posting #j

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33-108 · 3 months ago

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'I finished the whiskey, shut my eyes, opened them again. Facing me was the seventeenth century engraving, a typical Rosicrucian allegory of the period, rich in coded messages addressed to the members of the Fraternity. Obviously it depicted the Temple of the Rosy Cross, a tower surmounted by a dome in accordance with the Renaissance Iconographic model, both Christian and Jewish, of the Temple of Jerusalem, reconstructed on the pattern of the Mosque of Omar.

The landscape around the tower was incongruous, and inhabited incongruously, like one of those rebuses where you see a palace, a frog in the foreground, a mule with its pack, and a king receiving a gift from a page. In the lower left was a gentleman emerging from a well, clinging to a pulley that was attached, through ridiculous winches, to some point inside the tower, the rope passing through a circular window. In the center were a horseman and a wayfarer.

On the right, a kneeling pilgrim held a heavy anchor as though it were his staff. Along the right margin, almost opposite the tower, was a precipice from which a character with a sword was failing, and on the other side, foreshortened, stood Mount Ararat, the Ark aground on its summit. In each of the upper corners was a cloud illuminated by a star that cast oblique rays along which two figures floated, a nude man in the coils of a serpent, and a swan. At the top center, a nimbus was surmounted by the word 'Oriens' and bore Hebrew letters from which the hand of God emerged to hold the tower by a string.

The tower moved on wheels. Its main part was square, with windows, a door, and a drawbridge on the right. Higher up, there was a kind of gallery with four observation turrets, each turret occupied by an armed man who waved a palm branch and carried a shield decorated with Hebrew letters. Only three of these men were visible; the fourth had to be imagined, since he was behind the octagonal dome, from which rose a lantern, also octagonal, with a pair of great wings affixed. Above the winged lantern was another, smaller, cupola, with a quadrangular turret whose open arches, supported by slender columns, revealed a bell inside. To the final small four-vaulted dome at the top was tied the thread held by the hand of God. The word 'Fama' appeared here, and above that, a scroll that read 'Collegium Fraternitatis.'

There were other oddities. An enormous arm, out of all proportion to the figures, jutted from a round window in the tower on the left. It held a sword, and belonged perhaps to the winged creature shut up in the tower. From a similar window on the right jutted a great trumpet. Once again, the trumpet.

The number of openings in the tower drew my attention. There were too many of them, and the ones in the dome were too regular, whereas the ones in the base seemed random. Since only half the tower was shown In this orthogonal perspective, you could assume that symmetry was preserved and the doors, windows, and portholes on this side were repeated in the same order on the other side. That would mean, altogether, four arches in the dome of the bell tower, eight windows in the lower dome, four turrets, six openings in the east and west facades, and fourteen in the north and south facades. I added it up.

Thirty six. For more than ten years that number had haunted me. The Rosicrucians. One hundred and twenty divided by thirty six came to 3.333333, going to seven digits. Almost too perfect, but it was worth a try. I tried. And failed.

It occurred to me then that the same number, multiplied by two, yielded the number of the Beast: 666. That guess also proved too farfetched.

Suddenly I was struck by the nimbus in the middle, the divine throne. The Hebrew letters were large; I could see them even from my chair. But Belbo couldn't write Hebrew on Abulafia. I took a closer look: I knew them, of course, from right to left, yod, he, vav, he. The Tetragrammaton, Yahweh, the name of God.'

- Foucault's Pendulum by Umberto Eco

#esoteric #occult #spiritual #rosicrucian #christianity #judaism

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verumfm · 1 year ago

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is that … CYRUS MIHALIS, DANTALION, & SION LEE returning home after a journey? the town of cynefin welcomes you, rae & aksa. please be sure to review our local laws before you settle in.

the following faceclaims & position are now taken: ahn hyoseop, lee soohyuk, regé-jean page, & the professor of beginner metallurgy (etc.).

( ahn hyoseop, cis man, he/him ) — one day the sea will sing of CYRUS MIHALIS, the thirty-one year old priest from the town of cynefin. there will be verses about bloodied knuckles and torn skin, yellowing bruises next to new ones / faint light at the end of dark, long tunnel / an empty chapel with sunlight streaming in through the windows, a lone figure kneeling down with head bowed in silence / a hug so tight that it knocked air out of your lungs, desperate and remorseful enough it felt like you’ll never part again for another lifetime / a childhood memory of careful, gentle hands picking you up from the sofa as you sleep and carrying you to bed in the hums of their hymn, about a person who is trained in the magic of khemia. the land will know them as someone caring and attentive, but perhaps, you’ll hear the old crones hiss that they are stubborn and secretive. only the shadows of the ocean floor will bear witness to the truth. ╱ rae, 26, any, gmt +7.

( regé-jean page , genderfluid , he/him/any ) — as the demons pour out of the sea DANTALION makes their way to the shore, a five thousand two hundred forty year old creature who appears thirty-six. here with their feet planted on cynefin’s soil, it is images of a dark pit so deep that light barely reaches the bottom, at one side reveals a single rotten rope with frayed edges and loose threads to climb out / an outstretched hand offering a burning pale flame as warm as the moonlight / a gentle smile that slowly morph into a delighted grin, revealing rows of sharp fangs that flood the minds they touch. some may even say that they are sympathetic and encouraging, but it matters little that they are untied by a sorcerer’s contract — they remain unabashedly deceitful and twisted. beware, for demons are never truly kind. ╱ rae, 26, any, gmt +7.

( lee soohyuk, transmasc, he/him ) — amongst the faces lining the staff portrait wall, you recognize SION LEE, the thirty-five year old professor within the school. having spent five years as a member of the verum staff, students say that they’re reminiscent of warm calloused hands stained black with gunpowder and iron / an empty grave sitting upon the top of a hill overlooking the sea, abandoned but not forgotten / fluttering pages of an opened children storybook in the wind, covered in debris and stained with blood, never completed / burning the midnight oil looking for answers in stacks of books until the pitch black sky breaks into sepia-toned dawn. their unwavering and conscientious temperament brings color to these halls, but be warned, you may also find them to be stoic and disillusioned. regardless, hopefully they’ll remain when it’s time for verum to open its doors again. ╱ aksa, 27, they/them, gmt+8.

#appless rp #fantasy rp #period rp #oc rp #horror rp #accepted.

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the-hem · 1 year ago

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"Nice and Handsome." From the Rudraksha Jabala Upanishad, the Exploration of the Mysteries of the Metronome.

One should use those Rudraksha-beads which are nice, handsome, strong, big, auspicious and thorny. One should avoid those eaten by worms, broken, without thorns, and having sores.

The self-holed Rudraksha is of the best variety. But that which is holed by man’s attempt, is considered to be worse. Those best Rudrakshas should be strung in white thread.

A worshipper of Siva should wear Rudraksha all over the body. He should wear one bead on the crest, three hundred round the head, thirty-six round the neck, sixteen round each arm, twelve round the chest and five hundred round the waist. He should wear a Yajnopavita (sacred thread) consisting of one hundred and eight beads of Rudrakshas (= 108 Upanishads). He should wear two, three, five or seven Malas of Rudraksha round the neck.

The Self is adorned by these seeds that produce life on earth called Rudraksha. There are 365 that adorn the body in various jurisdictions and 108 that govern the world from the neck up. Each one of these days should as the Upanishad says be free of worms (gossip or lies) without thorns, (violence or wickedness) or sores (grudges, complaints).

This is how one manages life one day at a time and all the days that follow all at once.

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dailyanarchistposts · 8 months ago

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The intentional family of Waldbesetzungen and climate camps is steadily growing. Central squares are being occupied in six other German cities, as are a dozen forests and meadows.

Feminist, antiracist and anti-capitalist struggles are coming together in the woods, because all forms of oppression are interlinked. Black is the new green.

In times of greenwashing, green capitalism, and eco-fascism, the eco-anarchist Waldbesetzungen and climate camps offer a combative and beautiful spark of hope.

He co-published a report on a LNG-pipeline project in Quebec and a zine about a mall being built in his native village in southern France.

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superhero--imagines · 3 years ago

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A/N: I just love historical AU, I could also totally see Dick Grayson pulling something like this lol

The kingdom of Oceania spans approximately forty-four thousand, five hundred and eighty-two square miles, it’s main exports are saltwater pearls and sea salt, and houses a modest population of twenty-three million. And of those twenty-three million citizens, one of the most important public figures is currently resting his head in his arms on your desk, staring up at you with puppy dog eyes.

‘I wish he wouldn’t do stuff like this.’

“What can I help you with your highness?” You keep your eyes fixed on the paperwork on your desk, your ears trained on the scratching noise of your pen against paper.

“I told you not to call me that.” You allow yourself a quick glance, the frown on his face only curling down further.

“My sincerest apologies for my transgression, your majesty, third sun of the holy Kingdom of Oceania, Prince Perseus Jackson.” An impatient huff whistles past his lips, and you finally look away from the documents to meet his gaze. His mouth is creased in a fine line, link creeping onto his cheeks when you meet his famous ocean half-green-half-blue eyes.

“I told you to just call me Percy when it’s just the two of us.”

It’s true, he has urged you to call him by his nickname once or twice. Making the same exact expression he is right now when you continue to call him by his official title.

Perseus Jackson, second prince of the holy kingdom of Oceania, second in line for the throne, and the illegitimate son of king Poseidon and the daughter of a fallen noble in the countryside.

Six medals glitter on his uniform, one for every year he’s gone to war. That Perseus Jackson, the war hero, the commoner prince, the boy that burst into high society at thirteen years of age and won the hearts of every noble, is currently the cause of your mental gymnastics.

‘I’ve called him by his official title twice, and twice he’s insisted on being called his nickname. Either his etiquette lessons haven’t had any impact or he wants to get his way, so what’s the right thing to do in this situation?’

“Of course…Percy.” His nickname leaves in slow, halted syllables, but if he senses your inner turmoil he doesn’t let on. Instead a grin bright enough to blind someone spreads across his face.

“What can I help you with?” Your hands thread together on the table.

‘He probably needs a favor, probably something about the war he just came back from, he must have charmed some poor thing from the country and had his way with them and now he needs a political favor to cover it all—‘

“Would you have some tea with me?”

‘Huh?’

You watch this nineteen year old boy fidget slightly, averting his eyes from your confused gaze.

“W-we haven’t had much time to talk since I came back, I want to know how you’ve been.”

‘Is that really all?’

“I-I unfortunately cannot at the moment, I have to finish the paperwork for the war.” Even the mention of the stack of work in front of you is enough to get a long sigh to whistle past your lips. All anyone see when a war is over are the victory celebration, and who the ‘hero’ was—not much thought went into the logistics of war, even after a side won there was money to be paid as compensation for the deceased and injured, resources to be moved from one area to another, and reparations to damaged areas.

‘Which means I’ll probably be here all night organizing the rejuvenation efforts.’ You think, stifling a yawn.

“Is that why you’ve been so cold lately? Because you have all of this work because of me?” Percy asks, flashing you those puppy-dog eyes that might even bring Duke Ares to his knees.

‘I’m upset because everytime you show up, it feels like I’m getting a decades worth of etiquette exams in thirty minutes.’

“It’s not like I wanted to go, you know,” he huffs, leaning his arms on the front of your desk. “Triton insisted that someone from the royal family should go.”

‘Then the damn bastard should have gone himself.’

You can’t blame Triton, the crown prince, for becoming wary of Percy. Truthfully, if you had been in his place you may have felt the same.

‘Prince Percy has the uncanny ability to always exceed the expectations of those around him.’

You’re certain that Triton’s been hoping Percy wouldn’t return from one of the countless wars that rage against the kingdom, only to be shocked when Percy not only returned, but with tales of bravery and victory nipping at his feet. Still—

“You think he’d figure out after the first three wars it wasn’t working in his favor.” The words escape your mouth unintentionally, you and Percy share a startled look, your hand slamming over your mouth.

‘Well, it’s been a nice twenty years of life. But now that I’ve slandered the royal family I’ll be executed, looks like mother was right, my mouth really did end up killing me.’

Percy’s laugh break you out of your morose thoughts, your eyes widen when you look up to see him. The rosy tint of his cheek, the boyish tug of his smile, the golden aura of joy that radiates off of him—

‘You couldn’t ask for a more charismatic prince.’

“That’s what I’ve been saying.” He says, leaning back in his chair, a smirk twitching into his lips. “I don’t know why he’s so paranoid, I already told him I don’t want to be King.” You feel like you’ve traded one secret for another, you criticize a royal and in exchange Percy disparages the throne—both punishable actions.

“Hey, if I help you with this paperwork, you’ll be able to join me for tea won’t you? Well I guess it’ll be late…how about dinner instead?” You watch this prince, the most popular boy in all of Oceania, fuss over the paperwork stacked in his vassals office, a smile threatening to curl into your lips. It’s certainly not proper etiquette to let a prince help you with your work but…

“If you can handle the organization of revitalization in damaged areas, I can do the rest and we can make it in time for afternoon tea.”

‘Some mistakes are worth making.’

The smile he gives you is more than worth the possible punishment. The kingdom of Oceania spans approximately forty-four thousand, five hundred and eighty-two square miles, its main exports are saltwater pearls and sea salt, and houses a modest population of twenty-three million. And of those twenty-three million citizens, you seem to have a soft spot for the most important person out of all of them.

#percy jackson x you #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #percy jackson imagine #percy pjo #pjo #pjo x you #pjo x y/n #pjo x reader #superhero--imagines

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