#bob leaner

[bowlorass]

Somebody PLEASE play Serial Cleaners. It doesn’t even have a fandom. LOOK AT THE ART!!

For some context: You play as a crew of cleaners in the mid to late 90s, cleaning up the aftermath of crimes. The gameplay can be pretty janky at times, but it’s got my heart.

[theegoldenchild]

Chapter Four: Impure Thoughts

Warnings: 18+ | Death | Klansmen | Voyeurism (kind of) | Masturbation | Pillow Humping | Sexual Tension | Religious Control | Religious Abuse | These warnings are lowkey wild

The night draped over the land like a funeral shroud. Every flicker of lantern light and every echo of boot on dirt carried the weight of what was about to come. A hush had fallen over the farm land as the twins left the main house and their men took their assigned positions. Even the crickets had gone quiet.

When the moon rose high enough in the midnight sky it dropped a spotlight down on them and the Klan appeared like filthy roaches scattering everywhere. Flames bobbed through the trees, mounted riders circled the north field brandishing rifles… and a loud unsettling jeer carried across the land like a foul odor.

At the head of Smoke and Stack’s small army the twins stood tall and silent. Smoke’s dark suit glittered under the moon, every inch a promise of control. Stack’s sharper, leaner posture radiated danger like a viper ready to strike. A hush fell as the Klansmen dismounted and marched toward the clearing. Their grins hidden behind sheets covering their cowardly appearance. The wood of their torches carved shadows across their masks. They thought fear would be enough. They thought God was on their side.

They were wrong. And then… the night blew apart.

Smoke stepped forward with calm precision. “I’m not in a good mood tonight and y’all got bout’ five seconds to turn your asses around or I’ll be using your bodies as kindling.” A chant arose behind the Klan, like rot in a grave.

Stack whistled and everyone sprung into action. Ten Klan members hit the dirt before they even raised their rifles. His pistol whispered like a crack of thunder in the air after he pulled the trigger. A torch fell and the man holding it staggered. A shot rang again… a silent echo… and there was no fire. Just a scream cut short.

The intruders fell back, disoriented and bewildered by how this battle was playing out. Members of the Klan tried to rally but the twins moved too fast. Smoke launched forward next and his rifle cracked twice. The sight caught a mounted man in the thigh as he charged. His body sagged, he tumbled. Smoke reloaded without breaking his calm demeanor. He was bored, irritated, and still way too tense.

Stack was in a blur of violence and giggling through it all. His gold cufflinks flicked sparks when he spun the barrel of his revolver. One moment he was drawing his pistol, the next he was holstering it again, two bullets, two Klan men shot down in the head before they realized what had happened. Within minutes the Klan line broke and fear spiked through their ranks. Horses reared. Some ran screaming. Some dropped their weapons and crawled back to the tree line begging for mercy… But mercy didn’t exist on this land tonight.

After an hour of pure chaos the twins and their army looked at the pathetic bodies piled high. Not a single one of them had been touched yet by the invaders. By the time dawn painted the horizon pale pink, the land lay quiet. Smoke and Stack’s men cleaned rifles and checked wounds that didn’t exist. Corpses of the Klan stacked up and enough damage was done to send a silent message to everyone within a 100 mile radius.

Letting out a quiet sigh, Smoke watched the sunrise from the porch as Stack rested his hand on his shoulder.

“Too easy?” Stack murmured.

Smoke nodded, gaze fixed on the horizon. “God don’t always need to smite the wicked… Sometimes he sends two brothers in suits.”

Stack cracked a grin. “Amen to that.”

The twins didn’t get to savor their win for long. They looked across the land and noticed Pastor Samuel with a twisted look on his face as he stormed towards them. Neither twin could tell if the man was happy, angry, or just needed to take a shit.

Straightening up, both men stood tall, dust and death still lingering around them like a crown. Stack cracked his neck with an exaggerated tilt of his head while Smoke kept his hand resting on his pistol. He didn’t draw… he didn’t need to. But the heat of his palm against the grip kept his temper from rising all the way to his mouth.

And yet, the moment he looked at Pastor Samuel, all he could think about was her. The bruises. The way she winced when she tried to walk. The guilt that wasn’t hers. Those knees. Bloody, raw, and bent before scripture. All because of him.

“Hell,” Smoke muttered under his breath, jaw tight. “I don’t even like the way that muthafucka breathes.”

Stack whispered low, just enough for Smoke to hear. “Wanna pop that nigga like a tick.”

The Pastor came closer, shoes crunching over dirt and gravel and hands folded behind his back like a plantation overseer. He looked over the battlefield without saying a word, his eyes lingering on the fallen torches, the rotting pile of dead bodies, the precision and power on display by men he claimed not to trust.

“Didn’t ask you to kill nobody,” he finally said, his tone full of judgment and disgust. “Told you to protect my land. Not bring damnation down on it.”

Stack let out a surprised grunt and raised an eyebrow. “You want us to apologize for winnin’?”

Samuel’s eyes flicked to him, then to Smoke… like if he had the power and courage to kill him, he would. “I want you, your demon twin, and your men on the north field only. That was the deal. You stay off my porch, outta my home, and away from my daughter.”

Stack blinked slowly, then let out a sarcastic chuckle. “Which part got you so twisted up, preacher? That we did your job, or that your daughter looks at us like we ain’t the monsters from Hell everyone thinks we are?”

Smoke didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. His stare was sharp enough to peel bark off a tree. “You oughta be careful what you say next,” he told the pastor flatly. “’Cause the only reason your land’s still yours is ‘cause we took care of what you couldn’t. And when it come to Sera… it’s obvious that it ain’t us she need protectin’ from.”

“She needs protectin’ from everything you are,” Samuel snapped, his voice cracking for just a second. “From temptation. From lawlessness. From men who think violence is salvation.”

That made Stack snort loudly. “Nigga, this is Clarksdale, Mississippi. Ain’t no such thing as salvation down here unless you kill for it.”

Smoke took a step closer. Just one. Which was enough to make the preacher stiffen. “You ever make her bleed again,” Smoke hissed in a venomous tone, “and you’ll be lookin’ up at me from the dirt, beggin’ God for mercy I ain’t got.”

Pastor Samuel’s nostrils flared, but he held his tongue. The air between the three of them thickened. You could taste it… sour… humid… full of fury. “North field,” the pastor spat again, like the words were bile on his tongue. “Stay outta my house and stay away from my damn daughter!”

“Wasn’t plannin’ to step foot in your house,” Smoke replied. “And she ain’t yours. That’s a grown woman with a mind of her own.”

“She ain’t yours either,” Pastor Samuel barked. “But I know you was in her room last night. That stench—” he stepped forward now, trying to muster some authority, his voice rising with brittle rage, “—that filth on her skin… you reek of it! Whiskey and sin. I smelled it when I went in to wake her for mornin’ prayer.”

Stack cocked his head, a smile curling his lips. “Boy, you must got a death wish.”

“You think I don’t know what you did?” Pastor Samuel growled. “You touched my daughter, and I swear before the Lord, I will kill you.”

That was the last word out of his mouth before Smoke’s fist cracked across his jaw like a bolt of thunder. The pastor didn’t even have time to grunt. His body whipped sideways, feet skidding in the dirt before he collapsed in a heap near the steps of the porch, blood already trickling from his split lip.

“Then you best make peace with your god tonight,” Smoke snarled, looming over him with fire in his eyes.

Stack, who had been laughing just moments ago, went still. Something behind his eyes shifted into something dark and unhinged. The smile on his face disappeared, replaced by a quiet and eerie stillness. He crouched beside the groaning preacher with his fingers twitching like he was trying to choose which bone to break first.

“I could cut your tongue out,” Stack murmured. “Feed it to you while you pray. Could hang you upside down from that oak tree in your yard and skin your back with a rusty knife. I’d take my time, too. Paint this porch red, inside and out.” Pastor Samuel tried to move, tried to scramble back, but his body wasn’t ready to listen.

Stack leaned in close, his voice now deceivingly sweet and soft. “Or maybe I’ll just wait till you sleep and slit you quiet. Let you meet your God without even a scream.”

Smoke leaned over and spit near Pastor Samuel’s boot. “You a man of God? Start actin’ like one. ’Cause next time we find her cryin’ or bruised, you gon’ be wearin’ that collar in a coffin. And put her furniture back in her bedroom. Today.”

Stack slowly stood to his full height, brushed the dust off his sleeves, and glanced down with a devious smirk. “Ain’t no holy ghost gon’ save you from us.”

With that, the twins turned and headed toward the north field leaving Pastor Samuel on the ground, bloodied and broken, as the weight of their threat lingered heavier than any sermon he’d ever preached. And in the bedroom window above them, hidden behind white lace curtains, Sera watched everything. Her fingers pressed to the glass, a soft ache blooming in her chest that she didn’t have words for yet. A feeling she’d never known before, equal parts fear and curiosity.

Down below, Stack leaned over to his brother as they walked side by side. “Thinkin’ about her again?”

“Shut up.”

Stack grinned. “You think he knows he’s already lost her?”

Smoke’s jaw flexed, hand once again brushing his pistol. “He will.”

A week passed since the night the land bled fire and the Klan ran like dogs in the dark. But you wouldn’t know it now. The sun rose the same. The roosters crowed with no regard for the victory buried in the soil beneath their claws. And the little house once brimming with tension and whispers had gone quiet. Way too quiet.

Sera stood at the kitchen sink with her sleeves rolled to her elbows while she scrubbed the same plate for the third time. The water had gone cold and her fingers pruned, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her mind wandered like it often did now.

The new dresses her father brought home were heavier, stiff with modesty and shaped to completely erase her. High collars, thick cotton, long hems that brushed the floor like she was gliding through a mourning veil. She was to wear them every day. No more yellow. No more blue. No more sundresses that unintentionally cling and make men’s eyes linger longer than they should. When she analyzed herself in the mirror each morning it told her nothing. She was now just a ghost of a girl with her untamed ginger hair lazily pinned up and her new clothing the physical embodiment of hopelessness.

“Girl, why you standing there daydreaming?” her father’s voice barked from the hallway.

Sera blinked herself out of her daze. “I’m washing, Daddy.”

“Well, wash faster. Ain’t no point in staring at soap suds like they gon’ save you.” His voice trailed off as he went back to his study. Since the explosion with the twins he’s been spending more time in his study and less time unnecessarily punishing Sera.

The lack of ‘unnecessary’ punishments didn’t mean Samuel wasn’t able to find other ways to keep his daughter obedient. After being embarrassed by the twins, he gave Sera a strict schedule and a new set of rules to follow:

Monday through Saturday:

5:00 AM - 9:00 AM Prayer

10:00 AM - 1:00 PM Chores

2:00 PM - 3:00 PM Cooking

4:00 PM - 6:00 PM Chores

7:00 PM - 8:00 PM Bible Study

8:00 PM - 5:00 AM Sleep

Sunday:

5:00 AM - 7:00 AM Prayer

8:00 AM - 2:00 PM Church

3:00 PM - 4:00 PM Cooking

5:00 PM - 7:00 PM Chores

8:00 PM - 5:00 AM Sleep

She was no longer allowed to run errands or explore the town alone. And worst of all she was FORBIDDEN from stepping foot near the north field.

The land still buzzed with the ghosts of gunpowder and footfall. Being men of their word, Smoke and Stack kept to their side with their men patrolling like entities that belonged to a different world entirely. One Sera wasn’t allowed to touch. She only saw them from the window now if she parted the curtain just enough. They moved like kings with no crowns, suits still crisp even in the heat, laughter low and sharp like polished knives.

Stack often glanced at the house and sometimes he would wave. The first time he did it she ducked and stayed behind the curtain for a full hour after. She wasn’t sure if he saw her. And she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to. The second time he did it she nervously waved back and then immediately closed her curtains to pray.

Smoke never looked. Not that she noticed. But somehow she felt him… the weight of his eyes, even when they weren’t directly pointed at her. It made her heart flutter with something she didn’t have a name for yet.

Sera sat quietly in her room with the Bible on her lap. After finding peace on his land now that the Klan was dealt with, Pastor Samuel thought she ‘deserved’ to have her furniture returned to her. The candle on her bedside table had burned low, the wax forming tiny lakes against the holder. Her knees still ached from last week. The blisters were gone, but the skin felt new and thin.

The first night after the battle, Sera stayed awake until her body gave out. But the nights that followed brought something worse than exhaustion; it brought a burning need. A slow, creeping feeling coiled low in her belly and refused to fade away. It started when the house fell quiet. When no one called her name. That’s when she felt it the most… The phantom touch of Smoke’s hands, the rough drag of his thumb against her thigh, the careful hold of her knee, the way he said ‘my love’ like it meant something. Those memories were burned into her skin, rewinding again and again until she could barely breathe beneath the weight of them.

By the fifth night, the subtle ache bloomed into a throb and she couldn’t take it anymore.

After finishing her required Bible study for the night, she locked her bedroom door and her heart was racing before she even slid beneath the covers. Her cotton nightgown clung to her thighs already sticky with heat. She squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a prayer for forgiveness, but even as her lips moved, her hand was already drifting under the blanket. Trembling and curious.

What would it feel like… If I touched where it hurts? If I pressed where he looked at me… like he wanted to taste my sins?

Her hand slipped slowly underneath her nightgown, grazing over the soft curve of her hip and down the inside of her thigh. She gasped softly when her fingers brushed damp cotton. She was completely soaked. Her legs fell open without thinking. Her fingers slid along her untouched cotton covered cooze, and she bit back a moan— but then she paused when she heard footsteps outside her door.

Cutting her eyes to her bedroom door, she heard them again… slower… heavier… calculated. Not her father. Not a stranger. A step she’d only heard once before, echoing through the hallway the night Smoke found her wrapped in nothing but a towel.

She didn’t need proof to know it was Smoke. During the short time he carried her she had already memorized his walk. She knew the rhythm of his boots, the weight of him, and the gravity he carried when he walked. His presence was pressing through the door, thick as heat, wrapped around her like lust curling beneath the sheets. Her thighs twitched. Her fingers still hovered beneath her gown. The damp cotton clinging tight to her center.

Still, neither of them said anything. And then a single word that was oozing with dominance could be heard through the oak wood. “Continue.”

Her breath shattered and a whimper escaped before she could stop it. Her legs squeezed together and her hips shifted against the mattress with a friction that made her mouth fall open.

He knew. He knew what she was doing. What she was thinking. How badly she wanted relief. No, how badly she needed relief. His voice wasn’t a suggestion and left no room for disobedience. But she was okay with willingly listening to him. Smoke and Stack could tell Sera to jump and she would ask ‘how high?’. In the short amount of time she’s known the twins they’ve proven their devotion to protecting her… Protecting her in a way her father never cared to do.

Her hand moved without conscious thought, slipping beneath her panties as her fingers trembled and grazed her slick heat in an amateurish manner. She gasped, a little louder this time and her knees bent, opening slightly beneath the covers. The sensation in her belly spread fast, hot, wicked, and beautifully.

Although her body seemed to know what to do and how to do it, the battle in her mind was stopping Sera from fully grasping how to get to the point of no return. And it was as if Smoke knew her dilemma.

His voice pierced through the wood of the bedroom door again like thunder before rain, “Don’t be scared. Keep goin’.”

She didn’t answer. Her hand gripped the edge of the blanket and more silence followed. Then… “Find your button… love… circle your finger around it.”

He said it… he said that nickname she had been dying to hear again. Her throat closed around a breath and she blinked into the dark with her face red hot as she tried to follow the instructions given to her. Guiding her inexperienced fingers up and down her slit, she rolled them to the left and to the right. She searched until she felt a bump of flesh that caused her eyes to roll to the back of her head.

Her fingers kept moving on that spot. Faster now, more deliberate. He wasn’t coming in. He wasn’t touching her. He was just standing outside her door, but the thought of him listening to her made the pulsing of her honey pot intensify.

Speaking to her like a devil on her shoulder, his voice soaked in the kind of heat that didn’t belong in a preacher’s house. “Don’t stop,” he drawled, the way he spoke made her body gush.

She whimpered again, hips lifting just a little, chasing the friction her fingers gave. Her breath was unsteady with her curls sticking to her damp temples. Her other hand fisted in the sheets and tugged hard as the sensation swelled in her core. Her whole body felt like it was on cloud nine, chest burning, thighs trembling, and toes curling beneath the blanket. She didn’t know what was happening but she wanted more.

The pleasure mounted fast… a little too fast. Her fingers quickened their pace as they moved in a counterclockwise motion over her swollen clit. A sweet pressure swirled in her belly, like a string was being pulled from deep inside her. Her mouth opened in a breathless moan she couldn’t hold back.

“Let go for me, my love…” Smoke demanded through the closed door. It was as if he could feel the moment rising inside her. And Sera was too wrapped up in herself to notice how breathless his voice was starting to sound.

But she couldn’t finish. Just as she reached the edge, her stomach clenched, and her body bucked but not from release. From panic.

The wave of pleasure inside of her built too fast and just before it broke, she ripped her hand away with a startled gasp, thighs snapping shut, and her heart pounding so hard she thought it might crack her ribs.

“I can’t…” she breathed, barely louder than a whisper. Her body was humming with excitement. Her fingers were drenched and her thighs angrily trembled with denial. And when the shadow on the other side of the door disappeared without another word, she stared at it for a long time.

The screen door groaned behind him as he stepped into the open night. The night air felt colder than usual but it couldn’t burn away the heat rising under his skin. Her voice still clung to him—soft, trembling. “I can’t…”

She had no idea what she’d done to him. No idea that just the sound of her shifting in bed, the catch of her breath, the tension in her voice when she whispered into the dark had officially ruined him. He hadn’t seen a damn thing. But his mind? It painted the rest clear as day.

That cotton nightgown bunched up high on her hips. Her thighs parted, hesitant. Her fingers unsure, slick with curiosity. The blanket rustling with each slow motion of her hand. Her lips parted around silent gasps and maybe biting the bottom one to keep them in. And then that voice… So desperate and honest. “I can’t…”

Goddamn he was in deep. Smoke dragged a hand down his face with his jaw tight, as he cut through the trees and followed the well-worn path back to the north field. Crickets sang around him in a mocking tone. Wind bent through the linen of his suit. And the moon spilled silver across the dirt, but none of it cooled the blaze inside him.

By the time he stepped into the barn, his coat was unbuttoned and his breath still hadn’t evened out.

Stack was sitting on a crate with his shirt off and bare feet propped up while puffing on a cigarette like he had all the time in the world. He lifted his chin when he saw Smoke.

“Where you been?” His voice was casual but his twin could hear there was something sharp beneath it. “Ain’t like you to disappear mid-shift.”

Smoke didn’t stop walking. “Checkin’ the east perimeter.”

Stack arched an eyebrow. “Mhm. That right?”

Smoke didn’t answer. Just moved past him, straight toward the back of the barn.

“Sure took your time,” Stack called after him, grinning around the cigarette. “You paid our girl a visit?”

Smoke’s back tensed for a millisecond but he kept walking. “Get some sleep,” he grumbled, brushing past the curtain and slamming the door to the private quarters shut behind him.

The second it latched, he leaned against it and finally let out the breath he’d been holding since he left her door. His hands ranked frantically through his hair. He was hard as a rock and wound so tight it hurt. All of this and he didn’t even get to see Sera explore herself, only listen.

He envisioned everything in his mind… the way her thighs might’ve trembled as her fingers slipped lower, the way her back probably arched when she got close. The way she might’ve whispered his name if she’d only had the nerve. He could hear it. Mr. Smoke.

Without wasting another second, Smoke began stripping himself of his clothes like a rabid animal. He couldn’t suppress his desires anymore and he let out a dissatisfied growl when he spit on his hand before gripping his throbbing manhood. Sitting on the edge of his bed he desperately dragged his fist up and down his girthy 9 inch rod. Paying ample attention to his sensitive head that was leaking precum and the vein that ran down the curve of his meat. He needed more and jerking off felt like self inflicted punishment opposed to relief.

He paused his movements and quickly scanned his room for an extra pillow he remembered he tossed earlier that morning. Noticing the pillow in a nearby corner, he grabbed it and made his way back to his bed.

“This is so fuckin’ stupid,” he murmured, throwing the pillow onto the bed and climbing after it, his body already thrumming with pressure. “A grown man… losin’ his mind over a girl who kneecaps he only touched.” After folding the pillow in half, Smoke climbed on top of it and slid his dick through the makeshift opening. It wasn’t Sera, but this would have to do for tonight.

Closing his eyes, Smoke began to rock his hips in a steady motion as he imagined what Sera would look like being stretched to the max. With one hand braced on the mattress and the over on the pillow he imagined how soft and warm her insides must feel and the noises she would make while in ecstasy.

“You feel so good baby… I’ll teach you how to take all of me… My perfect angel…” He mumbled in a needy and hushed tone while losing himself to his fantasy.

Finally he could feel himself getting closer to his peak and he increased his pace as he started drilling into the pillow. He wanted to be discreet in case any wandering souls passed by his room, but right now he didn’t care. His bed squeaked louder and fantasy images of Sera climaxing over and over his dick finally pushed him over the edge.

“I’d be so good to you,” he choked out, groaning low in his throat. “Wouldn’t hurt you. Wouldn’t rush. Just let you feel it all… Stretch you out real good…”

He pushed harder into the pillow, every drag of friction a poor imitation of what he really wanted. Her. Bent beneath him, learning everything from him. Crying out as he brought her to the brink again. And again. And again…

“You think your daddy taught you what obedience is?” he rasped. “I’d teach you with my mouth ‘tween your legs everyday until pleasure is all you know.”

His body jerked, pleasure ripping through him as he imagined her saying his real name through a moan—her fingers digging into his skin and her eyes glazed from a high only he could give her. Smoke groaned through gritted teeth as his hot seed poured out of him and coated the fabric of the pillow. “Fuck…”

Rolling over on his back, his skin glistened with sweat and he threw an arm over his head while steadying his breaths. His hunger wasn’t satisfied, if anything this just made it worse as the blood wasted no time rushing back to his dick and bobbed with need.

“This ain’t enough,” he muttered to himself before grabbing the soiled pillow for round two. “Won’t ever be enough.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

Nobody:

Sera and Smoke:

Meanwhile Stack:

He will get to bust a nut soon I pinky promise!

Tag list: (If I forgot to add you please remind me and blame everything on my dyslexia.)

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theethighpriestess @imagining-greatness @hearteyes-for-killmonger @blackpantherismyish @theogbadbitch @queenofklonnie22 @underated345-blog @bxrbie1 @harleycativy @hermyowney @kcundercover0 @cleo92bitch-i-am-old @gtf-o-m-d @merranerra @afroslacks @wingedpeachjudgegiant @smutattack @solarssins @xoxodaedreams @rolemodelshit @chrisevansmentee @honggihwa @softy212 @michifilmz @hon3yjaxx @ladymac82 @fruitypatooties-blog @whysoceerious

[diejager]

Hi! Could you please a non-con with John Price? I really love your blog!!

Orders, Private

Pairing: Dark!Captain John Price x fem!reader

Cw: NON-CON/DUB-CON, DARK, nsfw, p in v, creampie, choking, age gap, oral (male receiving), implied pregnancy, unprotected sex, cockwarming, implied discharge, abuse of authority, slight daddy kink, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.8k

You joined the army to feel secure, to be safe and to be able to protect yourself. Although it was a predominantly male occupation, you found yourself feeling more at home and comfortable with them and the few female soldiers at the base. You had a small convent of your own composed of the women who left their households to join the military for various reasons, both good and reasonable. You trained and grew, fresh out of the toxic environment of a strict religious family, climbing from a cadet to a Private First Class at 19. You were proud and so were your brothers and sisters, watching the scrawny kid grow leaner and stronger in the past year. 

You were safe and protected. You could defend yourself from others tempted to force themselves on you. You were strong. Perhaps you became too relaxed knowing you were surrounded by people you could trust, letting your guard down and your nativity unchecked. You felt safe, you hadn’t worried about your commanding officers. You didn’t see yourself being in danger around them, and yet, here you were, forced to your knees for a man you trusted, a man that had led you and inspired you all. 

That’s why it hurt even more.

“Orders, private,” was all he told you, dark eyes staring at your bobbing head between his legs. A cruel grin danced across his lips, a proud and shrewd smile that creased the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Sweat rolled down his forehead as he bit back a groan, throwing his head back and thrusting back into your mouth. 

You let out a pained whine, fingers clawing at his thighs, big and hard, hot under your smaller hands. His balls slapped your wet chin, his cock far down your throat had made swallowing difficult, saliva dripping from your wide and swollen mouth. He growled, rocking his hips erratically, chasing the tightness in his groynes, the promise of relief. He laughed when you gagged, your throat retching and closing. He laughed like it was a joke, a cruel joke that he suddenly came up with to deprive you of air. 

He used the momentum of both his thrusts and the bobbing of your head to force his shaft deeper, hitting the back of your throat as he throbbed in your mouth. Your nose bumped his musky, pubic hair, the scent was strong and heady, smelling of sex and sweat. Your chin rested against his heavy sack, balls tightening as he came down your throat, spurting ropes of tangy cum.

“Swallow, private. I’ll make you lick it clean if I see a single drop on the floor.”

His threats weren’t hollow, they were true and founded on the fear of harsher abuse. You tried swallowing every drop, throat gagging around his softening shaft in a failed attempt at listening to his order. His rough fingers brushed your hair back, playing the illusion of an encouraging master, rewarding you with soft petting - an illusion of a consensual blowjob. You weren’t fooled, you couldn’t be after this. 

Your hands left his thighs to cup at your closed mouth when he slid out, his heavy cock slapping your chin as it left. Your cheeks were swollen with cum, the salty substance weighing heavily on your tongue and conscience. You tilted your head back to ease the flow, still and subservient to his calm petting. Slowly, you swallowed everything, red eyes closed and teary, tears streaming down your cheeks as he cooed at you lovingly. If only you could disappear, leave your body and let it all happen to you while you weren’t here, while you dissociated-

“AH!”

White hot pain flashed through your mind, Price’s fingers grasped your hair and tugged your head back, forcing your mouth open for him. He hummed satisfyingly, eyes glued to your swollen lips and flat tongue. He roved over it, smiling proudly at your tear-stricken expression, your wet cheeks, dilated, doe eyes and your messy hair. The sight of your dishevelled look seemed to arouse him further, his once-soft cock hardening between his thick legs, standing proudly with a pink blush on the tip. 

He jerked you back, throwing you to the ground as he stood up, circling your gasping figure. You rested on your knees and elbows, back facing him and head down, chest puffing with erratic breaths. Wolves would lower their heads before a stronger pack emmener, showing their submissiveness or respect to the older and stronger wolf. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him anymore. It hurt too much. However much you wished you could rebel, you knew it was futile. 

You were a private and he, a captain of a Task Force. He outranked you by nearly two decades in experience and reputation. No one would believe you if you told them that Captain John Price had raped you. You would be called a traitor, a sham, a liar, someone who wanted to ruin the pristine image of the great Captain Price. 

You were alone, no one would help you.

“Get up.”

On shaky knees and unstable footing, you stood up, steps stuttering to reach him at his desk, but you were too slow for his liking. His hand reached to grab at your lapel, pulling you to him. He kicked behind your knees, knocking you off balance and onto his desk, upper half splayed over the hardwood. He bent you with the full intention of fucking you. It scared you because you wouldn’t be able to fight him off, he was both bigger and stronger. 

Your nails dug into the wood, looking ahead with fresh tears. He felt your body, big palms wrapping around your waist and down your chest, cupping your breast with a sigh from him. He gripped your hips, feeling the leather belt buckle and ripped it free. You cried out as he pulled your pants down, hands kneading the curves of your hips and the roundness of your ass, fingers gripping your fat with the intent of bruising you. 

“Please…” you begged. You didn’t know why you did it, but it was the only thing you could do at the moment. Beg until your voice turned hoarse and weak, a whisper of what it used to be at the peak of your glory.

He scoffed.

“You’re always so soft.” 

He felt you a while longer before his searing hands left you. You sighed but froze when something hard and hot bumped your ass, the wet mass rutting over you. Your breath stuttered and you resulted to hide your face between your crossed arms, giving up on your miserable fate. He pumped himself, sighing as he ran the tip over your fold, slipping between your slit and nudging your pulsing clit. A shuddering chill wracked your body, breath stuck at the back of your throat.

He blew out a chuckle. Your body reacted to his stimulation while your mind still reeled at the betrayal. Your body and mind were two different things, one reacted to things while the other commanded. Although you abhorred it, it was only natural that you were slick from everything. Your begging and crying did nothing to stop your body from reacting accordingly to Price’s touch or dampen the intensity of your slickness. 

“So warm… and wet-” he rocked into you once his mushroom head caught your entrance, bottoming out in one hard thrust. 

You jerked forward with a cry, clinging to his desk as he pulled out and pushed in roughly. He groaned as he slammed in, eyes rolling back when your warm walls squeezed around him, trying to accommodate his bigger girth. Price drove into you with feral grunts, hips rocking and hands bruising you. He liked painting your skin black and blue with his hold, and carving your flesh with the half moons of his blunt nails, red and irritated. It was a show of possessiveness, marking his little soldier to remind you and himself of who you belonged. It roused the predator inside of him, bringing it to the surface of his usually calm and commanding facade. But none came alone, one always brought another; he’d whisper dark promises to you, ravaging you with animalistic intent. They were dirty things, brutal promises that he had full intentions of keeping.

It made you fear him more than anything else. 

“No! Please no! Price stop- ”

You struggled against his assault, legs kicking under him and voice screaming for reprieve in the soundproof room. He slid his arm under you, grasping your throat as he pressed into you, the tip ramming into your cervix. You choked a hoarse cry, body pulled in an arch before him, head over his shoulder, forearm holding you against his chest and hips between him and the desk’s sharp edge. It dug into your flesh as his cock ploughed deeper inside of you, spearing you over his throbbing length, threatening to spill a second time. 

“I like the thought of you swollen, love,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his beard irritating the soft skin of your neck as his pace grew frantic, latching on to the tight string of pleasure. “Swollen with my child, hmm?”

He chuckled at your fearful whine, your head shaking and fingers clutching his hand, running red lines over it. 

“Yeah, I love it too. Watching the little nipper run around the house.”

His sweat dripped from him to you, the musky odour of sex, pine wood and cigars coating you in a mix that is instinctively his. A musk that belonged to John Price. His hand left your hip to toy with your sensitive nub, rolling it with his thumb while you moaned and squirmed, the walls of your sexe tightening around him like a vice. He cursed and jerked his hips faster, harder and rougher, lost in the delirium of pleasure and hunger. 

“Come, love. Come now.”

Orders, private, echoed in your mind, his word was law, his hand, the mighty hammer. He ingrained it in your mind and your body reacted as such. A well trained pet for its master to order around. Your breath caught in your throat and your hip bucked into his thrusts, head thrown back with a sharp keen. You closed around him, spamming walls pulling him deeper as the waves of pleasure crashed over you, quenching your dripping arousal. 

“Fuck-” he swore, grinding against you as your relief pulled at his. He came with a moan, tip spurting white, potent cum into your young womb. It flooded your cunt and leaked around him, staining his military-issued pants with dark patches. He stayed inside of you as he sat on a chair, plugging you with his soft cock to keep from wasting his seed. He wanted it to take so he could have you discharged and kept at home. He wanted you as his little wife, possessiveness rearing its ugly head.

 “You’ll make me a daddy this time, yeah?”

If not, he’d just fuck you again and again until it knocked you up.

[reformhim]

A Sensational Swap

The beach air was thick with salt and heat, and the only sound louder than the crashing waves was their breathing.

Noah—tall, broad-shouldered, with sandy blonde hair and a cocky glint in his blue eyes—stepped in closer. His sculpted chest shimmered under the sun, lightly furred and glistening with sweat. Across from him stood Mateo—shorter, leaner, with soft brown skin, a gentle dusting of chest hair, and rich, soulful eyes that made Noah’s pulse quicken.

Mateo tilted his face up, lips parted. And when Noah leaned down to kiss him, the world seemed to go quiet.

Their lips met, and something ancient stirred in the air.

At first it was just heat—warmth building in the base of their spines—but as the kiss deepened, their bodies began to respond. Slowly. Sensually. Elementally.

Noah felt it first. A tingling in his chest. The dense muscle of his pecs began to soften, flattening just slightly, reshaping into Mateo’s slimmer form. His sculpted definition smoothed out as if his muscles were melting into grace. The chest hair he was so proud of thinned to a delicate dusting down the center of his torso. His cock, heavy and proud, pulsed as it narrowed and reshaped—sleeker now, still hard, still sensitive, but transformed. His balls shrank, making a slight slurping sound as pulled closer to his body. He gasped softly against Mateo’s lips, voice higher, breathier.

His size 12 feet began to shrink, toes flexing as they condensed and narrowed to a size 9. His strong calves and thighs lost some of their mass, replaced with taut elegance. His whole body felt lighter, more agile, more exposed. His hands—once large and veined—slimmed to match the boyish charm now overtaking his face.

And Mateo… Mateo moaned deeply into the kiss as his own spine cracked upward with a slow, satisfying stretch. He rose, inch by inch, his neck lengthening, his shoulders broadening with each heavy breath. His lean pecs began to swell outward, rounding with new muscle. Coarse, sandy hair spread across them like wildfire. His nipples grew thicker, pinker, his stomach tightening into a strong wall of abs. His arms filled out with sinew and power.

He let out a deep groan, eyes fluttering open as he felt his cock swell—fatter, longer, flushed with heat. His balls dropped with a heavy ache, the weight of new masculinity settling between his now-muscled thighs.

Even his feet changed—lengthening and thickening into strong size 12s, veins trailing up the ankles now framed by firm calves.

They parted only briefly, gasping.

Noah—now in Mateo’s smaller body—looked down at himself in awe. His hands ran down his chest, over the softer skin, the slender waist, the lean thighs. His new cock was stiff, pulsing, foreign yet exhilarating.

Mateo—now towering with Noah’s bulk, his face roughened with stubble—grinned and ran a hand through his now-thicker, sunlit hair. His cock throbbed proudly, bobbing between his thighs as he stepped forward, his new muscles flexing effortlessly. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice now deep and coarse, “I feel incredible…”

Their eyes locked. Recognition passed between them—but it was more than that. They were still themselves. But also… each other.

Noah, now smaller and vulnerable, craved the strength standing in front of him. Mateo, taller and virile, burned with a need to claim and protect. They fell into each other again, mouths hungry, bodies rubbing, exploring the unfamiliar terrain of one another’s skin.

By the end, they stood side by side in the golden light, transformed and gasping, their breath syncing as the surf rolled in.

One twink. One hunk. Both reborn.

[destiny-aesthetics]

LORE: THE GARDEN-WAY

1. Judgment (1/6)

This being the recollection of Irrha of the House of Slayers, apprentice to the Baron Kiiraskes.

This being the recollection of Irrha of the House of Slayers, apprentice to the Baron Kiiraskes.

[This is so exciting! I will translate as best I can. -Eido, Scribe of the House of Light]

_____________________

It was a beautiful day at the end of the wet season, and the waters had risen high in the canals such that the Palace of Judgment sat on a limned mirror.

My pilot rowed us steadily between the raised walkways. The banners of the great Houses flanked us on either side of the channel. Nearest to the landing, the banners of Kings and Judgment cast long shadows down upon us. It was through them that our unity was possible, and we were not to forget it.

I had spent five days traveling to reach Riis-Ath-Lodrii [1], and just as long before that receiving instruction in the formalities and proper courtesies to be observed in the presence of the Scribes of Judgment. But I was greeted at the landing not by a formal assemblage, but by a lone thin figure dressed in the layered finery of Judgment's officers.

He reached down to help me up out of the watercraft before I had time to bow, sparing only a moment to dust Ether accretion from my cloak.

"Velask, Apprentice Irrha," he said, in a tone that conveyed I had already erred in some way. "Please hurry."

I was led to a side entrance into the Halls of Judgment, where my escort expertly navigated a maze of corridors that led into a small, unremarkable reception room. We stepped into the hushed silence of stifled argument.

There were two figures waiting for us in the room. The first was dressed in the mantle of the city Peacekeepers and the ornamented headdress of the House of Stone [2].

Members of the House of Stone were the foundation upon which the city's defenses were built, and I thought then-as I still do-that the virtues of that House showed in none more nobly than its Kell, Chelchis. She stood twice as tall as I, her limbs as thick as the support beams above us. I could have believed any number of stories about her.

The second figure was clad in a void-black cloak and a pytha-hide [3] crest. The absence of a House symbol marked her as a Baron of the Order of Slayers.

The Slayer Barons had tamed Riis back when it grew wild and disordered in the first century of the Great Machine's Ether Flood. First Riis, and then the moons beyond our sky, which were often hostile to us. Within the hatchling-schools, the minders showed us shadow-stories of cunning hunters, adepts of the Great Machine, working in tandem to bring down the biggest monsters of their age.

I did not think so highly of Baron Kiiraskes when I saw her-leaner than Chelchis, but twice as scarred-until she raised her head and I saw the gleam of her eves beneath her cap. There was a feverish cunning in her scrutiny.

"You brought me a hatchling," she complained.

I felt a hot, familiar resentment—and desperation. It was more important than anything that she not turn me away.

"I have been two solar cycles studying," I pleaded.

"I think Chelchis here has carried clutches for longer than that," said the Baron.

Chelchis' irritated tolling [4] would have withered me in my shell, were it directed at me. All the same, I felt a sick humiliation for having been slighted in front of her.

Nearby, the Judgment official bobbed his head in disapproval.

"You have been assigned what you require," he said. "When was the last time that you needed to be summoned out here, that our Peacekeepers could not handle matters? Apprentice Irrha will suffice."

Kiiraskes gave little indication she heard the official's words. "What is your House?" she asked me.

This moment was inevitable.

"I do not have one." It occurred to me at last that I might have been brought here as an insult.

Kiiraskes regarded me steadily. "We can't all be Kings."

The official rubbed his hands together in agitation. "It will be quick work, Baron. Travel to the farm of Haaksis and dispatch the animal that troubles him. If you require reinforcements, send for the support of a House."

Kiiraskes grunted and turned away. I began to bow and felt her claws latch onto my arm like a star-steel cuff, pulling me from the room.

"Be careful, Slayer Baron." The small chimes on Chelchis' headdress rang softly as she turned her head.

I did not see the gesture Kiiraskes made in response, but I heard Chelchis' amused hiss.

_____________________

[1: "Veins of Riis," or the Channels Through the Body of Riis. One city of many!]

[2: The famed House of Stone!]

[3: A vicious predator native to Riis. Variks says that these were delicious.]

[4: To click a warning at an Eliksni that they can feel in their shell. I bet Humans can feel the vibration in their sternums!]

[I was going to translate everything very literally, but Variks told me I was "ripping the soul from every word." Please forgive me some poetic license! -Eido, Scribe of House Light]

[gorgugplushie]

Sprunki speculative bio...2!

Sprunkies have large molars that they use to clack together, some have beaks for clicking sounds, and others have air sacs near their throat for honking/trumpet noises, all sprunkies have some form of air sacs as they help store air as well. Some sprunkies have beaks so sharp that they can clack them together and admit sparks and flame. This can be used as a threat display or as an elaborate part of their song.

There are "Outer world sprunkies" aka simon and oren. These sprunkies come from off planet and are leaner than their stronger and bigger counterparts. They also have more intricate fur patterns that glow. Their antennae are used to pick up on sound and faint frequency and can generate electricity between them. Owakcx is half oute world, so he can conduct electricity through his quills. Outer world sprunkies are quicker. Simons "ears" can shift color and patterns.

Sprunkies live in Warrens underground. They have powerful legs for kicking, thumping sounds, and digging. Outer World sprunkies live above ground due to their planets' nature. Vinera's warren has tree root supporting it.

Sprunkies live in GIANT intricate barrows, and these warrens have huge spacious rooms. The size of them depends on the members of the choir.

Sprunkie Burrows have a designated guard that keeps look out and protects against any threats, threat displays are done by growling and puffing up their spines (as sprunkie "fur" are more akin to intricate quills that can be controlled with muscle movement.) Some sprunkies can shift their colors as a threat display. Sprunkies will thump and bob their head against their perceived threat. Some get low to the ground and puff up, mimicking a spiny bush.

Sprunkies are omnivores. They hunt small prey like rodent and lizards and are able to eat various plants. They rely on sneaking and trapping prey. While outer world sprunkies are also insectivores.

When a young sprunkie leaves to join another choir, they will introduce themsleves to each member of the choir and will "audition" finding their Call section, this process can take many days depending on the size of the choir. If unable to harmonize properly, the sprunkie will say its good byes and give a small formal performance, thanking the choir for taking it in and attending to its needs as it finds its way. The choir will each individually give the sprunkie and goodbye headbump.

[keira-incognita]

The Many Faces of Daffy Duck

Daffy Duck is arguably one of the most versatile cartoon characters ever created. He has played a myriad of roles over the course of his long career and shown many distinct personality traits. Each director that has worked on Daffy has brought something to the character and has helped define and develop him. The transition Daffy has made over the years has been startling and quite hilarious. From his humble beginnings as an uncontrollable screwball to the greedy egomaniac we all know and love, Daffy Duck has shown more range than most of today’s live-action actors.

It all began in 1937 with Tex Avery’s cartoon "Porky’s Duck Hunt." At this point in time, Porky Pig was, surprisingly enough, the most popular Looney Tunes character and its main star. This cartoon begins much like any other Porky cartoon, but takes a definitively wacky turn that would change the course of animation forever. The first appearance of the as yet unnamed Daffy introduced a new kind of cartoon character: the screwball. Daffy was unlike anything audiences had seen before. He was manic and uncontrollable, insane for no discernable reason. He defiantly stood up to the gun-toting Porky and bounced and laughed his way all over the place, including the end titles. His frantic energy and loony personality were just what cartoons needed.

Daffy, the "crazy, darn fool duck," continued to be an unbridled ball of hilarious lunacy throughout his early pictures in the 1930s and '40s. He received his name in his second appearance, Tex Avery’s 1938 picture "Daffy and Egghead" — which also featured the man who would be Elmer Fudd. However, it was director Bob Clampett, not Avery, who truly developed Daffy’s madcap character. Clampett’s Daffy was a bit taller and leaner than the original squat and pudgy design used by Avery. Clampett’s Daffy was a gleefully wild screwball, who was content to "Woo-hoo" his way throughout life, an almost ever-present thorn in the side of Porky Pig. In fact, Daffy’s popularity began to eclipse Porky’s. Based on 1940’s "You Ought To Be in Pictures" by director Friz Freleng, one might imagine this is exactly what the crafty duck had in mind from the start. Here, Daffy tries to trick Porky into leaving cartoons for live-action features so that he can become the new star of Looney Tunes. While Daffy’s efforts on-screen are not so successful — Porky returns and soundly thrashes the duck — in real life audiences could not get enough of Daffy, and he soon became Warner’s new king of the cartoon hill.

Clampett and the other animators would continue to develop Daffy’s personality and visual design throughout the 1940s. Most notably was the work of Robert McKimson. McKimson made Daffy a little bit leaner, a little less crazy, and a bit wittier. The once great Porky Pig now found himself reduced to being the straight man for Daffy’s wacky antics. Daffy also found himself involved in World War II, much to his chagrin, as evidenced in the 1945 short "Draftee Daffy," where he is constantly evading the "little man from the draft board."

The Daffy of the 1940s was a good-natured goofball who was zany but a little more in control. And just as "You Ought To Be in Pictures" foreshadowed the duck’s rise to stardom, so did "The Great Piggy Bank Robbery" give a glimpse of the next stage in the duck’s evolution. This 1946 gem by Bob Clampett features Daffy as gumshoe Duck Twacy, hot on the trail of a piggy bank thief. This parody of comic strip detective Dick Tracy is complete with a ludicrous rogues gallery featuring such oddballs as Rubber Head and Neon Noodle. Daffy was still a crazy darn fool duck but showed that he could do more than just comedy.

The next director to leave his mark on Daffy was the great Chuck Jones. Jones, I feel, contributed the most to Daffy’s evolution. While he still displayed occasional fits of lunacy, Jones’ Daffy was much more defined by his large ego, his lust for fame & fortune, his greediness, and his uninhibited jealousy of Bugs Bunny. Jones also altered the duck’s design yet again, and it is his taller, lankier and scruffier Daffy that is most recognized today.

The first contribution that Jones made to Daffy’s character was a continuation of what Clampett began in "The Great Piggy Bank Robbery." This is what I like to refer to as Daffy as the hapless adventurer. The 1950 film "The Scarlet Pumpernickel" was the first of many Jones cartoons placing Daffy in the role of an adventure hero parodying popular movies and literature. Harkening back to "You Ought To Be in Pictures," this cartoon features Daffy pitching his masterpiece script to the head of Warner Brothers and proclaiming that he is tired of being typecast in comedy and wants to try his hand as a dramatic leading man. What follows is an all-star Looney Tunes extravaganza that sets up the formula for following cartoons: Daffy relentlessly tries to be a dramatic leading man & hero and proceeds to fail miserably at both. Try as he might, he can’t shake his comedy roots, and time and time again winds up with the short end of the stick.

Daffy’s wacky adventures continued in such classic Jones shorts as the western farce "Dripalong Daffy" in 1951, the sci-fi spoof "Duck Dodgers in the 24th and a ½ Century" in 1953, and "Robin Hood Daffy" in 1958. Not so surprisingly, and in a brilliant bit of revenge, Porky Pig is often featured in these stories as Daffy’s sidekick who ends up overshadowing his mentor and saving the day. While Daffy’s ego and bad luck get the best of him, it’s Porky who is competent and resourceful. Porky defeats the outlaw in "Dripalong Duffy," outwits Marvin the Martian in "Duck Dodgers," and subdues the Shropshire Slasher in the Sherlock Holmes parody "Deduce, You Say." An almost fitting turn of events given what Daffy had put him through over the years.

The final stage of Daffy’s development was as the spotlight craving, greedy, upstaging, egomaniacal foil to Bugs Bunny. Indeed, the pairing of Warner’s two biggest stars was a stroke of pure genius. For just as Daffy had eclipsed Porky in popularity, so had Bugs overtaken Daffy. Daffy was none too happy about it and was determined to get the spotlight back.

The Bugs-Daffy dynamic began with Chuck Jones’ 1951 masterpiece "Rabbit Fire," where the two toons square off against each other in a continued effort to convince Elmer Fudd that the other is the animal currently "in season." Daffy proves to be no match for the superior wit of Bugs and is perpetually on the receiving end of Elmer Fudd’s gun. The debate over whether it was Duck Season or Rabbit Season would continue in "Rabbit Seasoning" in 1952 and "Duck! Rabbit! Duck!" in 1953, the latter were it is ultimately revealed to be Baseball Season!

The Bugs and Daffy rivalry does not stop there, not by a long shot. The animators realized they had a successful formula on their hands and continued to pair the rabbit and the duck in many more films throughout the 1950s and early '60s. Two shorts in particular stand out. The first is the definitive Daffy Duck cartoon and one of the finest animated films ever made. The second is the best example of the Bugs-Daffy one-upping each other relationship, which was surprisingly directed not by Jones but by Friz Freleng.

The first cartoon is the 1953 classic "Duck Amuck" where Daffy is continually plagued by an unseen animator who rearranges the duck’s world and appearance and effortlessly torments our star into a frenetic rage. The animator is finally revealed to be none other than Bugs himself, showing that he has, and always will have, the upper hand. This cartoon exemplifies everything that Daffy is: a wild, loony character, an actor capable of playing any role, an egotist in constant need of attention, and a loveable rogue who is at his funniest when he is losing.

This point is further driven home in the second cartoon, Friz Freleng’s "Showbiz Bugs" in 1957. The rivalry between the stars to see who is funnier, more talented and more popular comes to a head on the Vaudeville stage. Daffy tries and tries to win the audience over and garner applause, but to no avail. He is constantly overshadowed by the effortless performance of Bugs, whose simple dance step gains more appreciation than any one of the duck’s acts, save perhaps for the last one, in which Daffy blows himself up. Unfortunately, as Daffy himself states, "he can only do it once." Daffy finally receives the admiration he seeks and winds up losing anyway. This film proves a simple truth of cartoons. Bugs Bunny is funniest when he wins; Daffy Duck is funniest when he loses.

By the 1960s, Daffy’s journey from unstoppable madman to greedy SOB was complete. While cartoons after this period were of significantly less quality and misused Daffy as the mean-spirited tormenter of Speedy Gonzales, they could not tarnish the memory and reputation of one of the world’s most beloved characters.

Daffy Duck continues to delight audiences to this day in movies and on television. Films like Space Jam and Looney Tunes: Back in Action, and cartoon series like Duck Dodgers continue to show Daffy as the multifaceted comedic genius that he is. He is and always will remain: the greatest foil of Bugs Bunny, the least successful adventure hero ever born, and a crazy, darn-fool duck. And I for one wouldn’t have him any other way.

Selected Filmography

"Porky’s Duck Hunt" (1937) – Tex Avery

"Daffy Duck and Egghead" (1938) – Tex Avery

"You Ought To Be in Pictures" (1940) – Friz Freleng

"Draftee Daffy" (1945) – Bob Clampett

"The Great Piggy Bank Robbery" (1946) – Bob Clampett

"The Scarlet Pumpernickel" (1950) – Chuck Jones

"Rabbit Fire" (1951) – Chuck Jones

"Drip-Along Daffy" (1951) – Chuck Jones

"Rabbit Seasoning" (1952) – Chuck Jones

"Duck Amuck" (1953) – Chuck Jones

"Duck Dodgers in the 24th and ½ Century" (1953) – Chuck Jones

"Duck! Rabbit, Duck!" (1953) – Chuck Jones

"Beanstalk Bunny" (1955) – Chuck Jones

"Deduce, You Say" (1956) – Chuck Jones

"Showbiz Bugs" (1957) – Friz Freleng

"Robin Hood Daffy" (1958) – Chuck Jones

This essay was written in 2005 for the History of Animation course at Columbia College Chicago. It has not been updated to include more recent film & television series featuring Daffy Duck.

[notwiselybuttoowell]

Trump admin aims to gut salmon spending

April 11, 2025

https://www.kuow.org/stories/trump-admin-wants-to-gut-salmon-spending

The Trump White House wants to eliminate several programs that benefit Pacific salmon, the iconic but widely threatened species of the Pacific Northwest.

Much of the effort to keep Pacific salmon from disappearing is funded by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.

An internal document from the Office of Management and Budget, reviewed by KUOW, calls for eliminating NOAA’s Pacific Coastal Salmon Recovery Fund, as well as national grant programs for species recovery, interjurisdictional fisheries, and habitat conservation and restoration.

Overall, NOAA would see a 27% cut in its $6 billion budget under the White House proposal, which has not been finalized and is subject to Congressional approval.

In 2023, the Pacific Coastal Salmon Recovery Fund distributed $107 million to states and tribes, with Washington state receiving $26 million, more than any other recipient. Coastwide, the fund restored 3,624 acres of salmon habitat in 2023 and removed obstacles enabling salmon to reach an additional 202 miles of spawning streams, according to NOAA.

“It's very troublesome because we just want to get the work done and get our salmon back,” Lummi Nation Councilmember Lisa Wilson said.

Treaties signed in the 1850s, before Washington was a state, obligate the state and federal governments to keep salmon around in exchange for taking tribal lands.

“We ceded a lot of land and we were promised that we would always have, as [Territorial Gov.] Isaac Stevens said, we would always have fish for our frying pans,” Wilson said. “It has been, ever since we signed that treaty, a big fight just for the promises to be upheld.”

If the salmon recovery fund is eliminated, “that will have huge impacts to salmon recovery, treaty rights, southern resident killer whales, and fishing communities all up and down the coast and Puget Sound,” Nisqually Tribe natural resources director David Troutt said by email. “We rely on those funds to fund capacity to develop and implement projects all across the state.”

“The importance of NOAA funding across a broad swath of programs along with their knowledge and technical expertise for the West Coast salmon and orca recovery cannot be overstated,” Erik Neatherlin, director of Washington Gov. Bob Ferguson’s Salmon Recovery Office, said by email.

The Office of Management and Budget notifies agencies of its proposed cuts in a process known as a “passback.” Agencies can appeal the passback cuts before the budget is presented to Congress.

“Passback eliminates functions of the Department that are misaligned with the President's agenda and the expressed will of the American people,” the budget document states.

“Passback levels support a leaner NOAA that focuses on core operational needs, eliminates unnecessary layers of bureaucracy, terminates nonessential grant programs, and ends activities that do not warrant a Federal role,” it continues.

The White House proposal would remove programs that protect orcas and other marine mammals, sea turtles, and endangered species from the oceans agency and put them under the umbrella of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

Other proposed cuts that could harm Washington salmon include:

Elimination of the National Estuarine Research Reserve System. The system protects 29 estuaries nationwide, including Skagit County’s Padilla Bay, home to the second-largest eelgrass meadow on the west coast of North America.

Elimination of Sea Grant, a federal-university partnership that funds research and extension and trains students in coastal and Great Lakes states. In 2023, Washington Sea Grant claimed to have produce $38 million in economic benefits by spending just $2.8 million in federal funds.

Halving of funding for the National Ocean Service, which conducts oceanographic research, responds to oil spills, funds coastal zone management, and manages protected areas including the Olympic Coast National Marine Sanctuary.

[mariacallous]

When I read a tweet about four noted Silicon Valley executives being inducted into a special detachment of the United States Army Reserve, including Meta CTO Andrew “Boz” Bosworth, I questioned its veracity. It’s very hard to discern truth from satire in 2025, in part because of social media sites owned by Bosworth’s company. But it indeed was true. According to an official press release, they’re in the Army now, specifically Detachment 201: the Executive Innovation Corps. Boz is now lieutenant colonel Bosworth.

The other newly commissioned officers include Kevin Weil, OpenAI’s head of product; Bob McGrew, a former OpenAI head of research now advising Mira Murati’s company Thinking Machines Lab; and Shyam Sankar, the CTO of Palantir. These middle-aged tech execs were sworn into their posts wearing camo fatigues, as if they just wandered off some Army base in Kandahar, to join a corps that is named after an HTTP status code. (Colonel David Butler, communications adviser to the Army chief of staff, told me their dress uniforms weren’t ready yet.) Detachment 201, wrote the Army in a press release, is part of a military-wide transformation initiative that “aims to make the force leaner, smarter, and more lethal.”

Don’t blame Donald Trump for this. The program has been in the works for over a year, the brainchild of Brynt Parmeter, the Pentagon’s first chief talent management officer. Parmeter, a former combat soldier who headed veteran support at Walmart before joining the Department of Defense in 2023, had been pondering how to bring experienced technologists into service to update an insufficiently tech-savvy militia when he met Sankar at a conference early last year. The idea, he says, was to create “an Oppenheimer-like situation” where senior executives could serve right away, while keeping their current jobs.

Both men collaborated on a plan to bring in people like, well, Sankar, who has been a vocal cheerleader of the Valley’s recent embrace of the military, proclaiming that the US is in an “undeclared state of emergency” that requires a tech-led military rehaul. When The Wall Street Journal wrote about the forthcoming program last October, Sankar vowed to be “first in line.”

In a sign that it’s no longer taboo in the Valley to face the fact that its creations go hand in hand with boosting deadly force in the military, the program was fast-tracked and is now in operation. “Ten years ago this probably would have gotten me canceled,” Weil told me. “It’s a much better state of the world where people look at this and go, ‘Oh, wow, this is important. Freedom is not free.’”

The four new officers are full members of the Army Reserve. Unlike other reservists, however, they will not be required to undergo basic training, though they will undergo less immersive fitness and shooting training after induction. They will also have the flexibility to spend some of the approximately 120 annual hours working remotely, a perk not offered to other reservists.

The Army also says that these men will not be sent to battle, so they will not be risking their lives in potential theaters of war in Iran, Greenland, or downtown Los Angeles, California. Their mission is to use their undeniable expertise to school their colleagues and superiors in the military on how to utilize cutting-edge technologies for efficiency and deadly force.

One might assume the Army would have done an extensive study of the specific talents required for this pilot program and pulled those people from an open call for the best candidates. That did not happen. Sankar helped recruit the other three future officers—all male, which by intention or coincidence seems to satisfy the anti-DEI bent of today’s military—and they all accepted. According to Butler, “Lieutenant colonel Sankar said ‘I want to wear the uniform. And I have three other guys willing to go with me.’” Weil confirms that he joined after a request from Sankar. (Parmeter said to me that since this is a pilot program with an unknown outcome, a closed process was appropriate.)

Clearly, the four new officers genuinely want to serve their country. Weil, who I’ve known for years, told me that when Sankar explained the program, “I was just like, ‘Yes, I want to help—that sounds amazing.’” But during a wave of widespread unease over privileges of tech elite—did you see those disgusting billionaire bros on that show Mountainhead?—special arrangements for well-off digital achievers seems tone-deaf.

My big question is whether these men could have provided the same assistance from the private sector. Parmeter and Butler both cited precedent of cases where top executives were directly commissioned, including a top railway executive in 1917, the head of a gas and electric company in 1944, and the General Motors Company president in 1942. But those were full-time roles during world wars. Parmeter also reminded me that many currently serving reservists are already in the tech industry, including, he claimed, some generals at Google(!). Presumably none of them, however, began their military careers as senior officers, and they presumably do not receive special dispensation to perform some of their service from home.

Another program, the Defense Digital Service, gives tech workers a chance to lend expertise to the Pentagon full time for up to two years. What’s more, Parmeter conceded that the military already has a trusted adviser program, where civilians could work part or full time on projects. "That’s obviously still going on, and that’s something that is useful,” he says. “But in this case, we wanted to go beyond that.”

The Army says that there is no conflict of interest in having these privately employed officers provide advice on high-tech subjects. They will have no say in what contracts the Army makes with the private sector. The expertise they offer, however, seems inseparable from the sectors of AI, VR, and data mining at the center of their companies’ business models. Maybe it’s just bad timing, but the month before Bosworth was sworn in, Meta announced a deal with Anduril, a defense contractor cofounded by former fired employee Palmer Luckey, to pursue military contracts.

Around the time lieutenant colonel Weil raised a hand beside Boz, OpenAI announced a $200 million defense contract: it’s also working with Anduril to develop an air defense system. Sankar’s employer Palantir has billions of dollars worth of government deals, including a $759 million Army contract for advanced AI systems. (Thinking Machines Lab, which McGrew advises, is still in semi-stealth, so there’s no news of its plans for military contracts.) Also, while these soldiers are serving in a personal capacity, their employers will undoubtedly benefit from the inside-the-perimeter knowledge that they will gather while simultaneously working on military contracts.

Lieutenant Kevin Weil, OpenAI's head of product and Army Chief of Staff Gen. Randy A. George Photograph: Leroy Council/DVIDS

OK, so what will they do? Parmeter provides a hypothetical scenario: the commander of the Indo-Pacific region is figuring out how to address threats in the Far East over the next five to 10 years. They might ask Detachment 201 to tell them how the future state of machine learning and AI would affect security in that context. Or, the new officers might operate more tactically, advising how soldiers could use new tools to understand battlefield conditions.

This kind of sounds like … consulting. Weil argues, however, that advice coming from an actual officer would be more seriously heeded: “There’s nothing wrong with being a contractor,” he says. “But if we’re off supporting an exercise somewhere, it’s different that we’re wearing the same uniform, having taken the same oath.”

A more serious consequence might come from these men having dual loyalty when setting policy at their private companies. Companies like Meta, Open AI, and Thinking Machines Lab are helping create superintelligence that could profoundly impact the world. OpenAI is among those companies that prohibit their models from being used to harm others, and that includes developing weapons. But the mission of the US military is exactly the opposite. Working inside the Army, these recruits are explicitly charged with making the technologies more lethal—in fact, in a hearing this very week, Army secretary Daniel P. Driscoll told senators that the Army Transformation Initiative, which involves Detachment 201, will eliminate programs that do not contribute to lethality.

Who will these officers be serving when they make those determinations? (Weil emphatically tells me that his service is a personal matter, and in any case there are plenty of uses for AI in the military that don’t involve killing.) When I brought this issue up to Parmeter, he said that when determining the direction of future AI at their companies, the officers’ wider perspective would be a plus. Then again, Parmeter did mention Oppenheimer, who created the atom bomb.

Bottom line: Sankar, Bosworth, Weil, and McGrew are soldiers now, even if critics are already accusing them of being rich tech bros cosplaying the real thing. Considering the optics, they would do well to avoid any chest-thumping. Weil displayed humility when I spoke to him. But an op-ed Sankar wrote in the Free Press to explain his motives hit a sour note. Though much of it set out the benefits of a private tech industry in sync with the military, and his family’s inspiring American immigrant story (which might not have happened under current Trump policies), he veered into self-aggrandizement. “None of these men need to pad their résumé,” he wrote of his Detachment 201 blood brothers and, by implication, himself. “None have free time between fatherhood, demanding day jobs, and a dozen other demands. But all feel called to serve.”

Forgive me for thinking that their sacrifices rank in the bottom rung of what the vast majority of soldiers experience. In our conversation, Weil, again, was humble about becoming an instant senior officer, a rank given to reflect his achievements in private life. “I’m still a little bit sensitive to the title, because there’s so many people that have given their lives or spent their lives dedicated to this,” he told me. “So I want to earn the title.”

I have no idea how their Army-mates will regard them, but all who hold lower ranks, including life-long soldiers and veterans of combat, will be required to salute the Detachment 201 lieutenant colonels on sight. According to Butler, these overnight officers haven’t yet mastered the art of crisply returning those salutes. “They’ve got a bit of work to do,” he told me.

Time Travel

Weil is correct when he says that a decade ago, Silicon Valley would have condemned him for accepting his post. He was working for Facebook as Instagram’s head of product during the time that Luckey was tossed out of the company for supporting Donald Trump and lavishingly expressing his fondness for the military. In my book Facebook: The Inside Story I describe how in 2016 Palmer Luckey alienated Mark Zuckerberg and the Facebook workforce—by acting like Zuckerberg would act in 2025. All is copacetic now as the two are partners in developing VR technology for today’s military.

Luckey was a political conservative, supporting the right wing with the same enthusiasm he devoted to fast food, cosplay photos with his girlfriend, and soldering artisanal computer peripherals. He was a huge admirer of the military. [Brendan] Iribe [cofounder of Oculus] remembers that he once got a call saying Luckey had driven a tank on the Facebook campus. The police had been called. The vehicle was Luckey’s Humvee, repurposed from military service with toy machine guns attached to the postings. [The orange-colored guns were clearly not operational.] To Facebook’s workers though, it might as well have been a nuclear bomb. Luckey defused the situation and wound up posing for pictures with the cops, but the incident was a black mark on his record. “Here at Facebook, you can’t drive Humvees with guns—military vehicles—onto the lot and have the police show up,” says Iribe. “That’s not what we’re focused on here.”

[randomingoftherandomness]

*throws this like a grenade and runs away*

Tags: Gong Shangjue x Gong Yuanzhi, Cousin Incest, spanking, does this count as brat taming, Gege has a breeding kink, Anal Sex, Biting

🌶️🍋🌶️🍋🌶️🍋🌶️🍋🌶️🍋🌶️🍋

Yuanzhi is taller now than he was when they first started. Firmer, sharper, and leaner. Yet, the sounds he makes are still the same and the way he feels is heaven matched.

Shangjue thinks he was made just for him.

Tonight, Didi is kneeling with his face pressed to the mattress. Naked, pale skin warm and flushed in the candlelight. He’s a beauty, his brother is, and Shangjue thinks in a different life, he would have put a baby in him by now.

An heir and a spare. Maybe a third just to round things up. Yuanzhi, the mother to his children.

His cock stirs at the thought.

They’re taking their time tonight — a luxury they carve a space out for every fortnight. The moment he regains every bit of his internal energy, the second the coast is clear and Yuanzhi can shake off that heavy worry in his eyes, Shangjue is sure to thank his Didi for his care and protection.

“How many?”

Shangjue runs his fingertips down the quivering line of Yuanzhi’s spine. Stopping just as he dips his touch onto the base, he curls his fingers, digging his nails into flesh, dragging red welts into pale skin.

“Ten please, gege.”

Smiling, Shangjue moves to obey.

He doesn’t use his inner energy when they do this. That’s not the point. The goal here is pleasure.

“Good boy.”

The first slap to Yuanzhi’s left ass cheek reverberates in the night quiet of their room. “One…” Yuanzhi counts, muffled by the hand over his mouth. That won’t do. Shangjue gently coaxes him to turn his head, soothing the startled jolt with a soft touch to Yuanzhi’s neck.

“Two…” This one to his right cheek. Hard enough that it is a pretty pink to match the tips of Yuanzhi’s ears.

Adorable.

“Th-three…”

“Four…”

“Five…”

“Six…!”

Yuanzhi’s thighs shake with the effort to keep his hips up. He slips for a moment but regains his balance. Shangjue caresses his handiwork on his didi’s skin, carefully watching how he is panting into the sheets.

“Seven!”

At this strike, Yuanzhi’s heavy erection bobs, neglected and leaking a trail of cum that puddles and darkens the sheets. Shangjue wants to put it in his mouth and taste him raw. He might just.

“E…eight!”

Yuanzhi sobs this count. Tear drops catching in the dark of his lashes. Shangjue has to squeeze the base of his cock at the sight of that.

“Nine!”

His legs spread a little wider. Exposing the winking rose to match the red hand marks that colour his ass cheeks. And if he pauses to briefly rub an adoring thumb against Yuanzhi’s hole, Shangjue is but a man after all.

“One last one, Didi.” He cups a hand over the sweat damp curve of Yuanzhi’s right cheek.

“Ten!”

Shangjue has a hand wrapped around Yuanzhi’s cock, milking him through his orgasm. His Didi shakes, whimpering, breath hitching as he cums in his hand, on their bedsheets, staining the inside of his thighs.

“Gege!” He chants, sobbing. Shangjue turns his head to sink his teeth into the flesh of his hip before pulling back.

Wordlessly, Yuanzhi reaches his hands back, pulling his cheeks further apart. Presenting himself.

“Good boy,” Shangjue coos. “Good Didi, you did so well.”

Yuanzhi’s pleasure glazed eyes twinkle at that. “Thank you, Gege.”

As he sinks his cock into the infernally tight heat of his Didi’s body, Shangjue thinks about how he’s going to pump him full. Thinks of how many times he’ll need to keep his beloved Yuanzhi stuffed and pliant, belly fat with his love, cum drunk and soft in his arms.

Starts to rock his hips in tandem to the little hums that Yuanzhi makes. Pretty, breathless noises that Shangjue leans in to kiss from his lips.

He laces their fingers together, pressing it to the bed.

Maybe this time it will take.

[meroif]

how many chapters will your story have? loved the new update btw

Hmm, as a general rule, I'm aiming for less than 10 chapters, but that is a value that can be adjusted as time goes on.

The original idea for the project was to keep it much shorter than the average IF, given it's my first attempt, and there's much sea to navigate. As we are, two obstacles already stand in the way of the original vision: one, I grew attached to every single little thing that pieces together AHYS, and two, I keep adding bits and bobs in between planned scenes as I write, haha.

While I still think my writing style makes for a shorter read compared to simpler prose (absolutely nothing wrong with simpler prose, easier to assimilate too!), I'm guessing we'll end up with a slightly leaner than average IF, with many side stories to orbit around it.

Hope that clears your doubts, and thank you so much for playing and liking AHYS 🌙

[buck-yyyy]

BYLER - BEGINNING OF A TIME LOOP

!! major character death and angst !!

THIS WORK IS UNFINISHED AND WILL NEVER BE FINISHED

It was an odd feeling, the end of the world.

You’d think that it would make you feel hopeless. Lost, confused. Scared out of your mind, and maybe ready to die.

But the only thing that Mike felt was cold, hard determination.

And sure, he was afraid. It would be impossible to not be.

But as he sat awake in his bed in Hawkins, watching the puffs of spores float through the air for what could easily be the very last time, the only thing on his mind was how ready he was to end this.

For good.

His door opened, and he looked over.

Oh. Nancy.

She was wearing full camouflage, her hair tucked out of her face with a practical bandana. She even had her gun, already strapped across her chest, her hands wrapped around the handle and barrel.

“Mike. Get up. It’s time.”

He took a deep breath, readying himself.

“Am I the last one up?”

Nancy nodded, watching him carefully.

“Are you gonna be okay?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m ready.”

She turned around, glancing back briefly before walking out of the room and pulling the door shut.

He pulled on his clothes: a white tee, a black denim jacket with a soft, fuzzy collar, loose and flexible black cargo pants (each pocket full of useful tools and supplies), and sturdy leather boots that they’d nabbed ages ago from some military store.

As he went to leave, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on his wall.

God, he looked grown up. He didn’t look like the skinny little fourteen year old kid that he did two years ago, when all of this started. He was taller, leaner (though still thin). His jaw was sharper; and his Adam’s apple pressed against the skin of his throat, bobbing as he swallowed.

He pushed back the twinge of resentment that arose with the thought of any lost teenage years.

Sure, it wasn’t fair—but it didn’t matter. That wasn’t the point.

He was ready.

He pushed open the door, walking out into the hallway and making his way down to the living room, where the entire group was sitting strewn around the room, staring solemnly at the floor.

The atmosphere was thick, choking; anxiety filled the room with an uncomfortable fog that made Mike want to run back to his room, slam the door shut, and hide away forever.

But instead, he joined the others on the couch.

“Hey,” Lucas greeted, raising his head.

“Hey,” Mike responded absentmindedly. He stretched his arms, cracking his back. “We need to go over the plan again.”

Robin pulled out a large roll of paper, spreading it out across the Wheeler’s coffee table. She looked up to Nancy.

“Nance? You want to do it?”

She nodded, taking a steadying breath before moving forward and pointing at the marked up paper.

“Okay. We have five teams. Steve, Robin, Dustin, and Erica, you guys set up. You’ll be going in first, making sure the coast is clear of bats or dogs, or God forbid a full-grown.”

“Demogorgon,” Dustin interrupted. “And we’ll carry through as Scoops Troop, thank you.”

Nancy nodded, clearly holding back an eye roll.

“Right. And you’ll be fully armed, with spears and shields. Chest plates go underneath your clothes. You have them on?”

Erica rapped her knuckles against her chest, the solid noise indicating a thick vest underneath.

“Got ‘em.”

“Once you’re in, you’ll set up the way for everyone else. We know the path, that shouldn’t be an issue; we know that he’s camping out in the library. But we do need you to defend while everyone else comes through.” She took a deep breath, pushing back a stray hair. “Once… Scoops Troop clears us, everyone but Murray and Joyce come through. You two are reconnaissance, you’ll make sure that there’s no dangers from outside the gate. And if there are?”

Joyce held up a large siren. “We’ll let you know, hold them off, and help you get out, if needed.”

Nancy nodded again.

“Good. Once everyone is in the Upside Down, we spread out—but once we find him, we stay together. Scoops Troop is outer defense, flanking at the sides. You’ve got the Molotovs, if he tries to get away, flame him. Don’t let him get out. Trap us all in, if we have to; we’ll find a way to get out after he’s dead.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “Me, Hopper, Lucas, and Will, we’re all ranged—we’re the third ring. We stay behind Hopper.” She glanced over at Will, who was staring grimly at the plan, his jaw quivering slightly. “Will, I know you don’t want the gun, but we don’t know enough about the extent of your powers to let you go in without it. And Lucas, you have enough arrows, right?”

Lucas reached for the large quiver leaning against the couch, picking it up and setting it next to the crossbow by his feet.

“Plenty.”

“And just to be clear,” Hopper said gruffly, pushing his way to the front. “She’s going over this plan, but I’m the one in charge. I tell you to get out, you get out. You need to listen to everything I tell you once we’re in.”

Dustin gave him a mock salute, and Nancy gave him a quick nod, before turning back to the map.

“El is the center ring. She’ll be the one doing the majority of the fighting, we know this. That leaves Mike and Jonathan—and you two will be flanking El. Both of you are armed,” Mike glanced over at the crowbar and nailed bat, respectively, sitting off to the side, “but you’ll only be stepping in if necessary. Keep El safe. That’s your job. The majority of any real fighting will be done by the rangers and El, and she needs to focus.

El raised her hand, standing up straight from her spot leaning against the wall.

“And once it’s over? What then?”

Nancy grimaced.

“From what we can tell, it might start to fall apart. Erase itself, maybe, I don’t know—nobody does. But whatever happens, we run like hell. I don’t care how fast you can run the mile—you run ten times faster than whatever you’ve got. Joyce and Murray will have the gate prepped for removal, and they should be able to stop it from closing, we’ve practiced that. They’ll get us out, remove the stoppers, and then it’ll close and we’ll have won.” She allowed herself to smile at all of them, beckoning them to do the same. “And it’ll be over. Permanently.”

Lucas clapped his hand against Dustin’s back, his face pulled into a perfectly serious expression.

Despite the forced confidence, something squirming in Mike’s chest insisted that it wasn’t enough.

It’s not going to work! the thing screamed, pounding its invisible fists against his rib cage. Everyone’s gonna end up dead!

Mike shook his head, his thick messy curls bouncing against his neck.

No, we’re not, he told himself sternly. It’s a good plan, and nobody is going to die. We won’t let that happen.

And if someone does? the thing retorted.

He paused.

Then it’ll be me.

~

Everything was going perfectly, and it fucking sucked.

The unease creeping in around the edge of Mike’s mind was no longer just creeping in; instead, it was full-blown constant panic.

Not panic that he was in the Upside Down.

Not panic that he was only some thirty feet away from Vecna.

Panic that something was going to go wrong, and it would all be his fault.

He clenched his crowbar tightly in his hands, the cold metal a relief from the buckets of nervous sweat dripping off of his body.

“Shit—Jonathan!” he yelled, dropping the crowbar and running forward, jumping up to reach for El’s leg—but she was already up too high before he could reach her.

A deep, echoing laugh came from the front steps of the library where Vecna stood.

“You’ve lost. Accept it,” he said, his voice buttery and sickly sweet. “Or die with her.”

“Mike!” Jonathan called out. “Here, if I lift you up, we should be able to reach her!”

“But she’ll still be in the trace,” Will said.

Mike spun around.

“Will? What are you doing, you’re supposed to stay in your ring?”

Will dropped his gun into the mud, straightening out his shoulders.

“There’s no other way. He doesn’t know about me yet.”

“Will, no,” Jonathan said sharply. “You can’t, it’s too dangerous.”

“Hopper already approved it,” Will replied, walking forward.

“What?”

Vecna watched curiously as Will walked forward, his smaller frame trembling.

“Will Byers. The boy who came back to life.” He laughed. “Though, can we really consider it living, what you’ve been doing?”

Will looked up at the sky, taking a deep steadying breath.

Mike was frozen in place, his feet stuck to the floor with panic. Across the way, Jonathan appeared to be in the same situation, his eyes wide and terrified as he watched his little brother stand at the front of the fight.

No one moved, nor even dared to breathe.

Everything hinged on this—but what if it went wrong?

What if—

Before Mike could finish his thought, Will screamed, throwing his arms out wide. As he screamed, small crackles appeared at his fingertips,

vecna dies, UD starts to fall apart

A sickening crunch snapped Mike out of his panic—a second too late.

Will crumpled to the ground, his face covered in the blood still leaking from his nose.

The world moved in slow motion.

He was vaguely aware of Jonathan running at him, grabbing at his wrists and trying to pull him back, but he slipped out of reach, darting forward and turning over Will to face him.

“Will!” he heard himself yell through the ringing in his ears. “Will, you have to get up, you got him! He’s gone! We can go home!”

Will didn’t respond.

“Will,” Jonathan said, his voice slowed through the fog. Mike could barely hear it, but his voice was cracking heavily, as he pushed down the thick sobs that threatened to escape from his throat. “Will, no, please.” He knelt down next to Mike, wrapping his fingers in Will’s shirt and pressing his forehead to his chest. “Fuck. Fuck, no, what am I supposed to do?! Will, you can’t—“

Nancy ran up behind Jonathan, her hand pressed to her mouth and her eyes wide.

“Mike, Jonathan,” she whispered, kneeling down next to them both. “It’s too late. We have to go, now, everything—it’s all falling apart.”

“No! No, why the hell would we leave him here, he’s just—he just needs to get up! Help me carry him!” Mike insisted, pulling at Will’s wrists. His body moved limply with the gesture, following Mike’s every movement.

Jonathan backed away, turning around with one hand clasped against his mouth, his back heaving as he retched into Nancy’s shoulder.

“Mike. We have to go, okay? We can’t—“

“I’m not leaving him!” he shouted. “We can’t leave him! He just needs to wake up!”

At some point, Hopper had joined the group. He clasped a hand on Mike’s shoulder, pulling him up.

“It’s too late, Mike,” he said, his tone flat yet oddly gentle as he pulled him back away from Will. “He’s gone. We have to go. We have no choice.”

“Then fucking carry him!” He was screaming now, his voice cracking heavily. “We can’t leave him here, he’ll die!”

Hopper watched him closely as Nancy led a shaking Jonathan away.

“Come on, kid. We gotta leave him. We can’t lift him up through the gate.”

“I don’t fucking care,” Mike hissed. He wiped away some of the blood from Will’s upper lip, smearing it on his white shirt. “We’re just going to have to figure it out. He just needs to get to a hospital.”

Hopper let out a deep exhale.

“I’m sorry, kid. I’m sorry.”

In one fell swoop, he picked up Mike and slung him, kicking and screaming, across his shoulder, casting a final look at Will’s still body before jogging ahead to catch up with the others.

“Put! Me! Down!” he shouted, pounding his fists against Hopper’s back. “We have to go back for him! We have to—“ He twisted around in Hopper’s grasp, ready to make a run for Will.

But it was too late.

The blackness had already consumed him.

His vision turned red.

“You fucking killed him!”

“Okay, is that everyone?” Steve gasped, leaning against a light post to catch his breath.

Hopper nodded.

“Yeah, we’re all here.”

“No, where’s Will?” Joyce said, peering into the gate. “He’s not back yet, did anyone see him?”

No one said anything.

She slowly looked up, turning to Hopper.

“Hop. Where’s Will.”

He looked away.

Jonathan detached himself from Nancy, moving forward to wrap his arms around his mom, pressing his nose into the curve of her shoulder.

“I tried,” he whispered, his eyes welling up and his entire body shaking. “Mom, I tried so hard, but he—“

“No. No, no, no.” She shook her head, ducking away from Jonathan. “No, he’s just on his way back. We have to keep the gate open.”

“Joyce.” Hopper set his hands on her shoulder, tilting up her chin to meet her eyes. “We have to close it, okay?”

“No!” She pulled away. “You’re going to trap him in there!”

Mike pressed his face to his knees, curling into himself on the ground.

“Hop, stop it! Go get him, what are you doing here?! He needs help!”

“Joyce. Joyce, there’s nothing more that anyone can do. We have to close the gate. We have to end this.”

“No!”

“Hopper’s right, mom,” Jonathan croaked. He’d returned to Nancy, her arms wrapped protectively around his chest. “We have to close it. He’s—“ He pressed a hand to his mouth, a spluttering choking noise escaping from between his fingers. “He’s gone. It’s too late.”

Joyce backed away from the group, her whole body shaking uncontrollably.

“Stop it. Stop it,” she hissed, pointing a finger at each of them individually. They all looked away. “We can’t do this. We can’t lose hope, not when my boy is still trapped in there—we have to find him!”

Murray crept forward, slowly removing the blockers from the gate with one hand while he rubbed at his face with the others.

Joyce jerked around at the noise.

“What the hell are you doing?!” She slapped his hand away from the gate. “You’re going to trap him in there!”

Thick ropes of guilt and mournfulness looped around each of them

Hopper came in through the door, his hair wet from being freshly washed.

“You okay, kid?”

Mike stared at the wall, not bothering to look up.

“Mike?”

A beat.

Two.

“I wish you left me instead,” he said slowly, his lips dry and chapped. “You carried me out. You should have taken Will and left me there.”

Hopper looked down at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You know that wasn’t an option.”

“Well, you should have made it one!” he yelled, suddenly jerking his head away from its spot staring at the wall. He threw himself out of bed, taking long strides over to where Hopper was standing and pointing an accusatory finger into his chest. “You left him! And you took me! It was the worst fucking decision any of you have ever made!”

Hopper pursed his lips tightly.

“Kid, it was too late. It wouldn’t have done anyone any good.”

“I don’t care! I don’t care what real, actual good it would have done, you should have taken him and just let me die, because he’s done more good for all of us than I could ever hope to.” A dry, choking sob escaped from between his lips, and he lifted his clenched hand, bringing it back down and hitting Hopper’s chest. He did it again, and again, and again until he was peppering small blows over his torso, arms, and shoulders.

“Mike. Mike.” Hopper held his shoulders in place, keeping him an arms distance away. “You can’t do this. Will wouldn’t want this, okay?”

“How the fuck would you know?” he screamed, ducking out of his grasp. “You left him in the place that ruined his life! You don’t know anything about what Will would have wanted!” Stumbling backwards, his back hit the wall, and he slid down it until he was sitting cross legged on the floor.

A heavy throbbing in his head made his eyes nearly cross, the pain striking his temples over and over again until it was unbearable.

“I hate you,” Mike whispered, smacking the back of his head into the wall repeatedly. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you so, fucking, much.”

Silently, Hopper sat down next to him on the floor, keeping his hands folded in his lap as he stared up at the ceiling.

“I know,” he said quietly, difficult to hear between Mike’s intermittent sobs and gasping breaths. “Believe me, kid, I do too. I wish I could have done something more.”

“You could have carried. Him. Out.” Mike hissed. “Don’t act like you’re the victim here. You don’t matter. Will is the one who’s gone, and it’s your fault.”

“There wasn’t time, Mike. There was nothing anyone could have done.”

“Yes, there was!” He stopped, taking a deep, gasping breath. “Get out.”

“Mike—“

“Get. Out.”

Hopper sighed, smacking his hands lightly against his thighs and pulling himself to his feet.

“You’ll understand eventually,” he said, turning to give Mike one last glance before he walked out of the room.

And he was alone.

The crunch of Will’s body collapsing echoed in his mind, the scene playing out on repeat in his head as he curled up into his knees, fat tears drilling uncontrollably down his face to the rhythm of his sobs.

Will was gone.

Will was gone.

He’d never again get to see his sly grin during campaigns, or the way he scrunched up his nose when he was focusing on something. He wouldn’t ever hear the velvety sound of his laugh when he thought one of Mike’s jokes was funny, or his slightly off-tune voice as he belted along to one of his bands in the basement.

He wouldn’t get to put an arm around his shoulder, or give him a lingering hug.

He’d never see him again.

He fell asleep like that—curled into a little ball on the floor, his clothing still stained with dirt, grime, and the thick, blotchy patches of Will’s blood.

A knock on his door woke him up several hours later.

And as he opened his eyes, something inside of Mike shattered.

It wasn’t that Will was gone.

It wasn’t that he watched him die.

It wasn’t that his own sobs still echoed in his mind.

It was the fact that he wasn’t in the hotel room in Indianapolis like he’d fallen asleep in—because he was back in his room in Hawkins.

Another knock at the door startled him, and he sat straight up, clutching desperately at his covers.

Nancy walked in, her bandana from yesterday pushing her hair back out of her face and her large gun still strapped across her chest.

A chill ran down his spine.

“Get up, Mike. It’s time.”

[devils-pirate-crew]

"My compliments to the chef."

Juraj chuckles, glancing off to the side. "You say that every time, Arbs."

"It's true," Arber grins back, spooning more soup into his mouth. "Every time."

The cook's smile grows wider, a soft, bashful pink tinting his cheeks. "It's not even that good," he mumbles.

His crewmate merely hums, satisfied. "It is to me."

The sound of boots on the deck shakes the ship ever-so-slightly with each step. The hatch is opened and someone hops down below. "Hey, Slaf, X," a familiar voice calls, the owner of said voice rounding the corner.

"Captain!" Juraj stretches out the second syllable, spinning around on his bench to wave at Santé's captain. "Isn't it... early for you to be back?"

Nick Suzuki shrugs, the feather on his cavalier hat bouncing. "I could say the same about you," he replies, leaning on the doorway of the dining hall. "I thought Xhekaj would be out drinking away his salary."

To this, he receives Arber's other middle finger. "Shut it, Suzu. Slaf and I are doing important business here keeping this ship afloat."

Nick chuckles. "Sure you are." His gaze zeroes in on the medicines and bandages on the table. "Let me guess, Slaf tripped on something and you overreacted."

"Well, no - "

"Yep, that's exactly what happened," Juraj bobs his head animatedly, agreeing with gusto as he elbows Arber's side.

"Okay, fine," he relents, rolling his eyes as he gets Juraj's memo to lie about this - and the unconscious pirate on the bench across from them, hidden from their captain's view. "You got me."

Nick sighs. "So predictable. Well, most of the crew's at The Electric Eel right now slinging beers and ale like it's their last day on land. It's not, and with any luck it'll be far from their last, but. I ran into Tuna there."

"Tuna?" Juraj turns around again, having grabbed the roll of bandages and begun winding them around his left palm to keep up the façade. "You're getting us fish for... the next trip?"

The captain shakes his head. "Tuna like the guy who used to be a gunner on our ship," he explains. "That Tuna? He was before your time. Anyways, Tuna's on Jersey Devil now. He told me that apparently their pilot's mate had gone missing a few hours ago after he dropped off some mail to Petey's store. Missing without a trace, not missing as in found a girl to spend the night with. Or a guy, whatever," he tacks on with a look between his two crew members. "The point is - the pilot's mate is gone, and a decent chunk of their crew is worried sick. They said he wasn't the type to leave the ship without letting anyone know."

Juraj and Arber exchange a glance, silently agreeing not to let their secret slide. "Haven't seen him," the gunner shrugs. "We'll let you know if we do? Or should we just catch him and return him to his ship?"

"I don't think you need to kidnap him," the captain closes his eyes. "His name is Dawson. About my height, a little leaner. Apparently he's got gunpowder burns and regular burn scars on a lot of his left side, face, hand, all that, so he's not difficult to pick out of a crowd. You see him, you let me know, or anyone from Jersey Devil. Pirate's honor."

"He's not there against his will, right?" Arber furrows his brow.

"God, no. Nico's not that kind of captain." Nick pauses, contemplating that, then nods, sure of it. "Alright, I'm going back to the tavern. But if you see him, or if any of your spirit friends do - "

"You got it, boss," the gunner salutes, his crewmate laughing as he does. The captain of Santé sighs, waving as he heads back out.

As soon as the sound of Nick's boots dissipates and the captain is off the ship, Juraj looks to Arber, panic in his eyes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, why did we lie to him? Why did we do that? How are we going to get Dawson out of here without Captain figuring it out and killing us? Or Jersey Devil's crew finding out and capturing us and killing us? Or - "

"Relax," Arber places a hand on Juraj's fake-bandaged one. "I'm sure it'll be fine." He offers a hopefully-reassuring smile, going back to finish his soup and banking that Juraj doesn't call his bluff - that he also has no idea what to do next.

[mrwilliameames]

I do. I feel insecure and unsure of myself. Ever since this stamina thing, ever since I’ve maybe gotten a bit leaner, i just keep thinking about how lazy and unattractive I must have been before, even today - eating before you’d come back down, so greedy and disgusting of me to do. I feel horrible about it. *I’m getting upset so i hide my face*

I don't know where you got that idea from, even when you were quote unquote, lazy and unattractive, which for the record, you never ever are, I still wanted to jump your bones every single day. And today, you had to eat, so what? You went on a strenuous run, you needed your energy. *You hide behind your hands and I move them away and pick you up, pulling you closer to me while we bob in the water.* You're beautiful. You've always been. I tell you all the time but I'll gladly keep telling you to reassure you. You've always been my Dionysus, I've always been obsessed with you, completely enamored, arse over tea kettle in love with you. No matter what you look like. *I kiss you.* You've always been attracted to me even when I was a fat arse sloppy mess. Jacked teeth and dad bod with bad knees.

[essential-music]

Bob Seger’s Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man: A Rock Anthem That Still Packs a Punch

Bob Seger’s 1969 hit Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man stands as a testament to the enduring power of raw, unpolished rock and roll. This two-and-a-half-minute burst of energy remains a masterclass in songwriting, instrumentation, and vocal delivery, capturing the rebellious spirit of its time while resonating with listeners today. As we evaluate its musical quality, it’s clear why this track, Seger’s first national hit, deserves its place among the greats of American rock.

The song’s brilliance begins with its songwriting. Seger crafts a vivid narrative of a wandering, gambling soul who embraces life’s uncertainties with unapologetic confidence. Lines like “Ain’t good looking, but you know I ain’t shy / Ain’t afraid to look a girl in the eye” are both defiant and universal, offering a blueprint for self-assurance that transcends generations. The lyrics are economical yet evocative, paired with a tight verse-chorus structure that wastes no note. The repetitive hook—“ramblin’ gamblin’ man”—is infectious, embedding itself in the listener’s mind with anthemic force. This storytelling prowess elevates the song beyond mere entertainment, giving it emotional weight that speaks to anyone who’s ever felt the pull of freedom.

Instrumentation is where Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man truly shines. The opening drum beat, often compared to the thunderous style of John Bonham, grabs attention with its relentless drive. The Hammond B-3 organ, weaving through the track with soulful grit, adds a layer of texture that ties the song to Detroit’s R&B roots. The bassline, funky and prominent, locks in with the rhythm section to create what fans describe as one of rock’s tightest grooves. Subtle guitar work, including contributions from a young Glenn Frey, supports the arrangement without overpowering it. This balance of power and restraint showcases a band firing on all cylinders, delivering a sound that’s both raw and polished.

Seger’s vocal performance is the song’s heart. His voice—gruff, soulful, and brimming with conviction—embodies the rambler’s swagger. He sings with a ferocity that feels like he’s living the lyrics, a quality that makes every word believable. The backing vocals, notably Frey’s booming harmonies in the chorus, add a layer of intensity, turning the refrain into a communal shout. This vocal interplay transforms the song into an anthem, inviting listeners to join the rambler’s journey.

Production, while not flawless, serves the song’s raw energy well. Recorded in 1968, the track captures the live intensity of Seger’s early band, the Bob Seger System. The production’s simplicity enhances the song’s authenticity, letting the band’s chemistry shine through. Its raw edge aligns with the era’s rock ethos, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with contemporaries like The Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin, yet distinct in its Detroit-born blend of rock and soul.

The song’s cultural impact cannot be overstated. Reaching #17 on the pop charts in 1969, it marked Seger’s breakthrough, introducing a voice that would define American rock for decades. Its connection to Detroit—a city synonymous with muscle cars and Motown—gives it a unique place in music history. The track’s resurgence in modern media, from Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood to The Grand Tour, proves its versatility and staying power. It’s a song that feels as vital in a movie soundtrack as it does blaring from a car stereo, embodying a universal spirit of rebellion and resilience.

Critics and fans often call Seger underrated, and Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man exemplifies why. Its blend of rock’s intensity with R&B’s soulfulness sets it apart from the era’s more experimental or blues-heavy tracks. Compared to peers like Creedence Clearwater Revival or Mitch Ryder, Seger’s song is leaner, more direct, yet equally potent. Its brevity is a strength, delivering maximum impact in under three minutes—a bullet of sound that hits its mark every time.

Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man is more than a song; it’s a cultural artifact that captures the essence of American rock. Its songwriting is sharp, its instrumentation electrifying, and its vocals unforgettable. The production, though a product of its time, enhances its raw power. With a legacy that spans over five decades, this track remains a rallying cry for those who live life on their own terms. In a music landscape often dominated by fleeting trends, Seger’s anthem reminds us what true rock and roll can achieve. It’s not just a classic—it’s a masterpiece that demands to be cranked up loud.

Year: 1968

Composer/Lyricist: Bob Seger

Producer: The Bob Seger System, Punch Andrews

[knowyourbmovieactors]

OCTOBER HORROR MOVIES 2024 (DVD EDITION) #27 FRIDAY THE 13TH (2009)

The parade of remakes marches on! Today's contender is the 2009 reboot of that most famous of slasher films, Friday the 13th, this time produced by Michael Bay and directed by Marcus Nispel, who helmed the 2003 reboot of Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the 2011 reboot of Conan the Barbarian, the English language version of the Norwegian movie Pathfinder, and a made-for-TV Frankenstein adaptation. (He also directed a shit ton of music videos, which is probably why Michael Bay likes him so much)

Being a veteran of many an unoriginal work, Nispel is the closest thing I've seen to a professional movie rebooter, and it shows. This "new" version of the horror classic draws its material from bits and bobs of not just the original Friday, but from the first four films in the series. It's neither slavishly faithful to the original, nor a tangential departure from the it. Today people just take Jason Vorhees for granted, as if the character has always existed in his present form; but Friday the 13th filmmakers never had some grand master plan. They were just winging it from movie to movie. Jason wasn't even the killer in the first movie, didn't get his iconic hockey mask until the third one, died in the fourth one, once again was not the killer in the fifth one, and wasn't resurrected as the relentless, hulking undead monstrosity that we think of today until halfway through the original franchise. The 2009 reboot tries to take all the haphazardly constructed details of Jason's arc across the first four movies and condense them into a single, more intentional narrative, and it more or less works.

All the basics of a good old fashioned Friday the 13th are here, just souped up with better production values and a more cohesive storyline. Jared Padalecki headlines the cast (my second Padalecki sighting this season), upgraded from disposable fodder in his appearance in House of Wax to sensitive, brooding, heroic leading man here, now that Supernatural had found its fandom. It's nice to have a pretty good actor anchoring this thing, even if it feels like they just dropped Sam Winchester into this film. Stuntman Derek Mears gives Jason a leaner, faster, more athletic feel than we've ever seen before. (For the first time, I actually believe that Jason could catch his victims without the miracle of editing). The Norman Bates-esque relationship that Jason has with his dead mom is made more prominent, giving him something very close to a sympathetic backstory. Jason actually has a lair of his own, instead of just existing somewhere vaguely out there in the woods, and, overall, he feels much more like an actual human than I remember from the original franchise. He's still a silent, remorseless, nigh-unstoppable murder machine, but now at least it feels like he's got his own stakes. And, in this film, he's got two completely different groups of pretty young people to tear through, so you'll get plenty of improvised murders to sit back and enjoy like the monsters you all are.

Despite all it's got going for it, the big problem with this new Friday the 13th is that it's not really necessary. Sure, it's a better made film than the originals, but that's not a very high bar to clear; and despite it having this updated, more cohesive story, it still leans on the fact that you already know who Jason Vorhees is. When Jason first comes upon his hockey mask in this film, it feels like the filmmakers are winking at us and saying, "SEE! THAT'S HOW HE GOT THE MASK! ISN'T IT COOL HOW YOU KNOW THAT NOW?!"; but within the actual plot of the movie, it's not a big deal. It's like at the end of Solo (we all remember Solo, right?) when it's revealed to us how Han Solo actually got his iconic last name. (You obviously remember that, because everyone watched Solo!) It's not actually important to the movie, and it's not a question that many of us were asking, (even though every single one of us obviously went to the theater to see Solo) but filmmakers approach the character as if it's some great legend to which every minor detail must be attested. This new Friday the 13th looks a lot better than the old ones, but you're not missing anything essential about the series if you don't watch it.

But, you know what? I enjoyed this remake way more than I expected to. If there are any old horror franchises left to robotically reboot, why not give Marcus Nispel a call? Based on his IMDB page, he's not up to much these days.

THINGS I LEARNED FROM THE DVD EXTRAS I bought the "KILLER CUT" edition of this film, which is about ten minutes longer than the theatrical cut. I guess in compensation for those extra moments of bloodshed, this DVD has no real extras other than a handful of deleted scenes. I can only imagine the profound things that Marcus Nispel would say about that deep, complex character, Jason Vorhees.