#but at this point with the frequency it might be worth mentioning

[necle]

Maybe its partially a coincidence, or not that big of a deal. But as I watch this series, Momo’s choice of words and decisions kind of worries me a bit.

(yes I know Momo mentioned he only dogeza one other time and that was with Yuki. But doesnt change he suggested him doing that just last episode, albeit with more powerful people. Even Ryo said “This doesn’t feel rare coming from you”).

The way he willingly offers to puts himself in harms ways and tries to sacrifice himself to protect those around him is a surprisingly amount of times (its not something I noticed immediately, or had written off for reasons related to situation’s circumstances. But seeing this keep happening over time, at least compared to other characters…). And while nothing luckily has come of it yet, its been a pattern since Second Beat. Who knows how long has he has been doing this before he’s been introduced.

Even when he made the deal with Ryo, he doesn’t even bring up protecting himself. Just Yuki, and only him.

In general, Momo is really kind and generous person that goes above and beyond to help those around him (offered his MC spots to Mitsuki to promote i7′s show; helped his NEXT Re:vale guests / costars when they were nervous; gave Yamato advice and a safe space to talk; the times Re:vale has helped TRG and IDOLiSH7 including recommending IDOLiSH7 to the Zero Arena Inauguration manager, covering for i7′s show when Riku wasn’t feeling well, the gifts they given to i7 despite them dealing with their own problems, offered Iori & Mitsuki and Yamato a place to stay until they can sort out their group problems without question, some undisclosed stuff Anasagei mentioned that they helped with TRG, etc). But when this is coupled with the more extreme cases referenced at the beginning, he is very selfless to a concerning extent. Not saying he does it on purpose like a death wish or martyr complex. But it certainly feels there is not much trace of concern for his own well being.

Momo had say Ryo was the “master of psychological attacks” and we know exactly what Ryo aimed for with Yuki (which is a lot more concrete and explicit). But I wonder if Ryo is also aware about that side of Momo, and had tried to play into that when he offered that deal with him.

And if it is (because it feels really subtle), is Momo aware of it? Or is that something Momo does know about himself but still does so regardless?

Luckily, nothing serious has resulted from it yet and probably wont for a while since their subplot got resolved last cour and this cour at least seems more focused on TRIGGER and ZOOL. But I don’t know if this is meant signify a certain personality trait within Momo or allude to something that happened in the past.

It might mostly stem from him not making his dream of going to the soccer nationals and viewing old Re:vale as his saviors, so he genuinely feels like he has to devote his life to Yuki and others. But the fact we haven’t seen how Momo and Ryo exactly met, or what happened for them to be such ‘close friends’ makes it difficult to rule out some things. Especially since Re:vale’s rep is being known to be from the small agency that rose out of poverty.

To summarize my thoughts and questions (with the most hella ambiguous response from Momo):

[reesiereads]

So I wonder if Husk’s dislike of his form is (at least somewhat) a result of Alastor’s treatment of him?

It’s mentioned on his wiki that Husk does not like his form. He’s essentially a house cat with bird add-ons, which isn’t exactly intimidating.

His dislike could be for plenty of reasons but to me it kinda came across like he’s used to being treated as less than human? Like a pet.

Angel’s “kitty has claws” and “meow” are the flirtations that seem to cause the most visceral reaction out of husk (outside of “I can make those wings flap” which is, again, about Husk’s actual form). Angel was also touching Husk on both situations, moving him in the way he wanted to emphasize his point (tilting and holding Husk’s chin and tilting his wings). Part of Husk’s dislike is definitely because he dislikes Angel’s fakeness and the infringement on his boundaries, but these comments in particular set him off in a way the others don’t. It’s genuine anger over exasperation.

Then we get the Husk and Alastor scene in Episode 5 where Alastor openly talks down to Husk and scratches him behind the ear like an actual cat. This sets Husk off enough that, even knowing he’s owned by Alastor who is extremely dangerous (because I doubt he’s just forget that), he still snaps back. The first thing he says is “You may own my soul but I’m not your damn pet” and the level of anger here seems to imply Alastor treats him like this with at least some frequency. This is further proven when Alastor responds with a simple “oh, but you are!” Which is what leads to Husk snapping enough that he sets Alastor off.

Alastor then proceeds to push Husk to the ground and show his chain, pulling Husk closer against his will the same way one might an unruly dog pulling on its leash.

I think it’s also worth noting that Alastor is not usually a touchy person. This episode is an exception in that he’s being extra nice to Charlie to piss off Lucifer but this is still far from the norm. The only one he’s really touched up to this point is Nifty and that was only because she climbed on him. Him petting Husk was only a move of control, which is probably part of why it set Husk off so badly.

I think this also changes our perspectives on “Loser, baby” and the comparison there, since we now actually know what Husk and Alastor’s relationship is like. Angel may be Val’s toy but Husk is Alastor’s pet. His cat who’s brought in to take care of the mice.

[vexingwoman]

girlypop I have a question about your post with the rancid ass take about what jobs men apparently should no longer take. What the fuck do you actually expect men to do?? Because if we go with your suggestion to kick men out of all professions where they might encounter a woman at some point, the only option left would be to stay at home and do nothing all day while the wife does literally everything, which in my books is the exact opposite of feminism (equality) but okay pop off ig 💀

Terfs: ugh men are so shit and stupid and do nothing all day

Men: do a reputable job that helps people

Terfs: ugh how fucking DARE they

Like make it make sense girl

The common denominator among the professions I listed in that post wasn’t simply that men “might encounter a woman at some point.” The common denominator was men, either in positions of authority or asymmetrical power dynamics, having guaranteed and unsupervised access to highly vulnerable individuals.

Men themselves repeatedly demonstrate that these are not positions which they are worthy of when they commit atrocity after atrocity against the individuals under their supervision.

And you know, I could the take time to really showcase why excluding men from these professions is necessary. I could dole out the usual statistics on male depravity, and how it unequivocally spikes when men have access to women who are either undressed, unconscious, isolated, mentally handicapped, or underage. I could mention the frequency of male morticians raping corpses, or the frequency of male prison guards sexually exploiting female inmates, or the frequency of male therapists molesting or fantasizing about their female patients.

I could mention all the Larry Nassars of the medical world, like the male anesthesiologist who raped countless unconscious women, or the male doctor who carved his initials onto women’s abdomens during C-sections, or all the male gynecologists who have been caught taking pictures of women’s vulvas during exams. I could even bring up the fact that in most of these professions, you already have the option to choose a female provider, because other people besides evil radical feminists like myself recognize how catastrophic it can be to give men of authority unsupervised access to highly vulnerable individuals.

But it would all be futile, because at the end of the day, I’m never going to be convinced that naively giving men the benefit of the doubt is ever worth increasing the risk of female victimization, even by a minuscule amount. In reality, assuming the worst in men is often the safest and most reasonable approach, no matter how hurtful your ego may find it. And if that offends you so much, take it up with the men who created these fucking circumstances.

[seikkoi]

ᴏᴄᴛᴏʙᴇʀ | ᴛᴏɴʏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

18+ ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅɴɪ

content/warnings: named reader, explicit sexual content (very end), alcohol consumption, mentions of financial issues, employer/employee relations, explicit mentions of mental health issues (reader has the anxieties���), mentions of physical injuries, set in canon universe before aou.

genre: mostly angst ngl, sm*t at the very very end

word count: 7,463 im sorry

a/n: lightly inspired by the song 'october' by rothstein

dedicated to: the lovely @alessandraavengers

"Maybe you should worry about yourself, Stark. I've been doing just fine before you decided to make my job your business."  Tony's jaw clenches, and a shaky hand through his hair, his frustration palpable.  “My business is your job."

I won't complain,

I will be decent, 

though it will be freezing,

I welcome the rain.

The hands of the clock on the wall ticked silently, a sign of the building’s expense. You clutched a leather binder filled with papers in your lap as you sat. Everything you had to show for the last seven years of your life. Countless awards, certificates, recommendations—the expensive bachelor's and the bank account-draining master’s. Your leg bounced on the dark mahogany, steadily increasing frequency as seconds turned into minutes.

Ironically, this would also be interview number seven. For the job you were least qualified for. You applied for close to twenty at this point, all well below your skill, but you were desperate. You had barely a year of experience—quitting your first job one year out of school after one-too-many sixty hour work weeks. The moment you turned in your resignation, dread and regret over your choice in profession filled you. It held you down, sleeping and rotting the days away. Eventually, reality set in, pulled you out of bed and back into the corporate world. 

Turns out, lack of experience and ‘quitting with notice’ is less than ideal.

You hoped a step down in prestige would result in less stress. All your fantasies of a top floor corner office and luxury disappeared like ash under a light rain. You always held expensive tastes that you couldn’t sustain unemployed.  But the stress wasn’t worth it. All you needed now was to pay the bills. Too quickly ‘over-qualified’ or ‘under-experienced’ became your least favorite words. You had to fight back the dread every time you checked your email. 

Just when you’d started pondering entry-level positions, a notification came through for a new vacancy ‘Fit for your skillset!’. To your dismay, the description sounded no different than the job you left. More grueling expectations and personal sacrifice. On top of that, you still were under-experienced by their requirements. Not to mention who it was for. Overworked employees typically miss most current events, but far too much has been going on with this company to make even you pay attention. Working for such a high-profile, drama-ridden company might be even worse.  But after weeks and not so much as an offer letter, you had to try anything. On the plus side, at least it paid well.

Three days later, you found yourself inside of Stark Tower, wishing the silent clock would move faster.

Square breathes, internal mantras—nothing worked. Your heels still made a gentle clack against the floor. Thankfully, the general noise of the front lobby kept it from being a nuisance. 

What you swear is eons later, your ears prick up to a similar click growing near you. You turn your head as a tall blonde approaches the small waiting area. She stops at the front desk a moment, making your heart skip a beat when the receptionist points to you. 

‘Just relax, you know what to say.’ you thought to yourself. ‘They won’t hire you if you’re a nervous wreck.’

You manage to muster what little confidence you had left after weeks of rejection to stand and straighten your dress as she greets you. Thankfully, the smile she extends is friendly enough. The hand you feel is soft and manicured too— acute tells of an easy life.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Ms. Potts, I’ll be bringing you up to meet Mr. Stark.” she says, turning and heading further into the lobby.

‘Maybe this won’t be too hard. Maybe this job won’t be like the last.’

-

During the entire elevator ride to Mr. Stark’s office, Ms. Potts spews out factoids about Stark Industries but you’re too busy rethinking your entire interview strategy. Something about a cave, Obadiah Stane and a wormhole whizzes through your ear to no reaction. It was nothing you hadn’t already read in the weekly papers, nor did it ease you one bit. 

You were even more taken aback when you realize you’re descending, and the silver doors open to a spacious garage. The faint sound of movement echoes, source unseen. You turn to Miss Potts, who only gives another pleasant smile and gestures into the concrete space.

Sure, the whole world knew Tony Stark was a bit eccentric. You knew that well enough when you applied. Hell, it probably explained the vacancy. Maybe this was some type of strategy, or just his nature. Either way, something was screaming at you to tell Miss Potts you had changed your mind, go home and apply for anything else. 

Then, you remembered how badly you wanted success. You couldn’t accept anything less.

The elevator closed quietly behind you as you exited, looking for the source of the noise. There’s cars (some ridiculously new and some pathetically old), studded workbenches, and chaotic piles of robotics and machinery strewn about. You have to round the corner to find him, behind a small bar tucked away from the metal mess everywhere else. 

He’s turned away from you, seated at the bar with eyes glued on a few papers before him. An ornate pen signs away without pause. You’re certain the sound of your heels against the floor gave you away, but you’re sure to clear your throat to not shock him. 

Mr. Stark, clad in a grease-stained white tee and dark denim, shifts in the barstool slightly to give you a cursory look. You can tell immediately his mind is lightyears away from the present situation, focused elsewhere. On a lighter note, you notice how much kinder he looks in person. All the magazines and op-eds made his face harsh, never smiling. 

“You’re the one who applied for assistant thingy right? Miss…” Stark trails off, scanning back through the papers in front of him. There’s a slight slur in his speech, one that forces you to remember the early hour.

“Cassian.” you interrupt his search and he laughs, abandoning the papers for a shiny glass on the counter.

He brings the amber liquid to his lips before he speaks again. 

“Right, Cassian, look—” The glass finds its way back to the solid surface despite his sway. He stands once it does, facing you with a wide smile. “You’re hired!” 

With that, you’re left more dumbfounded, staring at the billionaire as he sauntered over to one of the cluttered workbenches. 

“I’m sorry, sir, I really don’t understand—” You turn towards him as he walks by, not sparing you another glance.

When he reaches the middle of the garage, he lets out an exhausted sigh. The familiar regret seeps in, turning your nerves up another notch.

“The woman that probably brought you here—Pepper, she used to be my assistant, and handle all the tabloid bullsuit.” he mutters, fiddling with a wrench from the bench. 

“After the whole ‘tower nearly blowing up’ situation, she’s taken a step uh-out of my life. For better or worse. I didn’t wanna hire anyone else, she’s convinced I can’t manage my own life— we compromised.”

You start to speak, trying to formulate the right words to say. Stark pays it no mind, tossing the wrench back down gently.

He pivots towards you, and you see the stress in his eyes. You can see why she’d quit-hell you were starting to wish you never applied. The name ‘Stark’ proliferated in the papers these days.

“Offer letter is signed, on the bar, job’s there if you want it.” With that, he walks across the garage, past you into the elevator. 

The electronic ding! sounds, leaving you in the garage alone without another word. You’re convinced this is a terrible idea- even before whatever that just was.

Something sparks your curiosity to look at the signed papers, and put a dollar amount to this madness. You walk back to the bar, grabbing the stack of papers with a faint ring of water in the corner.

You’re certain you’re dreaming when you count the number of zeros. 

THREE WEEKS LATER

You were ready for retirement at the ripe age of twenty-six.

This was a new type of demand. Running nearly every aspect of Tony Stark’s life didn’t eat your soul, but it ate at your mind. You could spin embezzlement or drunk-driving into a heartwarming story- alien attacks and Hydra were a whole new ballpark. 

It was almost refreshing. Spinning stories for shitty people and tailoring public statements for the goal of maximum human exploitation never quite sat right with you. Handling Stark’s life just felt like defending someone who deserved it. It felt more honorable working for him than a greedy tech firm.  (There are some questionable times when he doesn’t, but you don’t bother with those).

The righteousness helped the uncharted territory be more than manageable. Still, making Stark’s technology enterprise mesh well with his role as Iron Man felt like a hero��s feat on its own. The media would come up with any number of wild conspiracies about Iron Man, most of them disparaging to his image. 

Stark was legitimately aiming for good things in the world. The weariness in your bones kept you craving more simplicity and ease, nonetheless.

You sunk down into the leather couch of the conference room, watching as the board members filed out in quick order. The room was filled with the golden ray of sunset— soon to turn pitch black. 

Officially done with the day’s meetings, you forgo any workplace formalities and kick off your heels, despite your boss’s presence. 

A light chuckle at your exhaustion breaks the silence, Stark slumping into the empty space beside you. You raise an eyebrow when he wriggles at the lavish tie around his neck, tossing the garment to the floor next to your heels. 

“What, you can kick back but I can’t?” he jests, undoing the top two buttons of his black dress shirt. 

You give a ‘fair enough’ shrug, leaning back to start mentally processing the last ten hours.

You found yourself staring at his exposed neck as your mind trailed off, his head leaned back, eyes shut. His jaw is tight, forehead pinch in a now-familiar focus. Stark looked nearly as drained as you, still you knew better than to try and equate things. Honestly, you considered yourself semi-lucky to only have to make things look nice for the cameras and not be present for them. In the evening glow, though, he looks close to ethereal.

You shift your eyes at the thought.

You two sit in comfortable silence as the sun moves behind the New York city skyline. 

You’re doing mental math on how soon you can retire when he fills the void with a question.

“Regret taking the job?” he asks, unmoving. 

You add ‘potential mind reader’  to his list of skills. 

“Some parts are better than others.” It’s as honest of an answer you can give without sounding ungrateful for the opportunity (or thinking about the alluring glow on his skin).

He laughs again, turning to meet your eyes. This would mark the first time you’re under a heat lamp from his gaze, irises tired and alluring. 

“Seriously,” 

Clearly your answer isn’t convincing, because he turns to his side on the couch to fully face you. 

“You aren’t regretting this? Because lately you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.” he says with a lazy grin.

You thought you were doing a good job of burying your issues beneath walls of smiles. Hearing otherwise hurts your resolve a bit, especially from Stark. He had enough on his plate without worrying about you.

“It’s just…a lot,” 

Despite how you felt, you couldn’t lie about it, not to his face. 

“But it’s not your fault, it’s not you.” you swiftly add upon seeing his somber grin fade away.

“Ha, isn’t it though?” A dramatic sigh escapes his mouth like a deflated balloon, running his hands through messy brown locks. “This..rollercoaster I’ve put myself on.” 

“Rollercoasters can be fun.” 

“You hate it.” Stark faces you once more, propping his arm up on the back of the couch. 

“Wouldn’t blame you if you quit.”

The suggestion pulls a laugh of your own. “I don’t think that’s an option.”

Stark makes a genuinely puzzled face, to which you spend the next minute or two explaining why you quit your first job, the weeks you spent rotting away after. You had hoped to never recount such a sad time outloud, but you couldn’t stand him feeling at fault for your lack of enthusiasm. 

Ease passes through you when it seems to comfort him a bit.

“Maybe I hire you for something else, maybe pay you to not deal with this shit.” he says, laughing.

You brush off his joke with another short laugh. “Wouldn’t that be something? Really, it’s fine. Just need a long hot shower.”

You start to stand, but are stopped when a hand graces your thigh. 

“No jokes, I know what it’s like to get more than you signed up for. If money’s all that’s keeping you here, trust me that’s not an issue.”

You give a flustered smile, trying not to focus on how warm his hand was. 

“It’s not all that’s keeping me here.”

TWO MONTHS LATER

“You know it’s just a dinner, right? Like just food, maybe music, high probability of dessert?” Stark taunts, noticing your trembling leg from behind his phone screen.

The car seems like it’s moving way too fast, even though you can very clearly see the speedometer under 25 miles per hour. 

“Yes, I know what dinner is.” 

You let out a deep sigh, trying to regain the ground under your feet. The part Stark conveniently forgets is that it is a very large gala he’s dragged you along to, and not just a normal dinner. You can do normal dinner, not a one hundred plus person dinner with reporters and red carpet. He’s also not considering the part where he didn’t tell you about it until two hours ago.

“Oh, that’s a relief, thought you might jump out the window.” he pockets his phone, turning to you. “I can just have Happy take you home, you know.”

“No, no, this is…excitement. I’m excited. Totally ready.” you’re really trying to convince yourself, but it only makes Tony snicker.

“These things are really boring, promise. That’s why you’re here, keep me from falling asleep.” 

Out the window, the street lights start to turn back into normal orbs instead of blurry splotches. The car pulls up the curb with enough ease for you to take in the venue. It's a marble hall, one you feel suddenly underdressed for. You make a mental note to tell Stark never to give you this little notice again. Perhaps you should save yourself the trouble and head home. 

Stark could behave himself, right? 

The black window tinting your view disappears when the door is pulled open. You hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t beside you anymore, now holding the door and gesturing to the entrance. You get your first good look at the suit he’s wearing, tailored and jet-black. The flattering seams are a decent enough distraction to join him on the sidewalk. 

Stark places both hands on either of your shoulders, giving you a playful shake. 

“You look amazing, I look amazing, please stop worrying. It’s starting to spread and I can’t eat on an upset stomach.” he forces himself into your gaze, searching your face for the supposed ‘excitement’.

A deep breath, then a second passes through you, staring at Stark's eyes until you can manage a curt nod and still legs.

“See, you’re gonna be just fine.” he exclaims, dropping the hands from your shoulders and already smiling for the line of photographers waiting by the door. 

You follow unsteadily, praying this is a speedy event. You could do this for an hour, maybe two. Stark takes notice of your delay, turning back to you just before reaching the first nerdy cameraman.

“Hey, what’s the issue with this? If your not comfortable with the cameras, you know we can just go around—”

“It’s not that,” you interrupt, gripping your clutch with sweaty palms. 

“Then what?” he asks sympathetically.

“There’s like a hundred people in there, Stark.” you admit with a long sigh.

“And I’m one of them, what’s the worst that can happen if you're with me?” He turns and props his arm out towards you. “Miss Cassian?” he says, dragging out your name.

You want to roll your eyes at his constant unserious nature, but instead you take another deep breath, loop your arm through his, letting your fingers wrap around the satiny fabric on his bicep before taking slow steps forward.

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

Bright bulbs of light flickering in blinding succession. In every direction, microphones with human mouthpieces spew their hurried questions. Your boss answers in his typical Stark way, earning only more adoration and curiosity. You come to humor yourself with the questions they ask. Always seemingly random, from his favorite brand of whiskey to his opinion on migrant detainment in the Mediterranean. 

You stand to the right as he smiles and poses for them. You almost hate how good he looks in the cold wind, face most definitely beaming behind designer snow-white frames. Outside of that, you admire his patience, knowing this winter vacation (where he didn’t have to be Iron Man for once) was leaked and now semi-ruined.

It would’ve been a well needed break for you as well. Three months of non-stop press releases, conferences, and meetings were wearing you ragged. Late nights were occupied with drafting memos and wishing you chose a career with less work. While you hated the time work took away, you unfortunately began to admire the work you did. Working for Stark turned out to be more desirable than you thought. You imagined dealing with another frustrating, reckless CEO- not a charming, witty superhero. Regardless of the long hours and chaos, you loved helping put more good into the world. 

Finally, as snow starts to fall, he answers a final question on if he’ll change the color of his suit before turning to enter the cabin.

“Mr. Stark— Iron Man, won’t be taking any more questions, excuse me, thank you.” 

You tried to squeeze past incessant reporters and fans, barely making it through the hotel front door if it weren’t for security. The commotion outdoors gets muffled by the tall wooden doors. You sigh and lean against them, shutting your eyes for a moment.

“Feeling alright, Cassie?” 

Stark’s voice makes you open your eyes to see him standing in the foyer. This would be the fourth time you feel his eyes burning through your skin. You expected him not to be upstairs in bed, asleep already, not in front of you, eyeing you with his hands buried in his pockets. 

The place he chose spared little expense, clearly for starlets like Stark looking for a lush, woodsy escape. Wooden walls covered every inch, adorned with fancy art and a modern fireplace in the living room.  The color reminds you of the tower lobby, a deep mahogany. 

“Yeah, just remind me why I’m here and not at home in my heated apartment.” You keep your voice light as you hang your coat on the rack by the door. 

Stark gives a playful scoff, too used to your sarcasm to take offense. 

“A certain former assistant thinks I need a babysitter on my own vacation.” He turns on his heels, heading towards the kitchen with a renewed energy (surely only now remembering he’s supposed to be relaxing). 

“She’s not wrong.” you agree only because Stark re-emerges from the kitchen with a tall amber colored bottle and two glasses. 

You can’t help rolling your eyes at his stiffened jazz hands, tossing yourself onto the plush armchair by the fireplace. The cold seemed to wrap itself around you, not leaving despite your proximity to the fire. Stark chose to sit on the side table next to you, rather than the wide array of more comfortable seating options. You’d gotten used to him entering your personal space since your talk in the conference room. You took it as a sign of his narcissism more than anything.

“Not sure I’m meant to be a drunk babysitter, Mr. Stark, ” you quip as he starts pouring.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he winks, offering you one. “And come on with the ‘mister’—making me feel old over here.”

It’s bothersome how little he has to say to change your mood. Something about being with just him, away from press, deadlines or state secrets, pulled you in and kept you coming to work everyday. In this moment, however, his solitary presence made you anxious. You’d have to get through this sabbatical without the chaos of the world bringing you back to reality. The real world, littered with expectations.

Free of any reason to decline, you take the glass. You and Tony do a lazy toast, clicking the glasses together before taking a sip. The peaceful quiet envelopes the cabin, save for the crackle of the fireplace. 

“You okay?” you ask upon seeing the weariness in his face, contrasting the grin he held.

“Better than okay,” he finishes the rest of his drink, pouring another faster than you take a second sip. “Happy to be away from everything, ‘get in touch with the great outdoors!’ as they say.” 

You laugh at the dramatic mocking tone he uses, extending your arm out when he makes a gesture at your empty glass. 

“I hope your atleast being slightly genuine, Mr. Stark.” you say once the glass is full once more.

“When am I ever not, Miss Cassian.” he draws on your name with the same mocking pitch as before.

You fake a wince at the taste of your own medicine, which amuses the hell of the already tipsy Stark. 

“I see what you mean, felt fifteen years added on instantly with that,” you admit, chuckling at his demeanor. 

“Hence why I’m such a nice guy and call you Cassie like a normal person,” he states smugly, taking another sip from his glass.

“Oh really, Tony? ‘Cause you only gave me that nickname after I explicitly told you no one ever calls me that.” you laugh.

���Yes and that was a great loss to the universe that I fixed,” Tony turns his head to meet your gaze, eyes sparkling (you tell yourself it’s just the alcohol and nothing else).

The both of you stay there silent, eyes locked for what quickly becomes far too long and the awkwardness makes your attention back to your drink. You finish the contents, hoping that the liquid would cool your now burning skin. 

You internally remind yourself that this is just how he is- a playboy philanthropist turned charming hero, nothing else. 

“Sorry, I know this isn’t really much of a vacation for you. ‘Know you wanna be at home, away from Stark Industries,” he deflates a bit, pouring a third drink.

“No, it’s not like that,” you interject, speaking softly, “I really don’t mind being here, and it’s still a good break from meetings and all that other tedious shit.” 

He takes a sip, seemingly mulling over your words. “Give any more thought to my offer?”

You let out a small laugh, thrown off by his sudden mention of it. You were certain then that he wasn’t being anything near serious. 

“What, you paying me to not be here? I didn’t think that was you being serious.”

“It’s a win-win, no? You get a salary, I don’t have to drag you along for this rollercoaster, Pepper doesn’t worry, everyone’s happy.” 

Clearly you’re left silent for too long, because Tony stands before he speaks again. He seems conflicted, running his hands over his face and through his hair.

“Look, I don’t need to see you miserable, I guess.”

“What, who said I was miserable?”

“Anyone would be dealing with me.” 

TWO DAYS LATER

After a few days, an air of melancholy had hung over you. Two days of nothing turned into endless overthinking about your life. Every decision made seemed to rattle in your bones, looking for a place to be. You tried to tell yourself it was normal to feel lost, to feel as though everything you’ve ever done was pointless. This was the first time you’d had room to think, of course everything would be overwhelming.

That didn’t help, but whatever red wine Tony brought did. 

You found it on night two, cracking open the second bottle when Tony comes downstairs. You gave a sluggish hey that gave away your state immediately, but you were too absorbed in your thoughts to meet his eyes. 

“Didn’t take you for a wine connoisseur.” he mutters, sitting in the chair across from you. 

You don’t bother with a response. In fact, you wished that he’d go away. Seeing Tony lately just reminded you more of the life you were sure you wouldn’t have. You were certain you made all the wrong choices, took all the wrong paths.

“Cassian?” he leans forward, forcing his face into your point of view. “Kinda' freaking me out here.”

“You ever think about what your life would be like if you weren’t,” you trail off for a moment, slurring slightly. “I don’t know—you?”

He laughs and it feels infectious, closing your eyes to hopefully shut up the twist in your stomach.

“Me, specifically? Who knows? Maybe I’d be a pilot, or own a hotdog stand.” he goes silent at your lack of reaction to his joke, resting his chin against his hands.

“Why, thinking about faking your death and adopting a new identity?”

The red liquid in your glass coats your dry throat. You’d love to start over. Go back and see what the other paths held. Then, the deep pit of your stomach turns, remembering how different and worthwhile working for Stark made you feel.

“What if I did everything wrong?” you ask quietly.

If you did, a small part of the anxiety in your gut assures you that it was worth it to find your way to him.

“Define ‘wrong’.”

“Not what I imagined, I guess”

To help someone who wanted to do so much to help the world.

“Well, what do you want from life?”

You go silent again. “I don’t know.”

TWO WEEKS LATER

With nothing to prove you,

and if I should lose you

—It won't be in vain.

On the last day at the cabin, you feel a genuine sense of sadness at the thought of leaving. 

Fourteen days with no reminder of the outside world had you the most relaxed in years. Bliss was all you felt waking up each morning to no phone calls, no emergencies, and no meetings. You forgot what it was like to just exist, to not have your thoughts bogged down by deadlines. You had even forgotten the benefits of good company. The demanding nature of your job meant little social life, and you didn’t realize until nearly two days in that you had been craving it. What surprised you more was that you received that good company in the form of your boss. Tony seemed to go out of his way to fill any voids of silence with quips and self-deprecating jokes to make you laugh. Clearly to spare himself the awkwardness of your dissatisfaction. 

Nothing changed about personality, but removing the dark shadow of responsibility made him visibly less wound up. It must have done the same for you, because you spent most of these last two weeks laughing (or catching up on well-needed sleep). You tried to avoid him lately, not wanting to add fuel to the fire you could feel growing for him. Opting for weeks of solitude with him was possibly not the wisest route.

Retroactively, if you had all this sudden free time at home alone, you probably would’ve gone a little crazy. 

You must be wearing your solace on your face, because that night, during dinner, Stark asks if something is wrong.

“Is it a bad thing if I don't want to go back to New York?” you chuckle at your own absurdity, scraping the last bits of food into the trash.

“Is it worse if I agree?” he smiles, looking up from his own plate. 

“Not excited to go back to being an Avenger?” you ask honestly, sitting back down at the kitchen table, next to him.

“Ha, excited’s the wrong word.” he sits back in his chair, letting out a sigh. “You’re not jumping to get back out there either.”

You give an agreeing nod, resting your head in your hands when you start mentally going through all the tasks waiting for you tomorrow. 

“You don’t have to go back like I do. You can get away from all this.”

When you look up, Tony’s eyes are glued to the floor. 

“You know, you can just fire me if it’s that much of a bother to you.” you say sharply. 

Truthfully, it was starting to come off as a subtle hint to leave rather than concern. It muddied whatever imaginary connection you maybe thought you’d fostered over these last few weeks. All the little touches and extra concern bounced around in the back of your head like a live grenade. You didn’t know how much of it was aimed towards you, or just his charismatic nature. Maybe there was never any charisma, and he was the same as any other CEO.

“Cassie, that’s the last thing I want.” he says, like he’s offended, and you want to laugh at the audacity.

“Could’ve fooled me.” you retort, standing to exit the kitchen.

Tony intercepts you at the doorway, however, clearly scrambling for words to ease the newly-created tension. All it really does is annoy you more, seeing those brown eyes pleading silently. Either way, you can’t get past. 

“I—This is too much for anyone to handle. I can barely handle it and that’s because you do so much behind-the-scenes for me. A lot of people have reached their wits end with me and I don’t want that with you.”

It sounds painful for him to say, and despite his soft tone, it’s the most serious you’ve ever heard him be.

“I think you’re worried a bit too—”

“I’d rather not be the reason you spend weeks in bed, okay?” 

Frozen in the doorway, your anger still boils. It felt like the thing you were most ashamed about being thrown in your face. You want to go back to that conference room and never tell him a thing. It’d save you the confusion, save you from all the mixed signals. He couldn’t mean it. You remember the way he reluctantly submitted to Pepper and hired you. Tony didn’t care, he never wanted you here in the first place. You felt stupid for thinking anything else.

"Maybe you should worry about yourself, Stark. I've been doing just fine before you decided to make my job your business." 

Tony's jaw clenches, and a shaky hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. 

“My business is your job, can’t you see I’m trying to be supportive?” 

You almost start to regret your words, but you can’t stand the way he looks at you like some fragile thing. 

For the fifth time, you're hot under his gaze, but it does nothing besides flare your anger more.

“I don’t need your support, stop acting like you have any idea what’s best for me.” you snap, taking a step closer.

To your surprise, Tony closes the remaining distance, and you have to look up to maintain your glare. Tony's expression shifts from concern to frustration, his eyes locking onto yours.

“Clearly, you don’t even know what’s best for you. Forgive me for giving a damn.” he scoffs.

You roll your eyes, deciding to just put an end to this conversation. In his frustration, Tony left a wide enough gap for you to try and snake through. Your heated exit must’ve been obvious, because he steps back to keep you in front of him.

“Seriously?” your fists clench at your sides, heat spreading up your arms to your cheeks. 

“Why are you still here?” he softens a bit, but not entirely folding his arms over his chest.

It’s not enough though— your irritation is unchanging even under his tender gaze.  It was easier to stay angry and pretend like he wasn’t the only thing keeping you. To not admit that you didn’t want to abandon him.

“Why’d you bring me here?” you retort through gritted teeth, motioning at the logged walls around you.

“Damn it, I thought it’d help, Cassie!”

The severity of his words leaves you speechless. You never heard him really raise his voice, let alone come close to yelling.

“But, clearly, I shouldn’t have bothered.” Tony moves from the doorway, taking fast steps past you towards the main door before you can say anything.

In an effort to keep him from storming out, you reach out for his arm as he brushes by. Instantly, he pulls away as if you're made of open flames. You try to show the hurt on your face, but now that your anger has started to dissipate, you notice a similar transformation in Tony. To your benefit, though, it keeps his feet firmly planted. 

“I’m not some broken person you need to protect.” you admit, avoiding the potential anger still in his eyes. 

“Wow, really? Didn’t know.” 

Always with the jokes and sarcasm. You lift your head to Tony’s expectant gaze, causing you to sigh heavily.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he states dryly, leaning back against the kitchen table. “Why are you still here?”

“You keep assuming I hate my life.” 

It’s his turn to roll his eyes, rather dramatically in your opinion. 

“Could’ve fooled me.” he responds, mocking your words from earlier. “You avoid me like the plague lately, and I don’t know how you expect me to just see you unhappy and say nothing”

“That has nothing to do with work-”

“Then what is it?” 

There’s something else in his eyes, something like the sparkle you saw all those months ago. 

You look at him with pleading eyes of your own. A sense of entrapment overwhelms you, stuck with the choice between potentially ruining everything or, well, still potentially ruining everything. You wish he really could just read your mind and understand. Understand that you didn’t want to leave him, that you were avoiding him to protect your own, admittedly fragile, heart. 

"Can't you just accept that I don't want to leave?" you manage, your voice barely louder than a pin drop.

Your heart flutters as he steps closer, though it shouldn't surprise you; he's never been one to respect personal space, and an argument wouldn't change that.

"No, I need to hear you say it," his tone is low, almost taunting, and his unyielding gaze sends another wave of fluttering through you.

"I don't want to leave you."

In the next second, Tony's lips crash against yours, pinning your back to the wall with a heavy thud. You don’t notice, the world fading with the taste of vanilla on your tongue and the scratch of his beard on your chin. Your thoughts become a blur as Tony's teeth graze your lips, and his hands squeeze your waist, pulling you closer, the arc reactor pressing into your skin. 

When the kiss ends, you're both left panting, yet he still clings to you, gripping your waist like he’s scared you’re going to run away. 

“I told you- the last thing I want is for you to leave.” he says sternly, voice still low. You can’t see his face, buried in the crook of your neck, but the heavy breath on your skin makes you lightheaded.

“Tony-”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s wrong to think I know what’s best for you. I just want you to be happy.” 

“I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“I care about you too much for that, Cassie.”

“I’m your assistant, Tony.”

Tony gently cups a hand under your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his, his thumb caressing your cheek. He studies your face intently, searching for any signs that he should stop while he's ahead. You stopped counting how often he leaves you a mess with his eyes, and try your best not to stare at his swollen lips.

“Then tell me you don’t feel the same.” he whispers.

A beat of silence passes, the fire crackling in the next room uninterrupted. 

“I…can’t.” you answer hesitantly.

The confession hangs heavy in the cabin’s stagnant air. Your mind racing a thousand miles per hour, waiting for the dream to end. 

“What are you so afraid of?”

“Doing this wrong, ruining everything.” Your eyes squeeze shut from embarrassment.

Tony laughs like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said, before kissing you again. It’s soft and slower than before, calloused hands still cupping your face.

“I think you’re the one who worries too much. When has anything bad happened to you when you’re with me?” Tony suggests, grinning, his eyes filled with warmth. 

You want to mention an office party a few months ago, where a drunk attendee threw up on your shoes, but you let him make his point. 

“Let me do the worrying for a bit, sound good?”

THREE WEEKS LATER

You felt like you traded seasons getting back to New York at the start of spring. You hadn’t gone home, instead staying in the tower at Tony’s request. You didn’t mind it at all, being surrounded with more comfort than you could ask for. 

Tony made it his personal mission to keep you away from all things work related, despite how many times you told him you enjoyed helping him. One small problem being that he left for a mission a few days ago, and you haven’t got the faintest clue where he was or when he was returning. The first day, you relished in a bit of solitude, reading books that sat on your shelf the last two years untouched or catching up with friends that you lost touch with. To your relief, most understood your reason for disconnecting, and the books were captivating. Now, however, it was day three, and you were starting to do the one thing he asked you not to— worry.

Just as the rain starts to splatter the tall windows of his penthouse, you’re considering reaching out to Fury or Hill to make sure he’s at least still breathing. The only thing that stops you is the ding! of the elevator, turning your nerves back down to zero.

When you meet him at the door, a wide smile breaks out on his face—surprised you’re still there.

“How was it?” you ask, as Tony drops his bag and moves towards you. You feel slightly awkward in this new territory with him, shifting your weight anxiously.

“We’re getting closer to the scepter. Hydra’s pulling out all the stops these days.” 

As Tony steps into the light, a deep freshly-stitched cut under his right eye comes into view. Before you can say anything about the cut, you notice the large bandage on his arm, and a matching bruise crawling up his shoulder.

“What the hell happened?” 

Tony slowly peels off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch behind you. “Oh, this? This is nothing, you should see the other guy.” he says with a flashy grin.

You’re busy scanning for more injuries, eyes raking for more bandages and stitches. Tony doesn’t let you continue for long though, taking your hands in his.

“What’d I tell you about worrying?” he teases, stroking your hair and planting a quick kiss on your lips.

You give an annoyed sigh, wishing he didn’t irritate and charm you in the same breath so much.

“I think it’s natural to worry when you’re bleeding.” you gruff, letting Tony pull you into a tight embrace. 

“Then I’m not doing my job, am I?” You don’t protest when his hands roam over your body, placing light kisses against your neck. “Let me take your mind off things.”

The light kisses on your neck turn into heavy bites, leaving marks along your collarbones. He creates his own path along your skin, sighing softly as his mouth finds every inch of skin your pajamas didn’t cover. You’re a panting mess as he trails down your body, twisting a hand into his messy locks. 

When he kneels before you, you feel unsteady on your feet. You wish you could say you two had gone this far already, but Tony considered himself a self-proclaimed gentleman and insisted you wait. It seems three days away from you was enough for the chivalry to fly out of the window. 

He stops for a moment, fingers hooked in your shorts, thumb rubbing gentle circles on the inside of your trembling thigh.

“Cassian?”

“Mhm?” You mumble, shutting your eyes. Nerves and anticipation mix terribly in your stomach, making you unable to process the desire on his face. You feel the fabric of your shorts slide down your legs with your panties. The cool air doesn’t help you any, rendering your skin sensitive and Tony’s hand feel like a furnace. 

“Relax, doll.”

You suck in a breath as his lips wrap around your clit, body stilling— the hand in his hair tightening. Weeks of Tony’s insistent waiting had you thinking your first time with him would be slower- you were ill-prepared for the way he runs through your folds with absolute filth. He moans into you, keeping a tight hold on your thighs to hold you close. 

He’s quick—grazing teeth against your clit as his tongue laps at your entrance— just to drag the tip of his tongue against your length and return your clit to start the cycle all over again. You feel the wetness coating the inside of your thighs, saturing his scratchy stubble on your skin. 

You bring your free hand to the back of the couch as he continues, sighing into your core and sending shockwaves up your spine. You try to maintain some type of balance, legs growing shaky again in pleasure rather than anxiety for a change. 

“Tony, god, that’s-” You’re cut off by your own moan when you feel Tony insert a finger into your soaking cunt, rocking slowly as his mouth finds its way back to your clit.

He pulls away a moment, letting his thumb keep the pressure against your sensitive bud. Your head tilts back, nails digging into the leather behind you. Out of your view, Tony wears a smug grin, pleased to see you taking his directive to heart. The middle of the living room might not have been his first choice, but it’s well worth it. Besides the fact you taste like heaven, it’s worth hearing every sound escape your lips.

Getting caught up in that, however, caused him to loosen the grip on your thighs. When his fingers curve inside you, your hips jerk against him. The calloused fingers tighten on your legs, to your slight dismay.

“Easy, doll, I got you.” he mumbles, returning his focus to eliciting more intoxicating moans from you.

Tony renders you a complete mess sooner than you’d like to admit, gasping above him as the warmth in your core grows overwhelming. If you told yourself a year ago that your boss would have you panting and begging, you wouldn’t believe it. Regardless of belief, his tongue pulls plea after plea from you. Your stomach feels painfully coiled- mind absorbed with the wet, filthy sound of Tony’s mouth on your cunt.

With another curve of his finger, you sent over the edge—crying out Tony’s name like a prayer and abandoning the hand tangled in his hair to hold yourself up. Tony lets you ride out your orgasm against his fingers, kissing the damp skin between your legs and muttering soft praises. 

It’s not until you sense him standing again in front of you that you open your eyes. You immediately want to take it back when you see the shit-eating grin covering his shiny face. The sight sends a new wave of desire through you, staring at his mouth with your lips parted, panting softly. Did he have to look so good constantly?

“As cute as you are when you’re worried, I think I prefer this look on you.”

[dirtbra1n]

shirahama kyouji isn’t convinced that tashiro’s actually seeing into hanzawa senpai’s dreams. bite him. but, okay, sure, whatever. as far as he’s concerned, tashiro doesn’t have to acknowledge this river as a real thing unless he really wants to. or needs to. what-ever.

what does he know. right?

not like he’s been getting calls from tashiro in the dead of night with alarming frequency lately. not like he’s being turned to like some kind of romantic gospel. it feels like a mean prank, honestly. Stop asking me about romance, Tashiro, you punk.

he sighs, holds the door for tashiro, clears his throat. “But, anyway, isn’t this whole thing kind of one-sided? Like, here you are lopping off his limbs or whatever—”

“Hey—”

“—but I don’t hear anything about him cutting into YOU. Aren’t YOU worth digging into? Isn’t he curious about the stuff going on in YOUR brain?”

“…If you’d just stayed in the ping pong club…”

“UGH, never mind.”

honestly speaking, kyouji thinks he’s a really good friend. just on the principle that he’s not just willing to but practiced in the art of grinding support levels. reading between the lines. pushing boundaries a little.

girls might call him delusional. or nosy. kind of pushy, maybe. he doesn’t let it get to him.

tashiro is just the kind of guy who doesn’t even realize that he isn’t letting anyone in, and the kind of guy that other people don’t realize they don’t know much about. and kyouji met him in middle school, and they became friends somehow.

it’s actually really easy to be friends with someone. it’s just a lot of work to be friends about it.

as in, like. kyouji was gaming tashiro’s friendship for at least a couple weeks before tashiro noticed and asked kyouji if he was gaming his friendship, to which he said “No.”

anyway, this is all kind of to say that kyouji hadn’t really realized he’d maxed out his support levels until that first 2:42 am call about death dreams and hanzawa senpai, and he got split between asking about the whole dying thing and confirming that it was, uh.

hanzawa senpai?

tashiro, if asked, would say that he’d definitely mentioned at least once the weird situation he’d gotten into there. kyouji would concede that point, sort of, except he’d argue in response that “weird situation” applies much more to the almost-but-not-quite confession than it does to… dying over and over? in front of you?

kyouji takes to sitting in stairways to mull these things over. he could be in the classroom eating lunch with miyano right now, but he’s a good friend. long-term investments. he is such a good friend.

“Like, really,” he murmurs to himself, worrying his banana milk’s straw between his teeth, “These have to count as your dreams too. Right?” he hears voices drifting down from the hallway and really hopes his isn’t doing the same.

it probably is. talking to the tashiro that exists in his head like a nut. man.

he leans back on his elbows to stare at the ceiling. “Keep talking over and over about how you’re intruding on his dreams and, like, no offense, Tashiro, but,” he sighs through his nose. completely hopeless. a completely hopeless nut. “Man. Your sleep, in your bed, in your head. Those are your dreams, mind link or not.”

he groans. puts the empty carton on the step next to him. tosses an arm over his eyes.

“Willpower, I guess. Maybe. Not that it’s something you have to do, but…”

somebody walks down the stairs, passing him warily. the carton goes skittering.

I guess if you want him to live enough awake and live enough asleep, it’s got to work out eventually.

he moves his arm and opens his eyes a little while later to see tashiro crouching in front of him.

kyouji squints. “I see you finally saw my text.”

tashiro hums evenly. “I was doing the rounds.”

a twinge in his forehead. he turns his head, crosses his arms. “Left here lying on the stairs, all dusty, cramping, just so Mister Popular can go talk to his friends…”

ka-tonk.

kyouji rubs his forehead. “For what’s it’s worth—“

“Not a lot.”

“Shut up. I think Senpai wants to live as much as anyone.”

that gives tashiro pause.

it’s kind of part of the reason kyouji doesn’t end up saying this next part out loud—he doesn’t know hanzawa senpai that well personally, anyway.

I don’t think anyone who wants to die would spend as much energy as he does doing all of… everything…

he doesn’t know hanzawa senpai that well personally, but he also doesn’t say it because…

man, it’s definitely bad luck in his fortune to go thinking about people he knows and bucket lists at the same time.

[sammythedominant]

Run For His Life | Sam, Owen

Characters: Sam and Owen, with a guest spot from Mary Evans.

Summary: Sam goes for a run that changes his life.

Warnings: Violence, homophobia, high stakes drama.

Sam smiled happily as he kissed Owen and Violet goodbye. He liked to get a run in around Main Street before he went up to the penthouse suite for the night, and more often than not, that meant his subs got to see him sweaty and panting, which neither of them had ever complained about.

The manager on shift shot him a thumbs-up from across the foyer, and Sam waved over at her. The small team he’d gotten together to run things while he was off-shift had proven themselves really capable, and Sam was grateful for them.

Sam put his AirPods in, hit shuffle on his Sam Goes Running mix, and set out on a jog as soon as he left The Evans House. He started on the route he usually ran on, up Main Street, and into the park. He stifled the slight frustration as his music cut out as a phone call rang in his ears. Sam pulled out his phone, saw his mother’s contact image staring back at him, and slowed down as he answered the call. 

“Hey, mom,” he said, barely out of breath yet.

”Hi, sweetheart. I didn’t interrupt anything, did I? I was just calling to see if Owen and Violet got my care package,” Mary’s voice rang in his ears.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His mom’s calls had doubled, if not tripled, in frequency ever since Stacey had arrived. Sometimes he wondered if he was getting the calls because he was the oldest Dom in the family in Lima, but he knew if he mentioned that, Mary would be hurt, and Dallas would probably be annoyed when she made a point to start calling him with her check-ins instead. “Just going for a run, mom. I think Owen mentioned a package, I’m going to open it when I get home,” he reassured her, and gave her time to try to make her segue to Stacey feel natural.

”That’s nice, dear. And how’s everyone? How’s Sawyer, and Dallas?”

”Stacey’s fine, mom.”

”Now, I didn’t say her name, did I? You told me yesterday she’s fine.”

Sam stifled a smile instinctively, even though they weren’t on a video call. “You’re right, I did. Sawyer and Dallas are doing great, Sawyer’s learning a lot. You know what he’s like, super clever,” he smiled.

”That’s wonderful, I know your dad’s going to be over the moon about a third Dom in the family.”

”Tell Stevie to put the PlayStation controller down and get out here, we might have a fourth,” Sam said, only partially teasing.

”Now, don’t be mean to your little brother, Sam. He’ll enroll somewhere when he feels he’s ready.”

Sam really did roll his eyes that time. “Yes, Mom. Listen, I’ve got to go. I promised Owen and Violet I wouldn’t be long, and I want to check in with the night staff before I call it a night,” he explained.

”Such a busy, important man,” Mary said, only partially teasing. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

”Goodnight, mom. Say goodnight to—“

A baseball bat ended the call, as it hit the phone while connecting with Sam’s head. Sam was on the floor immediately, and before he knew what was happening, he was surrounded. Blood was seeping from where he’d been hit, partially obscuring his vision. 

“It’s that Evans fag, the hotel guy.”

Kick to the stomach.

Baseball bat to the chest.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

“So he’s got some money then.”

Sam’s pained groans increased as he was turned over and anonymous hands rummaged through his pockets for his wallet. 

His groans stopped when one last kick brought darkness with it. 

__________________

Owen was in the primary bathroom that he shared with Sam and Violet, getting things ready for Sam when he returned from his run. After a month of being locked up and denied orgasms, their evenings were exciting, to say the least. Sam had made good on his word to make a month without orgasms worth both Owen and Violet’s while into July, and that meant multiple rounds until all three of them were too exhausted to do anything but pass out in each other’s arms. Owen had the idea to start things off with a luxurious bubble bath in their jacuzzi; which was big enough for about 6 people, comfortably (and it had had even more than that in it before). Humming as he went about preparing things; he filled the tub with rose-scented bubbles fluttering pink petals on top and around the perimeter of the tub, accentuating his talents for setting a scene.

He was almost done when his phone rang. Wiping off his hands on a towel, he picked it up at once when he noticed his mother-in-law’s photo lighting up on the screen. “Hi, Mary!” He greeted her cheerfully - having long since learned his lesson not to call her Mrs. Evans now that he’d been a part of the family for three-plus years.

“Hi, Owen, sweetie. Listen, I was just talking to Sam while he was out running and the line broke out unexpectedly. I tried to call back a few times and he didn’t pick up… Normally I wouldn’t fuss, but it was late, so I just wanted to make sure he’d gotten home okay.”

Owen’s smile faltered for a moment, a weird pit in his stomach bubbling up. Shaking his head, he tried to regain his composure; the House was massive, after all. If Sam was back, he might not have come straight upstairs right away. He could have been needed on his way in.

“I haven’t seen him yet…but you know, people always need him. I bet he just got called to an issue or something when he walked through the lobby. I’ll run down and check with the receptionist to make sure they’ve seen him….and don’t worry, I’ll call you once I find him.” Owen assured her, already making his way from the master suite to the private elevator that took him down to the ground floor.

“Alright, sweetheart. Thank you. I’ll stay up until I hear from you.”

“Okay, I’ll call you in a few, Mary. Bye!”

He hung up just as the elevator let out into the lobby. He rushed to the front desk.

“Hi, Felicity - have you seen Sam? He left for a run about forty minutes ago, give or take. I just wanna make sure he got back okay, ‘cause I haven’t heard from him…”

Felicity - a sweet, doe-eyed brunette slave worried her lips and shook her head. “No, Mr. Owen. I haven’t seen him come back… Do you want me to check with the other two entrances? Maybe he came around the back.”

The pit in Owen’s stomach deepened, but he nodded, keeping his composure. “Yeah. Do that, please? I’m gonna run out and see if I can find him - but if you reach him first, call me, alright?”

She nodded and started to call over to the other entrance as Owen ran out onto Main Street; taking the route he knew Sam preferred.

Minutes crawled by, and it wasn’t for several blocks until he finally saw something. Something that made him instantly nauseous. Blonde hair - and the shape of a body, dressed in shorts and a Captain America tank top that he knew all too well. “No….No, no, no, no…” Owen let out, sprinting now, stopping only when he reached Sam; sprawled out on the sidewalk, his pockets turned inside out, his phone abandoned and shattered, a small pool of blood surrounding the back of his head “Oh my God, S-Sir…Sam, Sam!” Owen started screaming, tears already welling up and pouring down his flushed cheeks. He reached for Sam’s arm, feeling his wrist for a pulse - at least, that’s how he’d seen it done on T.V. - but the truth was that he had no idea what he was doing. With his other hand, he hit the emergency button on his phone, instantly dialing 911. He put it on speaker and tossed it into the grass.

“911, what’s your emergency?” The operator said at once.

“It’s my Dominant…he’s…he’s hurt. I..I don’t know what happened, it looks like someone beat him up…m-mugged him, or something. He’s unconscious, and there’s blood a-around his head.” Owen choked out, moving so that he could cradle Sam’s head in his lap as tears streamed freely. “I…I think he’s breathing, but I don’t know how to c-check for a pulse… I…” he gulped, reaching under Sam’s tank-top, to press his hand to his heart. “No…No, he’s alive but unconscious, just please, please get an ambulance here, now!”

“I need you to stay calm for me, okay? Keep his head still while I dial in your coordinates and get an emergency unit out to you.”

“Okay…okay…still…g-got it.” Owen sniffed, holding Sam’s hand tightly, his breath coming in shakily as he felt hot, wet blood soaking his palm. Part of him was ready to slip into a panic attack, but the more rational part knew that he had to stay present to keep Sam alive while they waited. “Stay with me, Sam….Stay…stay with me, please…I need you. I need you more than I need air, you have no idea, just…please…please, don’t leave me alone.” Owen sobbed harder, reaching up to thumb at his Dominant’s bottom lip.

Minutes ticked by at an excruciating pace - during which the operator instructed Owen to use whatever he could to help slow the bleeding. Owen took his shirt off at once, balled it up, and applied pressure to the wound on the side of Sam’s head, feeling it dampen alarmingly fast with blood. “Please…please, we need help NOW.” Owen cried, hysterical at this point - and then, thankfully, the sound of sirens careening down Main Street broke through the night and Owen exhaled shakily.

Once they pulled up, Owen was instructed to get out of the way - which he allowed only as long as it took them to get Sam onto a stretcher; at which point he took Sam’s hand. When questioned about his relationship, Owen growled. “I’m his submissive!” He said, stomping his feet and pointing to the collar around his neck. “I’m his, and he’s mine and I’m riding to the hospital with him, Sir.” The paramedic asked no more questions and helped Owen into the back of the ambulance after Sam was loaded up.

They sped off to the hospital, Owen holding Sam’s hand, whispering that he loved him all the way there.

[hinamie]

fanartist asks: 10, 14 (jjk specifically but also maybe generally from other fandoms?), and 15 <333

omg hiiiiii sam hiiiiiiiiiii <3

10. what inspires your drawing ideas?

it depends! lyrics, fics, other art, a suggestion, an outfit, an image, a memory, a Want...there's pretty much no limit to things tht cn potentially trigger a Vision shdfjg most of the time it hits out of nowhere though. when it happens it feels like a burst of tv noise n it kind of swims around unformed in my brain until i go on pinterest or sit down and actually scribble a sketch to solidify the idea like i am trying to find a clear radio frequency

14. are certain characters harder to draw than others? Who's hardest for you?

despite the fact that he has been uncharacteristically cooperative as of late, yuuji has always been on the trickier side for me. megumi, and as much as i loathe to admit, gojo, are /very/ up my alley in terms of character design and drawing them feels very intuitive as a result. the tall lanky prettyboy type with Eyes (tm) and Eyelashes (tm).....i hate myself im sorry you could read me from fucking space anyway yuuji i had to fight for. for all the men and boys i draw, i tend to prefer androgyny when it comes to facial features n body type, so characters that lean masculine or are a bit rougher (?) around the edges in general always give me more trouble. fr tht same reason i also find nanami very difficult to draw gshjd it's probably mainly a lack of practice/familiarity but also something about his hairstyle makes it fucking hellish every time i've attempted it, not to mention he's blond. also his expression bank starting and ending at Stressed doesn't leave me with much leeway cries i can't prettyboy-ify him as easily as i can with yuuji

15. what is your favourite part of your creating process?

i LOVE the process of turning the sketch (indecipherable) into the sketch (clean)!! I think i might have said it before but this part is where i find myself able to hone in on how i want the finished piece to look without the pressure of having to actually make it look good just yet. 2 draw a comparison, it is the lore doc bullet point stage of a drawing where i get to play around n lay everything out in front of me :)

also this is not rly confined to a specific step of my creative process n it can happen at any time, but just in general when th flow state hits and my music is blaring and everything is clicking and working and i'm just genuinely enjoying my hobby ,, not 2 be dramatic but tht makes life worth living to me honestly. it doesn't matter that i'm drawing anime boys making out, being in that state makes me feel like this is what i'm meant to be doing

fanartist ask game

[crippleprophet]

so im going to the doctor in 2 days (i go on the 30th and im writing this on the 28th) and im physically disabled, and this is the first time ive gone to the doctor since late 2019 when i caught covid, and the doctor im going to is our old pcp's son, and our old pcp constantly brushed my dad off and i have all the same stuff as him and m o r e, so i need advice on how to not get brushed off since im 14 and my dads side has a past of drug seeking and shit. ive already made a list of all my symptoms but other than that i straight up dont know what to do

oh, god, i’m so sorry. my medical neglect journey started at 16 (aside from psychiatrization starting at 14) & i had no language for what i was going through so this ask really makes my heart ache, for you & my past self. on the one hand, you knowing to expect & prepare for this kind of shit puts you leagues ahead of where i was at your age; on the other, no amount of understanding the systemic ableism behind your pcp’s behavior will erase the pain & trauma of not being believed.

here’s some general appointment prep i do + other advice, as always with the caveat that i am Just Some Guy on the internet & you know your circumstances best:

think about the narrative you want to craft. i’ve got a primer on how to lie to doctors if that’s the route you want to take. try to group things by category (autoimmune symptoms together, neurological symptoms at a separate point in the conversation, etc) without saying that that’s what you’re doing to like set up the paint by numbers for him & hope he picks up the brush.

in that vein, lead with the symptom you want to prioritize. doctors are trained to build a diagnosis around the “chief complaint,” so burying the lede—or even listing it second—is more likely to get those symptoms ignored.

in addition to listing symptoms themselves: when they started, frequency/duration, intensity, how it impacts your daily life. framing things through the lens of “i want to be a good little normative student but X keeps making it difficult to do Y” usually goes over better.

if a supportive adult will be with you, talk to them about what you’re going to say & at what point you’d theoretically want them to intervene / push back against the doctor’s response, & how so.

determine your goals for the appointment. do you want a referral to a particular specialist? certain testing to be done? a prescription for a particular medication? the more you’ve thought about what you want out of it, the easier it is to advocate for that outcome.

ask leading questions, invoke other authorities, & act like you don’t know shit. for example, if i was trying to get bloodwork of an ANA panel from my rheumatologist, i’d be like, “my pcp was really concerned about this face rash that i’ve been having along with my joint pain, he said there’s some sort of blood test to check if it’s, like, lupus or something?”

do your research, but never ever mention that you have. if you’ll have an adult with you & this would be a safe conversation to have / they’d listen to you, it’s worth mentioning to them that a lot of doctors get dismissive when patients mention having googled symptoms.

this post on finding + navigating specialists might be relevant, especially if you want to get a referral or try to find a new pcp (obv decisions affected by insurance or lack thereof, whether your parents are supportive, etc)

i’ve also got this post about coping with medical neglect & trauma if you want to plan for / set up any of those coping mechanisms in advance.

i really want you to know that no matter how your appointment goes, your disabilities & symptoms are real, & you deserve quality, compassionate, comprehensive healthcare. unfortunately, under an ableist healthcare system it’s impossible to earn our way out of medical neglect—fucking tragically, doing everything “right” at an appointment doesn’t mean we’ll get taken seriously—& equally, folks who don’t know or bother to play this bullshit game are still just as deserving of care & shouldn’t be victim-blamed for neglect they’ve experienced.

i hope some of this is helpful! feel free to send a follow-up ask if there’s any other info or support i can provide. i’ll be thinking about you on the 30th & hope things go as well as possible 💓💓

[chidoroki]

182 Days of TPN - Day 165

Chapter 165: "You Can Fly!"

(I've finally reached that point where those old chapter reviews of mine became consistent, so if there's some deja vu moments with stuff I say from here onwards then I apologize. Might not happen since those were done blindly while I have a perfectly good idea of what happens in the story now, but I'll look back at those posts just in case so I don't become a broken record.)

I find it so adorable that even after so many years, Isabella still thinks of Leslie.

The hatred I feel for Sarah has grown immensely over the past couple months, so of course now I can't help but feel a bit giddy over her being shipped out. Peter eventually comes in with a comment stating that the farm made the decision based on who, between Isabella or Sarah, would be more beneficial to the farms, and with the impressive results Isabella has made during her time as caretaker, she was chosen as the obvious choice to keep around. And rightfully so. Thank heavens.

I know this poor woman just wanted to be free from all this hell and while I certainly don't wish to see Isabella suffer under the farm's rules and restrictions anymore, I love her too much to just see her get killed off, so you gotta stick around for a couple more years to help out the kids honey. It'll be worth it.

As much as I despise the man, I do like the intense shadow Peter gets across him during this panel. It really makes the sinister aura believable with how terrified Isabella looks, and for a woman who's been around death for so long and perfected a strong facade over the years to actually show some kind of fear, that's quite impressive he managed to make her feel that way.

After all this time and now I'm just getting the feeling that Isabella was crying a bit sometime during that panel of her looking at her number and chip implant in the mirror back at GF. Anyways, I know it was intentional for her to look completely scared upon making this deal with Peter here, but I love that it's all just an act as we later find out in ch170. (also, not important but this is my post so it was gonna get mentioned anyway: absolutely thankful that the second season decided to keep Isabella's hair down during this scene. She may have made the deal with one of the GF demons instead of Peter, but I can forgive the anime for that because Isabella just looked so perfect.)

Duh, everything this woman does is impressive. Sure, it's real bummer for those kids who had to be shipped out, but at least we learned during 181.7 that she did lower the frequency of the shipments so a fewer number of children were shipped out all together. It was a whole quality over quantity idea that worked out well so good for her. The less lives lost the better.

I'm certainly repeating myself from somewhere, but the way Isabella was able to successfully rally all the other moms and sisters together in less than a day is just fantastic. Such a power move. I still geek out over it.

Motherly instincts kicking back in (pfft, silly me, as if they ever left. that's genuine concern on her face). It's certainly a painful way to fix a finger but at least she helped!

The switch from "mom" to "caretaker" happens so quick it could give someone whiplash. Honey, I know this is all part of a grand performance but I don't like when you openly treat your precious children as food!

Still wondering how y'all managed to cross the giant cliff in order to sneak into headquarters but whatever works I guess. I'm certain they didn't just cross the bridge since security probably would've been alerted much sooner and I'm not gonna believe they arrived via random hot air balloons like the second season did. Regardless, it was quite a surprise to see Norman armed with a gun but very welcomed. Seeing him in the shelter jacket and pants is a good look for him too.

Favorite panel/moment:

Oh to be lucky enough to receive a hug from such a beautiful woman.

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

Partially a vent, but also definitely wouldn't mind advice

Nickname: daylily

Tw SA, CSA, sexual harassment and emotional abuse mentions, implied physical abuse (very, very very few details)

I feel really...confused, about why I reacted so strongly to the things that have happened in my life while people who've had similar experiences just kind of...don't seem to care. I've been sexually abused for most of my life from early childhood on, in various ways with varying levels of contact or frequency at different times, and had a lot of...not so great sexual experiences as an adult as well. I guess some of it is kind of my fault for being so stupid about red flags or for attention seeking in the case of harassment, since if I'd dressed differently or in earlier cases just stopped answering the phone it might not have happened, but that's not really the point. Basically, my wife has had some similar experiences (some brief instances of harassment, a relationship with someone too old for her as a teen - a long distance thing but still) and she doesn't seem to care at all, or even view those things as negative experiences, and I guess my question is just...why did I end up so heavily affected by that experiences when she's had bad things happen too and is pretty much fine. Even with the physical violence and emotional abuse we've both encountered as kids and as adults, which especially as kids was definitely worse for her, she barely seems affected by while I'm a mess because of all of it. Am I just weak? It's there something wrong with my brain? I'd say she had more of a support system, and maybe that's a tiny bit true, but neither of had much support, especially growing up, so what's wrong? Why did we react so differently and why can't I be strong and normal like her?

Hi daylily,

I'm so sorry about what you went through.

The way I see you describing your own experiences is reminiscent of internalized victim-blaming. I hear you saying you believe it's your fault for not acknowledging red flags, dressing a certain way, or even answering the phone. But please consider that there is nothing you could've done to deserve what happened. Nobody deserves to be abused. The only person whose fault it is, is the person who perpetrated the abuse in the first place.

Sometimes it helps to dispel internalized victim-blaming by thinking about your situation vicariously. Imagine that someone tells you they've been sexually abused for several years and in various ways, and they admit that they believe they're to blame for it because of how they dressed, or that they picked up the phone, or that they ignored red flags. Would you agree? No? Well that person is you.

As someone who has also battled with internalized victim-blaming during my healing journey, I know that you might feel that somehow your situation is different in the sense that while a stranger may not deserve it, you still believe you did deserve it. But consider that you are just as much of a trauma survivor as any other. You are valid.

Along with internalized victim-blaming, I hear you saying that you feel that your wife is "strong and normal" and while I don't necessarily disagree, It's worth exploring what those words really mean to you, especially in relation to yourself. Just because you may be more traumatized than someone else doesn't make you weak. Despite the fact you have a lot you're actively working through, processing, and struggling with, you're still here and still fighting, and that's strength.

I also just want to talk about this idea of "normal" because this is a thing that I see many other trauma survivors talking about. Just because you may be struggling more than your wife doesn't mean you're not "normal", and just because your wife seems to be fairing better doesn't necessarily mean she is "normal" either. While "normal" may mean "not traumatized", it can also be normal to have trauma of some kind. One of the most important things, though, is that we as trauma survivors tend to believe our lives are forever derailed by our trauma, when in reality it is possible to create a new normal.

The thing about trauma is that it's not defined by what happened, it's defined by how we've psychologically responded to it. Just because someone else seemingly wasn't affected by something you felt traumatized by doesn't mean you have no reason to be traumatized. There are many different factors that impact our resilience - our ability to cope with traumatic events - such as genes, the environment we were raised in, support systems, chemical balances in the brain, and several other factors.

When it comes to trauma recovery it is paramount not to compare your experience to others'. You may realize that comparing your experience to your wife's makes yours feel insignificant, and that's not conducive to healing. By separating your experience from your wife's and recognizing that everyone processes what happened to them uniquely and that how someone else is dealing with it doesn't reflect on you in any way, then you can begin to acknowledge your own pain and work through it.

Just because someone doesn't feel traumatized by something doesn't mean you shouldn't either. As long as you feel traumatized by it then you have every right to call your experience trauma, and you have every right to feel however you do about what happened.

You are allowed to be traumatized by what happened to you.

I hope I could help. Please let us know if you need anything.

-Bun

[queenrepent]

I was gonna do this when the poster got 27 notes but I got a tag telling me to explain the plot so now's the time to tell you all about that sequel i thought about! (this is just an overview of the plot, so keep that in mind)

-- HDMI: Broadcast of Limited Hope -- (if that second part sounds familiar, that's because it's based of the german subtitle of the first movie ("Transmitter with Limited Hope"). too good not to reuse, no?)

(cracks knuckles)

so! the year is 2011, and ultra high frequencies are even more outdated than they were in 1989 (as in, "channel 62 is flat out off the air now" outdated). george newman and his friends are understandably bummed out by this, and they want a way to bring U-62 back on the airwaves. ofc, because this is george newman we're talking about, he decides to just hijack 'em (instead of making a yt channel or working for another studio or something sane like that). but how?

the answer to that question is "the clanker", a (probably alien) pirate radio hijacking machine they find in a dumpster and take home. george, bob, and pamela all record some material, and the first GN-TV special is aired (and by aired, i mean zapped into 2010-era MTV). you might be wondering "wait, what about stanley?" and the answer is that he's kinda burnt out from celebrity fame and didn't want anything to do with it. hosting a popular children's show from 1989 to 2009 (not consecutively, but still) will do that to ya.

george still wants to work with him, though, and has a chat to convince him to help out. stanley doesn't mind doing things for him, but he's not really sure if he wants to go back into (just-short-of-) show biz. as their convo continues, it eventually works out, but stanley tells him that (if george wants to keep him on there) he'll only be acting in one segment at a time and he shouldn't be recognizable as such. george agrees, and so the second GN-TV special has a new, exclusive interview in its lineup. it's done by "zack dolecki", a bitter former celebrity brought back into the business for another shot at fame (personality-wise, he's the opposite of stanley).

anyways, george and the gang have a pretty good gig going...up until halfway into the fifth special, where the authorities catch onto their pirate radio antics and arrest them (the reason why everyone looks so distraught on the poster). this is also when people mistake stanley for zack, to his dismay/relief ("people aren't trying to get my autograph for once! too bad they're trying to imitate me instead...").

the rest of the (not-)movie regards their exploits to get out of prison. the main plot point here is the four of 'em separating due to george managing to break out of his cell + ruminate on his life choices after licking a suspicious-looking mail stamp, all set to Bohemian Polka (bob left his cell as well because A) he didn't want george to get hurt and B) he was trying to break out anyways). eventually, all four of them leave prison, meet up, and find a car that they can drive their way out of tulsa...just shortly before the authorities find them and drag them back to prison AGAIN.

this time, however, is so they can get a proper trial, courtesy of the warden (johnny sawyer). johnny is a very uptight man, and he's had enough of these dang criminals making a fool out of his dang prison. however, all four of them manage to leave (for real this time) by pissing him off so much he decides it isn't worth it to keep them in and throws 'em out.

and now since I've described the plot, I can mention this: the movie shows the timeline non-linearly (mainly because i thought it would be interesting). it starts with george getting interrogated, moves linearly until the gang gets into an argument about U-62, flashbacks to them before the creation of GN-TV and moves linearly from there until the first special ends, then keeps up a steady stream of them trying to break out of prison, GN-TV segments, and clips of an episode of a trash tv show which they happen to star in (sometime after they got the clanker, but before they got arrested). "what's the trash tv for?" you may be asking now. "you didn't mention it at all during your synopsis!"

well, it's not as plot relevant as the other two points, but it's intended to flesh the four out (*cough cough* especially bob and pam *cough cough*), so in it goes.

[butch-reidentified]

Between the emotions poll and the psychopathy quiz, it seems like you are doing a lot of comparing yourself to see if your experience of life is normal. (It is ♡) Have you done much reading on dissociation? When I was a teen (traumatic childhood) I felt that I didn't have emotion or empathy. Over time and with healing it came back to me; I was dissociating from my emotions basically 24/7. My story might not be relevant to your situation at all, but I thought I'd share in case it is.

I appreciate the input, fr, so please don't think my disagreement indicates otherwise, but -

1. I'm actually kind of doing the opposite - I know my experiences are normal and I'm trying to gently get others to understand that. As I've mentioned before, I firmly believe that there's a spectrum/bell curve of things like emotional lability, intensity, and frequency, as well as things like empathy. I know where I stand, and I have no issue with it. I am interested in challenging the predominant views on the matter. My objective is not validating my own experiences as normal; it's encouraging people to challenge the accepted thinking in regards to emotional experiences.

2. I actually worked as a mental health counselor for a long time, my degrees are in neuro & psych, and I'm published in neuropsych (on trauma!). I still do some counseling pro-bono for abused women, but it's no longer my primary job. I don't have any issues with dissociation, unhealed trauma, or anything similar. I can relive every moment of my trauma history as a standard memory at this point. I had a somewhat opposite experience of briefly heightened emotionality when I was actively dealing with trauma (making a complete and total recovery from trauma in a relatively short time period is one of the positive aspects of being the way I am). Truthfully, I am very in tune with my emotions, which is precisely why I'm so certain about this.

However, this is very much my baseline, and I've always returned to it when I'm healthy. I was very much the same at age 4 as I am today in terms of core personality. I do not believe it's abnormal and won't bend to anyone arguing that it is. It's not the peak of the bell curve, sure, but so what? I love everything about who I am and how I think, and the unique perspectives and ways of interacting/engaging with others it grants me. The downsides are worth it, in my opinion.

[iartechcore]

SunStop Acne Gel Review, Price, Key Benefits

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[captainmdhridoyhossain-blog]

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[imlershy]

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[villamiral]

Ww2 online battleground europe map

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This will eliminate packet loss which is one of the major causes of rubberbanding. You can do this by using an ethernet cable and connect it to your router. Try to switch to a wired connection instead of a wireless one.

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Other than that, you may want to update the drivers of your graphics card and network adapter to see if there will be any major differences to your gaming experience. You may want to try reinstalling your game, along with any external gaming launcher (like Steam), to see if your problem is fixed. However, these fixes have been proven to work for different players, so we can say that they are worth trying.Īs mentioned in a previous tip, rubberbanding can be a result of improper installation of the game. It may have a little or a significant impact to you depending on different factors or variables. First, take note that we will only show you general fixes for this problem. So how can you fix this rubberbanding problem with World War II Online? Here is a simple guide to do this. Ask your ISP if they bundle wtfast with their gaming package. It’s always worth having a conversation with your ISP to see if they offer a dedicated gaming bundle, especially if they offer wtfast as a built-in value bundle. Another potential rubberbanding cause is a poor internet connection. If you are connected through a WiFi connection instead of a wired connection, chances are you may likely to experience a rubberbanding problem.

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Having old drivers installed in your PC (specifically for your graphics card and/or network adapter) can also be one of the causes. Rubberbanding can also be caused by improper installation of the game or if your game has corrupted files. You might think this is because of your network connection or your ISP - although this can be true, that is not always the case. Rubberbanding in online games like World War II Online is caused by different factors. For example, your computer may be the Sender, and the World War II Online server may be your Target, but there could be other mystery hops along the way causing issues. When your World War II Online connection is laggy, it's usually due to a poor connection between 2 or more points. Much like bats, we're often flying blind on the internet, unaware of the latency of the next 'hop.' When calculating your overall ping time, it's important to factor in each 'hop' along the route. Internet connections are not typically direct – there are multiple 'hops' between the sender and the target. On the internet, determining your World War II Online ping time can be a bit trickier. In the animal kingdom, bats use a similar method called echolocation which uses high-frequency sounds to help the bat determine how close it is to a destination, even in total darkness. Ping was initially a term used in active sonar technology, and it described the time it took for a sound to be sent and received between sender and target. A optimized ping time means you have a more responsive connection for latency-sensitive apps like online games. Ping measures the time it takes to make a round trip time between your computer and the World War II Online server, and it is typically measured in milliseconds. Your ping time measures how long it takes for data packets to get from your device to the World War II Online server. Ping is a measurement of the reaction time of your internet connection.