#four images for a proper strip

[cupcakeslushie]

For your brainwash au, do we get so see exactly how Donnie got captured by Kendra? And would this au be a full comic or just bits and pieces here and there? (Not pressuring just curious) Love the au and I hope you’re having a good day! :)

Don’t know why, but I felt like writing this part out instead of drawing it! (Sorry for bad grammar. I wrote this lying in bed, sleep deprived and did no editing)

——

The sad, pained look on his little brother’s face is enough to set off that dark protective fire in Donatello’s belly. And Michael has been a tiny storm of negative emotions since Leo slapped the small cast on his ankle. Donnie may not be able to pick apart and decipher all of the subtitles his brother is feeling right now, but he knows he’s in pain, and that’s enough.

“How many strips of bacon do you think we can get from Meat Sweat’s corpse?” Donnie ponders as he wraps an arm around his little brother’s shoulders, and carefully pulls him closer. Mikey lets out a quiet huff, but the joke doesn’t land the way Donnie had been hoping.

“Michael?”

“I’m okay,” Mikey assures. Then a hesitant second later adds, “it’s stupid.”

“Oh well if it’s stupid, allow me to grab ‘Nardo. He might be able to help you better.”

That gets the laugh he was looking for.

“I’m not in pain or anything. It’s just, tonight was the midnight signing of Joshua Bear’s new cook book. He’s a YouTuber chef that I’ve been following for years, and I went to his first release…I really wanted the second for my collection.”

Donatello does vaguely remember Angelo telling Raph something about this event last night, during dinner. He’d been so excited, and now he looks crushed at the idea of missing it.

“What if I went?” At the suggestion, Mikey’s face becomes brighter than a super nova, almost too bright for Donnie to stare at directly. It takes a moment for Michael to really calm down enough to speak.

“You’d really go wait in line for three hours? Just to get a book?” Donatello laughs at the question. Any opportunity in which his brothers were interested in the world of literature, no matter the subject (except maybe geology) was a time to be supportive.

Mikey pulls him in for a tight hug, and holds up his phone to snap a picture of them. Donnie snorts and slides out of his little brother’s hammock, careful not to disturb it too much. Mikey is already bouncing enough that he’s in danger of falling out.

“Yes, yes. Sing my praises on all your media socials. Let the world know how I’m your favorite older sibling!” Mikey drops the phone to his chest and holds his arms up, practically vibrating for one more hug. Donnie complies. He’s long given up maintaining his bad boy image when it’s just the two of them.

“You’re the best, Donnie! Really!” The words do a hell of a job replacing that previous fury he’d been harboring, the smile and warmth coming from Mikey, now fully restored. The proper order of the universe righted with a simple solution. This was what he loved most about being a brother. Fixing his siblings problems, in any way he could. And if healing the broken bone outright was (for now) out of his control—at least he could do this.

Donnie glances at his watch and notes he should get going if the turn out is going to be as big as Angelo predicts. He sneaks past the living room where he can hear his other two brethren yelling over a game of Mario Kart. He has zero interest in either of his brothers tagging along. He loves them, but neither are suited to standing in a long line for hours. For the last Jupiter Jim reboot, Donatello was seconds away from a double fratricide before they were even allowed into the theater.

Besides. He’s practically 18 (in four weeks). He can run up to the surface for a few hours, without having to call upon the archaic buddy system.

———

He’s in line for about an hour, when he sees suspicious movement out the corner of his eye. A young woman, parting the line a little ways ahead from where he stands, walks quickly into the closest alley. That alone might be no cause for alarm—maybe it’s a short cut. But the tall, hooded creep trailing after her, has his metaphorical hackles rising. It’s a clear case of sinister intentions. He quickly glances around to see if anyone else has witnessed this, but he’s the only one who seems to be showing any type of concern. Typical New York.

“What a town” Donnie sighs. He doesn’t bother asking the old man behind him to save his spot, seeing as he’s practically at the end of the line, and quickly races to the alley to play hero.

It’s a deep one, the lights of the street not quite hitting all the eerie nooks and crannies. Plenty of blind spots.

“Hello there? Stalker and or damsel in distress? Is anyone in need of assistance? Anyone hopefully bear maced and in need of a being escorted to the nearest precinct?”

No answer.

The non-existent hairs on Donnie’s arms stand straight up. Just as he’s reaching for his ninpo to materialize a bo-staff, something thick wraps around his neck from behind. The arm is almost as big as Raphael’s, if lacking in the muscle department.

But before his can break the hold, the solid feeling of a needle slides into the meat of his neck and something rushes into his veins. Within seconds he’s released and stumbling from the lack of support.

Someone is talking to him. It takes a second of his gaze bouncing around to pick them out. Mildly embarrassing, considering they’re standing right in front of him now. Out of all the colors popping in and out of his vision, Donnie only just catches the same turquoise hoodie that seemed to belong to the unassuming young woman.

A honey pot trap, he realizes, stumbling and falling pathetically backwards on his own ass.

He sees pink hair and is almost relieved, if humiliated. With all their enemies, the Purple Dragons are D tier. But the chances he can free himself before his brothers even notice his absence is high. Just the thought of the savage teasing he would be forced to endure if his brothers found out—Donatello is not eager to hear any of it.

As the nauseating colors finally bleed away, and start to leave black growing in their wake, Donatello swears to cause a big explosion on his way out.

[staycalmandhugaclone]

If you're new, this all starts with Touch Starved - Echo! You can read this little chunk as a standalone, or head back to the beginning for the full experience!

Febuwhump Day 2 Ch 4 - continuation to Flinching

Flinching – Med OC&TBB

Warnings: Summarized attempted SA, reference to physical assault, reference to victim blaming. The first half is heavy, not gonna lie, but there's nothing explicit.

WC: 3,052

Back rigid, arms locked tight at my side, I stood at attention in perfect stillness; that relentless tremor of earlier anxiety overruled upon finding one of the most well-known jedi masters seated before me in the relatively small room, a curved desk lying between us with a chair clearly intended for me already pulled out expectantly across from them. I'd expected the soothing visage of General Shaak Ti, already familiar with the kindness in those dark eyes from fleeting interactions with her while meandering through Kamino’s labyrinth of halls, but General Kenobi’s presence took me by surprise.

“I hope it’s alright that it’s just the four of us. Given the unfortunate nature of this, I thought you might be more comfortable with fewer participants. If that's not the case, though, I'm sure we can make an exception.” Kenobi started, voice flowing in a gentle cadence that would have calmed anyone not trained to use it themselves.

“This is fine, General.” The automatic response was just shy of sharp, nerves tightening around my throat. He studied me a moment before letting his attention shift briefly to his datapad.

“Your squad offered a few… opinionated reports.” He risked only the lightest touch of humor in the statement. My brow quirked at that. A few? I’d known Tech reached out to the commander but hadn’t thought any of the others bothered adding their own report.

“It’s clear they care deeply for you, and I believe we have you to thank for ensuring this is handled through the proper channels rather than resolving the issue themselves.” General Ti added with a knowing smile, and I was glad for the cover of my armor shielding the blush creeping up my neck but cursed the ease with which the mic picked up my tiny huff of laughter, teeth immediately locking around my lip to silence it.

“An effort we very much appreciate.” Kenobi murmured. “From our understanding of what happened, I’d much rather his punishment be public – a reminder that such actions have no place in the Republic.” I felt the shift as vividly as if I’d just stepped into the icy waters of some forgotten lake; pleasantries were over. Their regretful expectation weighed heavily in the air around us, both pairs of eyes finding a sympathetic resolve as they watched me.

“Please,” Kenobi motioned toward the chair, “You’re welcome to take your helmet off if you’d like. We understand you recorded images of your injuries before tending them?” I stared at the offered seat for a beat too long, limbs frozen in a final moment of rebellion against tearing at wounds that hadn’t yet begun to heal. Air held trapped in burning lungs lest they hear how near to breaking I was, I forced myself across those few steps and sat stiffly before them, movements almost robotic as I stripped myself of that precious layer of concealment, unable to fully restrain the longing way my eyes watched my own hands set the helm atop the desk before finally meeting their gazes absent that cover of impenetrable transparasteel.

I knew the reason behind the sudden darkness in Kenobi’s eyes, the carefully restrained pity in Shaak Ti’s, and my jaw ground against the deep urge to turn away from them, to hide the ugly yellows still just tinted with purple that swelled over almost the entirety of the left half of my face, the thick lines of fresh scar tissue splitting my lower lip and stretching across the bridge of my nose.

“You should see the other guy.” There was a touch of disdain in my voice that I couldn’t help but let out, expression carefully blank as I pointedly returned their stares. Without giving them time to respond, I slipped the datapad from my waist, tongue darting out nervously to wet my lips as I blindly opened the file containing the collection of images I tried violently not to look at before passing the device across the table to them. It was Shaak Ti who reached out to take it, glancing only briefly at the screen before letting those dark eyes return to mine.

“I am sorry to ask this – I truly am… but would you tell us what happened?” She whispered, voice a quiet melody amidst the wretched stillness awaiting my answer. “No detail is too small. The more we know, the more we can help.” My gaze dropped once more to the gleaming white of my helmet, lingering over the strip I’d had to paint over after being pulled from my last squad at the heartbreaking understanding that I couldn’t wear their colors anymore.

I didn’t try to drag my attention away from that pristine surface again, barely noting the emotionless words trying vainly to tangle against my tongue as I recounted every moment I’d spent with the mercenary chosen to lead that mission. I told them of my quiet attentiveness in the briefing just prior to landing, of the seemingly pointless chats I’d found myself in with nearby soldiers but never directly with him, in the offhanded quip I’d made after their effortless victory of my job being the most difficult among them.

I didn’t pause as I spoke of him calling out to me just before I’d reached my room, the not-so subtle request for a medic’s attention and my equally unsubtle refusal. I recounted his every movement as though reading from an instruction manual, ridding even the tone of my voice of anything near to the panic I’d felt; the shock and rage and terror. I recounted each blow he’d landed with the same emptiness as I did when describing mine, the final kick to his knee that granted me enough time to dart through my door and engage the lock; how I’d kept myself trapped in there for the three days it took Hunter and the others to reach me, and the speed of my flight to reach the Marauder in hopes of avoiding even seeing the merc as I fled.

There was little comfort in the quiet that finally fell between us. I could feel them watching me, feel the tightness in their jaws as they forced back their own opinions to remain as outwardly impartial as possible. I expected nothing less, now awash with the dread of awaiting their judgement, terrified that they might disregard what had happened to me in favor of the military worth of a man capable of such success, or worse, that they’d feel my verbal attempts to dissuade him had been insufficient and that he held no fault for his actions.

The hiss of my datapad being pushed slowly across the table toward me finally drew my attention back to Kenobi. There was no blame in his eyes, and that, at least, granted me some small whisper of relief. Still, I found myself holding my breath, almost reluctantly returning the device to my waist.

“You must feel quite betrayed right now.” He offered quietly, and I felt myself cringing at whatever apologetic line he had prepared, “That was a man awarded a position of power by your superiors – an oversight that should never have happened. I understand-”

“With all due respect, General, I don’t think you do.” Soon, I would find myself horrified that I’d interrupted him. Soon, just thinking about the blatant disrespect of what I’d done would send my heart racing. Soon… but, as I met the crisp blue of his eyes, I didn’t shy from the title or power he himself seemed to disregard. I saw the pain he felt for me, the sincerity of his regret, and I spoke to him without reservation of rank or standing. “Having someone you’re supposed to trust do something like that… I hope it’s something you never have to understand.” My voice was soft. I didn’t blame him for this, but I needed to make sure he knew the weight of my words, the responsibility sharing them with him placed on his shoulders.

“I was lucky. I was able to fight back, and I have the support of my men to help me through it. But you’d be a fool to think this was his first time, and you’d be a greater fool to hope it’ll be his last.” He didn’t balk at the threat of insult, and I didn’t doubt the depth with which he felt everything I’d left unspoken; the dread that my words would go unheeded, the rage and guilt of what might happen if they did… the desperate plea for them to honor the horror of reliving that night that they might ensure it never happens again. He said nothing as his head dipped in a nod, and the sorrow he managed to portray in that simple gesture quieted me.

“If that’s all, Generals?” I asked, and I could hear the exhaustion finally creep into my voice. Kenobi’s gaze softened with a sympathy I wanted to balk at, but the gentle kindness in those eyes stilled even that.

“Of course. Thank you for trusting us with this. You’re dismissed… Cody?” Without another word, the commander nodded and stepped forward to lead me from the room.

-

“That was well spoken.” He didn’t look at me as he said it, posture still every inch the visage of quiet power the Marshall Commander was renowned for as he walked at my side. “I’m sorry there was any need for this at all, but I’m impressed with how you’ve handled it.” I almost replied, throat already shifting around a quip about how that made it all worthwhile, but the words died well before being granted speech, gaze merely falling back to the path before us.

I’d spent the walk trying to let my mind wander about nothing, ignoring the suddenly interested looks of nearby clones at my change of companion, tried not to hear their whispered theories or teases before the slightest shift of Cody’s helmet sent them scurrying. It was done. I’d fulfilled my part to the fullest. Now all I could do was trust the jedi, and hope…

“Ma’am, if you wanted to take some time to recover from this,” It wasn’t until we’d nearly reached that final stretch of halls that he finally spoke again, “I can promise no one would think any less of you for it. General Kenobi already suggested paid medical leave. He also mentioned offering you a transfer.” My body froze, foot still hovering mere inches above that meticulously polished tile. “I know Hunter and the others had nothing to do with what happened, but going through something like that… it can alter the dynamic of a group, make it harder to move on.” I could barely force breath through the sudden mass in my throat, shoulders aching from the tension coursing through them.

“You don’t have to answer now, but the offer to rejoin your old squad is there.” He shifted to continue forward, but paused upon realizing I made no move to join him. Did he note the sudden harshness of my too-deep breaths? The way my hands had balled into fists? With a painfully controlled motion, I slowly removed my helmet once more, this time driven with the intention of letting him see every ounce of my emotion – the utter fury burning through my eyes and the rage just twisting my lips into the beginnings of a scowl.

“No.” I didn’t grant him the respect of ‘sir.’ Not after what he’d said. “If I leave now…” The tense words just managed to growl through ground teeth, “do you have… any idea what that would do to them?” His head lifted, and I couldn’t tell if it was out of insult or shock, but I didn’t care. “I leave, then it doesn’t matter what anyone tells them – they’ll blame themselves even more, and I will not let that happen.” Fingers straining against the rigid plastoid tucked under my arm, I stole a half step toward him, glare burring into the empty darkness of his visor. “They get enough osik from every kriffing reg in this force-forsaken city! You’re the only clone I know whose name doesn’t make them shut down. Do not do that to them.” I stole several tense breaths, granting myself a few seconds to find some echo of calm before letting my tongue slip over my lips and willing some of that rage to settle.

“I love my old squad.” I told him, voice dropping into something nearer to a whisper. “I would kill and die for them in a heartbeat… but they don’t need me.” I hated the subtle plea just bleeding into my words but couldn’t bring myself to force it back. “This is where I’m supposed to be – this is where I want to be.” I was begging him. “Don’t take me away from them… please.”

He was still for a long moment, broad shoulders dancing beneath the subtle movement of unhurried breaths, and it was hard to imagine that there was a person under the impassive image of armor and stillness before me, that there was a man of flesh and blood, and I felt a brief flash of fear. Would the simple existence of my emotional attachment be all the justification he needed to submit a transfer? Had I sealed my fate in my very attempt to avoid it?

I didn’t move as he finally broke the painful stillness, mimicking my earlier gesture in the slow removal of his own helmet. He wasn’t looking at me, gaze staring blinding that the floor just beyond my boots as he tucked the awkward piece of armor under his arm. When he let that strangely familiar face find mine, it was with a deep reverence that left me frozen, struck by the tension in his jaw; the crushing weight in eyes I’d seen a thousand times in a thousand faces, each carrying a lifetime of experiences and hopes and fears that left them all unique in stunningly beautiful ways.

“Thank you.” That was it. He said nothing more before returning to the anonymity of his bucket and continuing down the hall. I hesitated mere seconds before quickly moving to follow him.

Echo tread through the door well before we’d reached it, and I felt the fond smile pull at my lips the instant his golden eyes seemed to sweep over me in an instinctive search for injury before turning to greet the commander standing beside me.

“Everything settled?” He asked, voice deep with an anger I knew would be slow to fade. Cody nodded, arms absently folding behind his back as he addressed his brother.

“Take care of this one, Echo. She’s worth holding on to.” The shock that wrenched my gaze back to that orange-streaked bucket drew a chuckle from the intimidating clone that left me even more taken aback, lips just falling open in a gasp as the man turned and began his trek back as though nothing had happened.

“Well, you made an impression.” He teased, and I couldn’t dismiss my relief upon seeing that smirk on his pale lips.

“I… I guess?” I stammered, unsure how to respond to the commander’s words. Blowing out a deep breath, I tried to let the events of the past hour fade into the background, attention shifting away from the steadily retreating figure. “I hope you guys didn’t get into too much trouble without me?” His grin grew, nodding over his shoulder with a nearly threatening silence. Lips bunching against a whisper of uncertainty, I tread lightly behind him into the barracks. And I instantly stilled.

“W… what’s all this?” I asked, gaze shifting between the handful of small canisters littering the large table normally home to countless piles of electronics and half-broken gear. Hunter stepped forward at my question, a glint of something too raw to risk naming shining in those eyes.

“Paint.” He stated simply, allowing just a moment for my confusion to begin to shift into a tentative understanding as Wrecker moved to join him, beaming grin stretched across his excited face. “If you’re going to be on this squad, it’s time you look the part – make sure everyone knows who they’re dealing with if they try to give you trouble.” My jaw ground against the way my breath suddenly hitched, shattering as my brows pinched together over eyes burning beneath that first flood of tears. “If you want?” He added, only just letting it drop into a question.

In a burst of motion, I threw myself forward, arms latching around him with every ounce of strength in me, body shaking with some indistinguishable mixture of sobs and laughter. He’d only just begun to recover from the sudden attack, hands hesitantly moving to settle against my back when I released him to charge Wrecker with the same burst of adoration and gratitude. He didn’t share even an ounce of Hunter’s surprise, instantly crushing me against him in an unrestrained embrace, deep chest shaking with his own booming laughter.

After several unsteady breaths, I tried to turn my attention to Echo, but Wrecker’s arms held me fast, and a flood of giggles burst through the smile stretching across my face. I didn’t have to look to know it was Echo’s hand that reached up to settle fondly against my shoulder. When he finally set me down, the initial fit of manic glee was quelled into something quieter, gaze turning to find Tech and Crosshair in turn.

“Thank you.” The words threatened to break, just escaping in a whisper. Tech responded with the briefest hint of a smile, while Crosshair offered only a short nod before letting his eyes drift quickly away from mine. Hunter ruffled his hand through my hair, and I readily shot him a squinted glare, but stilled as he leaned over me, lips near enough to just feel brushing against my ear as the quiet rumble of his voice murmured almost silently between us.

“You forgot about Rex.” Those barely audible words sent a fire blossoming up my neck, cheeks instantly flushing deep red. With a quiet chuckle, he merely stepped back toward the awaiting supplies and, flashing a knowing smirk, offered me a paint-covered brush. With a helpless scoff, I let my lips pull up into a grateful smile and stepped toward him.

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[bomberqueen17]

roofin

so this week has been a bit hectic, and i worked the farmer’s market yesterday and still feel like if anyone wants to write an accurate farmer’s market a/u of anything they should hit me up. (hint: there should be more politics and somebody should be a little bit mad with power)

but anyway today was The Big Day for the Roof Going On and it went really well. Firstly the weather was glorious; low 40s (F) to start and then it warmed right up to the mid 60s, clear and sunny, blue skies, very aesthetic fall color on all the leaves. I got my real camera out, it was so pretty. No wind, unlike yesterday. No threat of rain. I have exhausted all my karma points; that was all i could have asked for. It was really just perfect weather.

Cut for pics & too much detail, of course.

We got a crew of five-- Dude came out for this purpose, and so it was me, Dude, BIL, Farmsister, and then I called in the favor for M-L of having helped her move, and she said of course she’d come.

I went out at 8am with BIL, and we tore off the two top half-planks at the roof peak, so there’d be a proper air gap for ventilation. Had to cut out a little strip of the roofing underlayment too, and this made me so nervous, because it meant destroying what weatherproofing I had.

image: looking up at my cabin’s sleeping loft, the sky is visible at the peak of the roof through an opening approximately six inches wide.

But we got all set up, and double-checked the plans and got our materials set up. And then we set to work.

image: the cabin, with the roof covered in green Tyvek, my brother in law sitting across the peak, a ladder hung from the peak next to him and two stepladders in the foreground. Note to the right that there is an exposed bit of rafters-- those are the fly rafters, built off the end of the building to be an extra bit of overhang for the roof. In the background, the trees immediately behind the cabin are a riot of fall color, mostly sugar maples in shades of oranges and yellow and some red, with some of it still green.

I started off being on the stepladder, screwing down the bottom edge of the roof, but I gave that job to Farmsister because my left elbow has never been the same since I overdid things helping M-L move. (She showed up at 10, which was when we’d told her to come; we realized before that that we probably weren’t actually going to need her, so we told her to take her time and bring us donuts. Which she did, because she’s a sport.) M-L then saw me flexing and rubbing my elbow and was like “oh no what did you do to it” and i did not have the heart to tell her, so I just said I’m getting old.

Part of the reason I’d figured ML could be the 5th crew member is that if we didn’t need her, I knew she’d be fine just standing around being the peanut gallery. Anyone else would feel weird or be mad, but she wouldn’t care, and I was right, she mostly stood around and chased down screws the actual workers dropped, and Dude and I were not terribly busy but spent our time carefully prying apart the metal roof sheets which were damp and so had stuck together, and then carefully carried them over one at a time and handed them up to the folks on the roof.

Image: half of the south side of the roof is clad in metal; BIL is on the ladder hooked over the roof peak, and Farmsister is on the tall stepladder leaning on the screw gun as she puts in the screws right above the eaves.

We went up one side and then went around and did the other side, and started putting the ridge caps on as we went-- there were three sections of ridge cap, so one for about every four sheets of roof-- and we found the foam insulation that’s meant to go in as a spacer there, and got that put in. Still need to add the little insulation thingies under the eaves but that’s something for another time. (The kit hadn’t come with those, so Dude had to go drive around to several home improvement stores to find them all in the afternoon.)image

image: Farmsister and BIL each separately operating an electric screw gun, screwing down the metal roof panels in an artistically-framed photo that shows the very blue sky and the brilliant fall foliage of the tree overhanging the cabin.

We stopped for lunch at 1pm with one ridge cap still off but all the roof panels in place, and went in and had a white bean chicken chili that Farmsister had put in the crockpot overnight. It was very good. And we dismissed M-L at that point.

image: This is what the cabin looked like when we stopped for lunch. You can’t see that the last section of ridgecap isn’t on yet. You can see how bright the foliage is all around! It’s so pretty.

After lunch, just BIL and I came back out, and I handed him a few things but then he mostly was just puttering, getting the foam spacers in under the ridgecap and so on and so forth. So I went in and dug out the insulation batts I’ve had in the corner ever since we put the insulation in under the loft where it overhangs the porch, and I put on a mask and a kerchief over my hair and long sleeves and went up in the loft and stapled those batts up until I ran out of staples on the last batt.

It was only enough to do one wall, and not the peak, so it’s not enough that it’ll really be any warmer up there. But it’s something, and it’s a bunch less I’ll have to do later. The rest of the insulation batts are up in the barn loft and I was not feeling up to going and getting them.

We got the last ridgecap up finally, when Dude got back with the esoteric insulating pieces he had to drive all over robin hood’s barn to find. (BIL had also gone and borrowed a set of power shears from the neighbor; the plans said to overlap the last sheets a little extra but the measurements did not actually work to allow that, so we had to trim the edge of the roof to fit; it was too floppy to be left overhanging.) 

Image: this is the last picture I took, which is of BIL still on the roof peak ladder just putting a few final screws in, but it shows the ridge cap in place and the overhang trimmed to fit correctly, and the way the light caught in the foliage as the sun got close to setting.

We finished just in time to go in for dinner. Mom had made steak and mushroom pie, which is just about my favorite thing ever. I’d brought a bottle of champagne, so we had that before dinner.

I am feeling absolutely delighted; it’s not anything tangibly different in living in the cabin but it’s so nice to have a real roof. I’m very excited and I still haven’t picked up all the pots and pans and dishes and trays I had set out to catch drips the last time it rained but I’m going to, and take them in and wash them somewhere, because I don’t need them anymore!!

so anyway. that was sunday. but i got no writing done this weekend, needless to say, LOL. Still. Big news! Big progress.

I kind of really want it to rain now...

[spkyscry-a]

@royalreef​ sent

When passing through the walls, it was not so uncommon to come across scenes that should have remained hidden.

That was pretty much a given, even here.

Sure, people knew there were ghosts within the school. They knew that several amongst the student body and the staff that could pass through the material like it was water.

It didn't stop them. There was always some business that made it worth risking, something that they thought they could get away with, something that occurred unthinkingly, and everyone was persistently surprised when their wager did not pay out. When they were caught in the act, as it were. How exactly they protested varied, but it always seemed as though they never suspected that the risk was actually something that could occur to them. Always someone else.

It wasn't even that unusual, when passing through the backrooms behind the auditorium, that Polly's light should catch the glimmer of blood.

No other light had been turned on, so the only thing to see by was Polly herself, trying to gaze into the depths of that tiny room, two of the walls already within her sight, not even counting the way she had come in. Even with its size, the darkness made it far harder to probe.

There was a sound in the darkness. A soft, wet sound, of something falling to the floor with awful plops, splattering across someplace that Polly couldn't see. Meat being torn away from meat, stripped down to the bone. The more she listened, the more she heard. Muscles being torn apart, rendered into long strips. Greedy, desperate swallowing, something hitting the roof of a mouth before being tossed back, bringing with it the further slop of blood to cover the walls, the floors, a toppled box of loose props.

It smelled equally as wet. Ripe. Not the ripe of something being left to bloat and decay, but fresh blood, the specific smell of an opened bodily cavity. Sticky, even without skin for it to collect on, wanting to clog the nostrils and make the throat gag.

Something sweet and almost spicy on the air. Stronger now, than it had been.

More of those sounds, echoing around the tiny chamber. Making the space close in all the more.

The light slowly made sense of the place. Of the blood, its pool steadily growing, seeping into the floorboards and between the cracks. It was disrupted here and there, long sweeps and scratches into the wood, tearing it up into splinters. Missing spots, in a peculiar pattern. Tracks. Tracks of a specific type, with four digits, and pads, and long claws.

The blood abruptly angled upwards, stark and sudden, and then it was clear Polly's light was hitting something else, something that had been dragged through the blood and was seeping into the fabric.

A long tail. Pink-scaled. Wearing clothes.

She knew who it was. There wasn't a need for a name, a realization, a proper thought that passed from one memory to another. No one else had a tail like that. No one else wore clothes like that, even if they did share in the same body.

There were legs, further along, laying beside the tail. Paws, with dark-colored fur. Miranda was sitting on top of them, almost, her body draped over them like an avenging angel, like a nightmare you couldn't wake up from. Long scratches along their thigh, flaying them like meat and cutting to the bone, making denim pants fall away in an image that was almost indecent.

Their abdomen had been sliced open. Torn open like tissue paper, cut through the muscle and the skin and the fur and spilled what was contained within, organs and their connective tissue spilling out onto their lap. One of their clawed hands was still holding onto it, like they might stuff it back inside. The other had scratched along the floor until several of their claws had been ripped out of the ends of their fingers, some hanging on only barely by tendon, and others having exploded out like confetti. Both hands were still.

Or, not quite still.

Their fingers were twitching. Not moving, not exactly, but twitching with fading life, clinging on desperately and not yet able to give it up. Miranda's head had dived down into their open cavity again, head slicked with gore, tearing at their diaphragm, and Polly would be able to see their lungs still breathing, pink and soft and pillowy, and the frantic movement of something deeper inside still, twitching as though possessed, though slowing gradually.

It was impossible to tell who they were. A werewolf, at least. A fellow student, for certain. Miranda hadn't crushed their skull, hadn't used her awful bite to tear them apart, but she had attempted to do so. Maybe it was just by pure reaction, maybe it was luck, but she hadn't gotten her teeth all the way down, couldn't grip their skull just right to crush it.

What had happened was that her teeth had sunk in, and slid off of the rounded skull, like a dog with a beach ball. What this meant was that she had gotten under the skin and peeled it off in one long, awful strip, their own face hanging loosely below exposed skull, torn away in a mask that had slipped off. The cartilage of their nose stuck on at an awkward angle, and one eye was entirely without eyelids, while the other had been split by a stray tooth, rendered into two jelly halves. Their teeth, useless now, were exposed to the air through cheeks that were no longer there. The remaining eye moved, and looked at Polly.

Miranda had lifted her head up again. Unlike the person below her, she wasn't looking at Polly, though. In fact, it didn't even seem like she had noticed she was there at all. A new mouthful of meat was thrown back, back into her throat, messily swallowing it without chewing, saliva trailing down her chin.

It was like watching a komodo dragon eat, more than a person, really. Like watching a video of them eat a deer, tearing it apart and devouring it alive. It was a sloppy, wet ordeal, her entire head and neck slicked in gore, tiny filaments hanging down where it had caught as she stuck her head inside their ribcage. She didn't even look like Miranda herself, impossible to reconcile this vision of her with what had come before, with a person who laughed, and smiled, and thought so fondly of Polly. Who thought a lot about her, actually.

But animals didn't wear clothes. Animals didn't willingly dress themselves up as princesses, didn't wear crowns on their head.

It was just another punchline to this sick joke.

Polly was very liberal with her usage of her otherworldly form, slipping through walls like they were mere curtains to be pushed past and onwards to her objective. Body rippling from the briefest resistance her form gave to the solid before passing along. 

Why weave through the obnoxious halls and the like when one could merely cut clean to their destination? Well, perhaps what she was going to stumble into was one of the reasons why.. She noticed the blood immediately. Not for the senses every living creature had and utilized. She sensed spilling lifeforce, which brought her attention firmly on the still warm substance before her memories of sense caught up with the rest of her. How that was what guided her along its path, until her focus finally came upon the grizzly sight before her. All that openness. All that shredded flesh. 

It wasn’t something new to her. It was something so dreadfully familiar that it only made her blink a few times to suppress herself. Whoever it was that was about to fade wasn’t anyone she knew. Wasn’t even someone she could pretend to put a name to. That was one of the problems. Surely, as those last moments of recognitions flickered in that brain, they might have even been able to put a name to the specter that was hovering nearby watching. Might have been some half-formed plea from a house being gutted of its furniture. 

Yet, for all her fun-loving and good-natured exterior. Polly just watched. Didn’t approach. Didn’t even bob as she often did like a buoy on the waves. Just something that happened to be there, until she was sure that, at last, there wasn’t anything looking out those windows back at her. 

Only then did she move. 

She recognized Miranda, of course, unlike whoever had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Just an unfortunate truth of this world. People just die and someone doesn’t. Then everything else moves on like it had never happened.

The specter merely slipped somewhat under floor on the other side of the room, procuring a duffel bag out from under it. Not even an acknowledgement of the visceral devouring that is occurring in the room by her dear friend. Just treating it as the casual thing that Polly saw it as. Just heading back out the way she came with the supplies she’d came here to retrieve, past Miranda, and onwards like it had never even happened. 

Oh well, she had a party to attend, and getting worked up about someone she never even knew the name of being killed wasn’t on her agenda. Not even being disturbed by, shockingly, a predator eating something. Just on and out like it had never happened. Like whatever she’d stumbled onto was just the usual hustle and bustle of a place that she had no involvement in. 

[feelmir]

Ukraine proxy war and US-Israeli onslaught of civilian populations in the Gaza strip are the two latest examples of western binary mind and the double standard in international relations. Two years after the launch of Russian military special operation to stop NATO’s expansion eastwards and the denazification of Kiev regime established 10 years ago by the United States and its proxy European Union, and more than four months after the US-Israeli military campaign in occupied Palestine aimed at extermination and annihilation of Palestinians, the entire world discovers the pervasive western propaganda and how its mainstream media manufactured biased narrative when it comes to these two conflicts. During its past endless wars of aggression in Iraq, in Serbia, in Afghanistan, Libya, Syria, as worthy heirs of Josef Goebbels’s methods and techniques of propaganda, the western propaganda thanks to subservient mass media fed by narratives manufactured especially by pervasive intelligence services and numerous agencies specialized in the psychological warfare, whose main objective, brain whitewashing was working to demonize the enemy, to create the image of hatred leaders and to manufacture consent in public opinion. Before the advent of the internet, the west, through its powerful news agencies, had the full control of information and the monopole to create narratives and stories serving to legitimize its military campaigns. The advent of the web was a game changer as everyone can research and collect his proper source of information thanks to the multiplication and proliferation of independent sources of information in order to form his proper opinion concerning the military conflicts waged by the West. Thanks to the founder of Wikileaks, Julian Assange, the US crimes in Iraq was leaked and the public opinion discovers the horrors, the brutality, the cruelty and the barbarity of the West established as a giver of lessons of morality to the world. Today, thanks to abundant independent sources of information every minded person, watching or listen to the mainstream media is able to discover and to distinguish by himself the true from the false and the biased narratives concerning the western proxy war in Ukraine and the US-Israeli crimes in occupied Palestine.      

[speedyposts]

Shooting war: Gaza’s visual storytellers under ‘blatant’ attack

Yaser Murtaja and Roshdi Sarraj were friends who shared a love of making films about life in Gaza. In 2012, they set up their own production company, Ain Media – its motto: “Deeper than you see” – with just one camera.

Little did the pair of visual poets know that their passion would cost them their lives.

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Murtaja was first to be killed, targeted by a sniper while documenting the Great March of Return in 2018, a protest in which Palestinian protesters demanded they be allowed to return to the lands their families had been displaced from in 1948 with the founding of Israel. Sarraj died last year shortly after Israel launched its war on Gaza when his house was hit by two rockets. He was eating breakfast at the time, says his widow, Shrouq Aila, an investigative journalist and producer.

Ain Media is also mourning videographer Ibrahim Lafi, 21, killed under heavy shelling near the Beit Hanoon, or Erez, crossing on the Gaza-Israel border at the start of the war. Two others – Haitham Abdulwaheed, 25, and Nidal Wahidi, 33 – are currently missing.

“It’s really heavy on the heart to feel your profession is a threat,” Aila says. There is no time, she says, to grieve under the attacks.

The deaths and disappearances of the Ain Media photographers underscore the devastating ways in which visual journalists in Gaza have been hit as they work to cover the war while under fire, with limited food and water, and during power cuts and communications blackouts. More journalists have been killed in the current fighting than in any war over the past three decades. But veteran visual journalists say their peers have been particularly targeted. And while all wars are dangerous, Israel’s assault on Gaza has felt different, they say.

For the past four months, Gaza’s photographers, videographers and camera operators have acted as the eyes of the world, ensuring the civilian catastrophe unfolding in the enclave is not forgotten. With Israel mostly barring entry into the strip for foreign journalists, Gaza’s reporters have often been the only ones to offer reporting on the crisis.

The conflict has seen a new generation of talent emerge, some professionals with big name outfits, others working freelance, all potentially a click away from losing everything.

They’ve captured aerial views of rubble-strewn moonscapes and freezing tent camps; wide angle images of the people of Gaza leaving their homes behind, of countless bodies in mass graves and of crowds jostling for food with pans held aloft; mid-shots of premature babies at al-Shifa Hospital deprived of incubators, their tiny bodies squirming under fluorescent lighting; and close-ups of mothers grieving their dead children.

Names like Motaz Azaiza, the photojournalist who has come to personify the power of digital activism, have burst from nowhere as the humanity of their work moves millions. Azaiza now has more followers on Instagram than US President Joe Biden.

Occasionally, in a tragic twist, Gaza’s visual journalists have themselves become the story. Al Jazeera camera operator Samer Abudaqa, 45, was left to bleed out for five hours just a couple of kilometres away from the nearest hospital after an Israeli drone strike. According to witnesses, Israeli forces denied permission to ambulances and medical staff to reach Abudaqa, who died.

Al Jazeera’s Gaza bureau chief, Wael Dahdouh, survived that attack but in January lost his 27-year-old son, cameraman Hamza Dahdouh, in an Israeli bombing – the fifth member of his family to be killed in the latest Gaza war.

The Israeli army has told international news agencies that it cannot guarantee the safety of journalists operating in the strip. Sherif Mansour, Middle East and North Africa coordinator at the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), says he sees a “deadly pattern” of assaults, detention and harassment.

As of January 20, the CPJ reported 83 journalists and media workers killed since the war began on October 7. Of these, at least 22 were photographers, videographers and camera operators.

Wielding a camera in conflicts has always been a dangerous occupation. Visual journalists are close to the action, easily identified by their equipment and at constant risk of beaming out their location. Gaza has accelerated a trend already seen in Syria, Libya and Ukraine – the people capturing vital images of conflict under fire from hostile forces.

“They were actively targeted before, but it just wasn’t as blatant as this,” says Pulitzer Prize-winning photojournalist Greg Marinovich, who spent 30 years covering conflicts around the globe and now teaches visual journalism at Boston University and the Harvard Summer School. He co-wrote The Bang Bang Club, a book recounting his experiences during South Africa’s apartheid era, which is viewed as a touchstone for photojournalists the world over.

“In South Africa, I’d say most of the killings were accidental or uncaring. Journalists were seen as royal game, but not entirely,” he says. “But this has changed radically, and part of that is the social media equation, this propaganda war that is being waged endlessly. And journalists are seen as a huge part of that. … You’ve got to understand that you are going to be targeted if you’re going to survive.”

The death of Reuters video journalist Issam Abdallah, 37, shelled by an Israeli tank crew as he filmed fire on the Israel-Lebanon border, is a case in point.  He and his fellow reporters from Agence France-Presse and Al Jazeera were all wearing press flak jackets, yet were fired at not once but twice as they turned their cameras on an Israeli military outpost. AFP photographer Christina Assi, 28, was severely wounded and later had her leg amputated.

“That was definitely to stop them filming and reporting even though they were clearly marked and had been there for around an hour,” Marinovich says. “Lots of people are watching for clues, so they can spot if you’re photographing. If you report something that people don’t like, you might be standing 100 metres [110 yards] from them while they’re seeing what you’re doing. That can be a very ugly situation.”

The dangers faced by Gaza’s visual journalists has been amplified by Israeli efforts to legitimise targeting them, analysts say. In November, the Israeli government alleged that several freelance photographers in Gaza who worked for major international media organisations had participated in the October 7 attacks by Hamas on southern Israel, in which nearly 1,139 people were killed and 240 taken captive. The media organisations rejected the allegations.

News shooters are driven to get as close as possible to the action, so the stakes couldn’t be higher. Aila says Ain Media’s photographers and videographers have felt safer staying in hospitals and other hubs to avoid being targeted en route to documenting casualties.

Mansour says that like other journalists, Ain Media’s workers have also faced smears. “We have identified a pattern of responses by the Israeli military to evade responsibility, calling journalists terrorists, disseminating false narratives about their association with Hamas, saying they have evidence to support that they were involved in violence. When pressed on that, they provide nothing.”

Sarraj, too, faced such accusations. An independent filmmaker, he had worked as a fixer for news organisations like Radio France and Le Monde, had taken photos for the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees and had documented human rights abuses for rights group Amnesty International.

“We were happy that international organisations refuted those claims and stood by the work that those freelancers had given,” Mansour says. “These smear campaigns have basically put people who are already in a very vulnerable and dangerous environment into imminent harm.”

In other conflict zones, you can always get out, he says. “Gaza is a 20-mile (32km) strip that’s six miles (10km) wide.

“They have no safe haven and no exit.”

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[mightyflamethrower]

Shani Louk's mother says they can't have a 'real funeral' for her daughter because they don't have her body

Shani Louk (left) and her mother, Ricarda Louk (right). shanukkk/Instagram; Maya Alleruzzo via AP Photo© Provided by Business Insider

Shani Louk's mother told CNN that she can't have a funeral for her daughter because "there is no body."

Shani's semi-naked body was paraded by Hamas militants after they attacked Israel on October 7.

On Monday, Israel's Foreign Ministry confirmed Louk's death.

Shani Louk, the 23-year-old Israeli-German woman whose body was paraded semi-naked through the streets by Hamas militants after they attacked Israel in October, was confirmed dead on Monday. On Tuesday, her mother, Ricarda Louk, said they can't have a proper funeral for her because they don't have her body.

1 / 9

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Photos show massive pro-Palestinian protests around the world following Israel's ground invasion into Gaza©Mark Kerrison/In Pictures via Getty Images

As Israel expands military operations in Gaza, people across the world are calling for a cease-fire.

Hundreds of thousands of pro-Palestinian protesters took to the streets this weekend.

Tens of thousands of protesters flooded the streets of London, New York City, and San Francisco.

Hundreds of thousands of Pro-Palestinian protesters across the world have staged demonstrations in the last several days.

Cities across the world saw large protests this weekend after the Israel Defense Forces launched expanded military operations in Gaza on Saturday. The IDF said Sunday its forces had struck more than 450 targets over the weekend, The Associated Press reported.

The ground invasion finally came after weeks of Israeli airstrikes, which it launched on Gaza following a series of surprise attacks on Israel by Hamas, the militant group that rules the Gaza Strip, on October 7.

Hamas' attacks killed more than 1,400 people in Israel. Militants also kidnapped an estimated 100-200 people.

The Palestinian Health Ministry said Israel's counter-attacks have so far killed more than 8,000 people in Gaza and that about 3,000 have been children. The median age in Gaza is 18.

Global antiwar protests are spreading as the conflict drags on. Organizers in the United States say they are planning a march on Washington, DC, on November 4, according to an announcement from several organizing groups. The protest will advocate for a cease-fire and call on President Joe Biden to end US aid to Israel.

Israeli officials have repeatedly warned that the conflict, which it has described as a mission to fully eradicate Hamas, would be a long one.See more

"Have they actually been able to return her? Have they actually found her?" CNN's Anderson Cooper asked Louk in an interview on Tuesday.

"No. The body? No. We cannot do a real funeral. There is no body," Louk replied.

Shani was attending the Nova music festival near the Gaza border on October 7 when militants from Hamas launched a series of brutal terrorist attacks against Israel. Zaka, an Israeli rescue service, said at least 260 people were killed when the Palestinian militant group attacked the music festival.

"The body we see on the video, that we know of, she was already dead when they transferred the body to Gaza. So we assume it is there," Louk told Cooper, referencing the video of her daughter being paraded through Gaza by Hamas militants after the attack.

Israel's Foreign Ministry confirmed Shani's death in a post on X, formerly Twitter, on Monday.  

"We will cherish her, the beautiful, joyful person she was. But we have to remember that there are still so many other hostages. They need to be freed and they need to be freed as soon as possible," Louk told Cooper.

Hamas has taken at least 224 hostages since it attacked Israel in October, according to the Israel Defense Forces. Four hostages have been released by Hamas thus far.

Israel declared war against Hamas on October 8. Since then, the country has launched multiple airstrikes on the densely populated Gaza Strip.

On Tuesday, the Israel Defense Forces claimed responsibility for an airstrike targeted Hamas operatives that devastated a refugee camp in Gaza. Palestinian officials said hundreds were killed and injured during the airstrike.

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu brushed aside calls for a cease-fire on Monday. 

"Calls for a cease-fire are calls for Israel to surrender to Hamas, to surrender to terrorism, to surrender to barbarism. That will not happen," Netanyahu said at a news briefing.

Both sides have reported civilian deaths and injuries amidst the conflict. More than 1,400 Israelis have died following Hamas' attacks. Gaza officials said over 8,000 Palestinians have died, with thousands more injured.

Representatives for the Israel Defense Forces did not immediately respond to a request for comment from Insider sent outside regular business hours.

[aoawarfare]

The Creation of the Central Asian Soviet Republics

During the last few episodes, we’ve discussed the Russian Revolution, the fall of the emirs, the Basmachi insurgency, the destruction of the Kokand Autonomy and the neutering of the Musburo. Unsurprisingly, all of this upheaval was horrible for everyone in the region and made governing almost impossible. Frunze, who was responsible for a lot of the upheaval, left in the fall of 1920, and did not see the outcomes of his explosive decisions.

Instead, it was up to the Communist officials and the Indigenous actors to create a new Central Asia. Unfortunately, they could not agree on the methods they should use, the ideological foundations of their new creation, or even what that new creation would look like. They didn’t trust each other; the Bolsheviks believed the indigenous actors weren’t proper Communists and the indigenous actors were annoyed that the Bolsheviks thought they knew best and purposely ignored all of their proposed solutions.

Things were worse for the people of the region. The Jadids were never popular even before the wars and this distrust grew as they sided with the Bolsheviks and tried to create a new world for the region. And so, as a farmer or merchant or just regular person in Central Asia, you had three choices: side with the Basmachi and risk death or losing everything to their raiding bands, side with the Jadids and Bolsheviks and support something that seems incompatible with one’s culture and religion, or try to survive on your own and at the mercy of all different factions and sides.

The core struggle can be best described by this quote from Lenin.

[Image Description: A colored gif of three men sitting together in a bowling alley. Two men are facing the camera and the third man is between the two men with his back to the camera. The man on the left has long hair and a long, scraggy beard. He is wearing a green shirt with a beeper hanging from the color. The man on the right is a bigger white man with short hair and beard and mustache. He is wearing light brown sunglasses and a short sleeve purple stripped shirt. The man in the middle has shoulder length hair and is wearing a green t-shirt. The bowling alley is pink and has blue star decorations on the walls.]

In 1921, he wrote:

“It is devilishly important to conquer the trust of the natives; to conquer it three or four times to show that we are not imperialists, that we will not tolerate deviations in that direction” - Adeeb Khalid, Making Uzbekistan, 165

Not sure if Lenin even noticed the stark contradiction between “conquering” someone’s trust and somehow proving you’re not an imperialist or conqueror. Maybe he meant well, but we’re already off to a rocky start.

Communist Paranoia

A big source of tension between the Bolsheviks and the indigenous actors of Central Asia was the difference in ideology and goals.

We’ve talked a lot about the Jadid’s ideology and their goals. The Jadids in Bukhara and Turkestan wanted to create a modern state built around the principles of nationalism. They wanted to create a state that enjoyed full sovereignty and membership amongst the world of nation-states. They wanted to develop their own economy but maintaining control over their own resources and they wanted to education their citizens to combat “ignorance” and “fanaticism.” They wanted to preserve Islam, but also modernize it by bringing Muslim institutions under control of the government.

The Communists, however, wanted to create a perfect Communist society which required loyal and ideologically pure cadre. The only way they could do this in Central Asia was to recruit the population into the party. They knew their best demographic were the youth, the women, and the landless and poor peasants. The children they recruited into their youth group known as Komsomol and the brought the women’s organization, Zhenotdel to Central Asia. They also created the Plowman union for the poor. They would use this union to implement the land and water reform of the 1927, but were disbanded after serving their purpose.

Political Cadre of Turkestan Front. Frunze is seated in second row, two from the left

[Image Description: A black and white photo of a large crowd of men and women sitting together outside. Behind them is a clear sky, a stone building, and trees. The people are wearing a combination of white shirts and dresses and grey shirts and dresses]

Yet, the Communists couldn’t see through their own racism and chauvinism when it came to accepting local actors to the Communist Party. The Communist Party was the key feature of public life. It was the center of all political activity and thus membership was highly coveted. However it required an impossible ideological purity requirement which made many Communists paranoid. Their inability to a pure Communist a hundred percent of the time, or even to define what that meant, made them reliant on frequent purges to ensure the party remained pure.

[Image Description: A colored gif of a bald, naked white man wearing nothing but white underwear, lying on the floor, and looking up at the camera, saying "I just want to be pure."]

One Communist official complained that he was dissatisfied after talking to a Turkmen member of the Merv Communist party in 1923. He wrote:

“We started asking [him] why he had entered the party, to which he answered that he himself did not know, and to the question whether he knew if a Communist is a good person or bad, he said that he knew nothing. And to the question of how he got into the party, he answered simply that a little while back a comrade came here who said, “You are a poor man, you need help, and you should join the party; for this will get you clothing and matches and kerosene.” - Adeeb Khalid, Making Uzbekistan, pg. 170

While the rank and file were often uneducated, the local leaders tended to be part of the modernizing elite who wanted to use Soviet institutions to bring about reforms, they often came from prosperous urban families, graduates of Russian-native schools, and had been active in Muslim politics in 1917. Some had been recruited by Risqulov before he was ousted, had caught the eye of various Russian Communist officials, or even fought against the Basmachi and earned the Soviet’s trust that way. By these leaders were hard to find and so from 1920-1927, the Soviets were forced to rely on “impure” and “nationalistic” local leaders while building a cadre of “pure” communists they would be able to rely on in the future.

Turar Risqulov

[Image Description: A black and white pciture of a man standing at an angle. He is looking at the camera. He has bushy black hair and a short mustache. He is wearing round, wire frame glasses. His hands are in his dark grey suit pants. he is wearing a white button down shirt, a grey tie, and a dark grey vest and suit jacket. A flag is pinned to his suit lapel.]

What made things worse was that the Soviets didn’t even treat the Central Asian as equals within the Communist framework. When the Bukharan Communist Party tried to join the Comintern, they were accepted as a “sympathetic organization” and then merged with the Russian Communist Party.

This desire for loyal cadre and the educational efforts pursued by the communists and local reformers, contributed to the creation of a group of men who called themselves “Young Communists.” They challenged the supremacy of the KPT, accusing them of compromise, patriarchy and careerism. The Young Communists claimed they were the most “Marxistically educated” of the Muslim Communists and demanded the “total emancipation of the party from the past [which] had not yet been accomplished and that KPT be cleansed of all members who were “factional-careerist” and “patriarchal-conservative.” In 1924, they launched a campaign to ban the heavy cloth and horsehair veil customarily worn by women. They were equally frustrated by the Russian Communists, claiming:

“Historically speaking, the last conquerors of Turkestan were the Slavs, and Turkestan was liberated from their oppression only after the great social revolution. But this liberation is only formal. Because the proletariat is from the ruling nation, the disease of colonialism has damaged its brain. This fact has had a great impact on the revolution in Turkestan” - Adeeb Khalid, Making Uzbekistan, pg. 175

The Soviets were wary of the Young Communists, but would recruit them into the governments of the different Central Asian States after they were created in 1924.

Crafting a Governing Body

In order to make the region more manageable, the Soviets broke the region into several different Soviet republics. The Bukharan Soviet People’s Republic managed the territory that once belonged to the Bukhara Emirate. Similarly, the Kazakh Steppe became the Kirghiz Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic, the Khivan Emirate became the Khorezm Soviet People’s Republic and Turkestan became the Turkestan Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic. These republics were governed by chairmen.

Map of Central Asian Republics in 1922

[Image Description: A colored and simplified map of the different Soviet Republics. Russia itself and the surround countries are pale peach. The Kirgizistan A.S.S.R. is a flesh color. The Aral and Caspian Sea and Lake Balkhash are bright blue The Bukharan P.S.R. is red. The Khorezm P.S.R. is light green. The Turkestan A. S. S. R. is a dark peach.]

For the rest of this episode, we’re going to discuss the many difficulties and opportunities facing the Bolsheviks and the local, indigenous actors in the Bukhara Soviet People’s Republic and the Turkestan Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic. The reason we’re discussing those two republics specifically is because their development is unique while also being representative of the many issues faced by the local actors and Bolsheviks of the region.

Turkestan Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic (ASSR)

While the indigenous actors were grabbing real power in Bukhara, the indigenous actors of Turkestan were recovering from the ouster of Risqulov and the dismantling of the Musburo. Instead, the Soviets purged the Turkestani Communist Party, transformed the Turkkomissiia into the Central Asian Bureau with an expanded authority over the Bukharan, Turkestan, and Khorezm republics. They also created the Central Asian Economic Council whose responsibility was to merge the economies of the three republics, leaving them open to control from the Central Committee in Russia.

The biggest challenge facing the Turkestani Republic was the tension between the Bolsheviks and the indigenous actors. Like their Bukharan counterparts, the indigenous leaders of the Turkestani Republic learned to speak the Communist language, but their goals were very different. However, they didn’t have the limited freedom that the leaders of Bukhara had, and this created deep tensions not only between the Communist leaders and indigenous leaders, but also between the Russian settlers and the Communists and the local people of Turkestan with the Jadids.

Bukharan Soviet People’s Republic (BNSR)

The Bukharan Soviet People’s Republic was a Muslim republic filled with Jadids who used it to champion their reforms with reluctant support from their Bolshevik counterparts -- and, sometimes, even without it. Unlike their Tashkent counterparts who never had a chance to gain equal power with their Russian counterparts, the Bukharans had placed themselves in the perfect position to be slotted into power by the Bolsheviks. This meant they actually had more power than indigenous actors in their neighboring republics. Even though this only lasted until 1923, the BNSR attempted a lot during its short lifetime.

When the Bolsheviks took over Bukhara, they created the Revolutionary Committee (Revkom) that included Russians, Young Bukharans, Communists from Bukhara and Tashkent. The committee assigned Mirzo Abduqodir Muhiddinov as head of state and Fayzulla Xo’jayev as the Chairman of the council. These ministers would send reports and negotiate with their Communist counterparts using Communist language and ideas, but internally they focused on their nationalistic, Islamic, and reformist ways.

While the Bolsheviks forced the Young Bukharans to merge with the Bukharan Communist Party and the Young Khivans to do likewise, this did little to actually bridge the gaps between the two approaches to governance. Instead, it gave the former Young Bukharans/Khivans/Jadids a chance to learn the Bolshevik language so they could placate their Communist counterparts while still pursuing their own goals.

One of the first things Revkom did was to create a regularized and centralized form of government. They divided the territory into provinces, then districts, and then towns and appointed a soviet apparatus at each level. They also created several ministries led by several “people’s ministers” (Abdurauf Fitrat would be a minister for several of these ministries). Revkom and later its successor, the Central Executive Committee, would regulate the workings of the Qazi courts, placed the maktabs and madrasas under the oversight of the Minister of Education, and placed mosques and their waqf property under the control of the Waqf Administration.

They also created a Ministry of Foreign Affairs and established consular representatives in neighboring countries. The representatives to Kabul and Moscow were ambassadors while the representatives to Petrograd, Tashkent, Baku, and Tbilisi were consuls. They also hoped they would enter the Comintern as an independent party instead of a satellite of the Russian Communist Party.

Creating different administrative centers and functions was one thing, but exercising that power was a different task. First, the Young Bukharans had to settle scores with several enemies while also denying them the ability to challenge their right to power. They forced those who sided against them in 1917 to clean toilets and sweep the streets for several days before having them executed. They took property from the ulama who resisted their efforts at modernization and restored property to supporters in exile. Those they didn’t kill or exile, they assimilated into their new government.

As we mentioned before, the Bukharan government took over the collection of waqf revenues and put it towards cultural and educational purposes. This gave them the ability to control the hiring and firing of instructors and the reformation of the curricula. However, they ran into a problem with trying to implement control over the property, because the bureaucracy of distributing the lands was handled by middlemen. Many who fled the violence of the civil war, so there were many pieces of property that slip through their fingers. In 1923, when the Soviets were reinforcing control over the region, the Waqf administration came under the most suspicion. The Soviets actually raided the Waqf offices and took all of their papers to review as they laid strict guidelines on how the collected funds could be used.

Internal Divisions

If trying to create a government in a region that had endured a civil war, the ouster of an emir, a famine, and an ongoing battle against an insurgency wasn’t enough, the Young Bukharans had to contend with internal divisions. There was the well-known divide between the ideologically corrupt Young Bukharans and the Bukharan Communists, but there was also a bitter rivalry between Fayzulla Xo’jayev, the chairman of the Bukharan Soviet People’s Republic, and a fellow minister, Abduqodir Muhiddinov. Their rivalry had more to do with personal grudges and a long history of economic competition between their families.

In April 1921, the Cheka found out that Muhiddinov’s brother Isomiddin held a secret meeting to plot against Xo’jaev and his supporters including assassinations and the planting of incriminating evidence. In August 1921, a pamphlet with the name of “Committee for Truth and Justice” proclaiming that the Bukharan Republic was being governed by “a company of thieves and traitors” who were addicted to prostitutes and alcohol. This culminated into a putsch attempted by people loyal to Muhiddinov that briefly placed members of Xo’jayev’s administration under arrest. Xo’jayev had to flee to Kagan and the Soviets sent in armored cars to crush the rebellion and the rebels fled to Samarkand.

Fayzulla Xo'jayev

[Image Description: A black and white photo of a man with thick black hair. He is wearing a black collared, button down shirt, a black tie, and a black suit coat]

People loyal to Xo’jayev wanted to oust Muhiddinov from the presidency of the Revkom, but the Soviets convinced them not to. The Soviets found Fayzulla more favorable because of his local support, his businesslike attitude, and he was a Russophile, while Muhiddinov was considered to be politically weak, more difficult to deal with, a nationalist, pan-Islamist, and Russophobe. It seems they kept him around so they could take advantage of the rivalry between Muhiddinov and Xo’jayev.

While Xo’jayev was reliant on the Soviets for power, he consistently tried to maximize his independence and the independence of his government. He argued in 1921 that

“while it is impossible, of course, to deny that the work of our organization has many defects, we should not be judged too harshly for them. Soviet Russia, having far greater forces at its command, is also not in a position to organize everything all at once…We know very well that any obstinacy on our part or coercive measures on yours [to force the pace of change in Bukhara] will be fraught with pernicious consequences.”

He threatened the revolution in the East and argued that the reason for the weakness of his government was because the people didn’t have their own sovereignty. He argues that

“In order to strengthen a sense among the masses of the independence and the complete liberation of Bukhara it is necessary for the Russian Government to broadly demonstrate its attitude in Bukhara, proclaiming publicly Bukhara’s complete independence and the inviolability of its sovereign rights.” - Adeeb Khalid, Making Uzbekistan, pg. 141

After Enver Pasha died and the Basmachi were broken, the Soviets turned their attention and ire on the Central Asian Republics. They were interested in bringing the republics to heel and integrating with the Soviet Union. They saw Bukhara’s need for independence as evidence of remaining bourgeois nationalism sentiments.

In 1923, the Soviets felt powerful enough in Central Asia, to purge the Bukharan government of several administrators such as Abdurauf Fitrat, Atovulla Xo’jayev, Sattor-xo’ja, Muinjon Aminov. Other Central Asians picked up the need to attack these leaders and expanded their attacks to include Fayzulla Xo’jayev “for having assimilated itself to nationalism” (Adeeb Khalid, Making Uzbekistan, pg. 156). The Soviets weren’t ready to get rid of Xo’jayev, but the purge threw ice water on the Bukharan desire for independence and taught them their place.

Economics

All of this social and political change was occurring during economic devastation. The war ruined cotton cultivation and destroyed the irrigation networks, and whole districts were now ghost towns. It didn’t help that Russia was also in the midst of its own economic devastation and famine and needed Central Asia’s resources to survive. This created a tension between the Communist’s ideals of redistribution and liberation and their need to exploit and extract as many resources as possible. Turkestan also had to deal with the tension between the settlers and the indigenous people. Again, Communist ideals of decolonization and anti-imperialism took a backseat to Russia’s need for resources and enforcing a communist mindset on the region.

BNSR Economic Interests

Economically, the Bukharan Soviet People’s Republic focused on the importance of collecting taxes properly and effectively. They argued that:

“The incorrect policies of the emir had left our state among the most backward in the world in terms of science and technology, industry, agriculture, or commerce. As a result, today two percent of our people can read and write, and the remaining 98 percent cannot, and as a result are completely ignorant of the world. Because our commerce was based on old principles, there is no real commerce in our state. Instead, our merchants have become middlemen between Russian merchants and our peasants, i.e., our commerce sells the wealth of the peasant to other countries…[and] all the profits from the commerce go to other countries…It is well known that a state that is unable to find the proper path of commerce cannot have industry either.” - Adeeb Khalid, Making Uzbekistan, pg. 130

The Young Bukharans were not interested in class warfare or redistributing wealth from the rich. The most they did was expropriate the property of the emir and those who went into exile with him and grab control over the waqf property, but that was all.

In 1923, the Sredazburo tried to harmonize the economies and currencies of the three republics, Xo’jaev resisted it. He believed that the unification of the economies of the three republics would rob the republics of their own sovereignty. He wrote

“We are against one principle ­­­— that of the unification of the Central Asian republics. If you take that off the table we will go along with your proposition” - Adeeb Khalid, Making Uzbekistan, pg. 142

He fought hard for Bukhara to retain its own currency and complained when Soviet officials who managed Bukhara’s border with Afghanistan arrested one of Bukhara’s customs officials. None of his efforts achieve much, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

Cotton Is King

One of the Soviets’ goals was to reinvigorate the cotton industry. As of 1920, the cotton industry had collapsed on itself because of war, famine, ruined irrigation, the disappearance of buyers, and the Tashkent Soviet’s decision to nationalize cotton. The Soviets used a labor tax to repair the irrigation system, replaced requisitioning with a cash tax, and implemented Lenin’s New Economic Plan in Central Asia. In 1921, the Soviets created the Main Cotton Committee which was charged with buying up the entire cotton harvest in the Ussr, supply it to textile mills (which were mostly in Russia), organize credits for growers, and maintain the irrigation system. It also got involved in the grain industry, since grain is how they paid the farmers to grow cotton. The Main Cotton Committee’s myopic focus on cotton angered many of the local leaders and even caused tension with the Central Asian Bureau who were trying to implement a policy of Korenizatsiia — providing that Soviet rule was different from Tzarist rule by bringing the people into the system. However, this was an expensive policy as it required educating the local population not only in Communist thought, but teaching them the basic skills they would need to work in different administrative capacities as well as teaching Non-Central Asian communists the local languages in order to communicate with their Central Asian counterparts. Additionally, there was already a skilled Russian minority living in Central Asia who felt they should be given these opportunities instead of the locals. In 1927, a group of unemployed Russians shouted at the Korenizatsiia commission:

“Russians fought and won freedom for you devils, and now you say Uzbeks are the masters in Uzbekistan. There will come a time when we will show you. We’ll beat the hell out of all of you.” - Adeeb Khalid, Making Uzbekistan, pg. 187

In 1925, the Central Asian Bureau was forced to create an economic plan that accounted for shipping grain into Central Asia so the people of Central Asia could focus on producing cotton. Additionally, the Main Cotton Committee indexed the price of cotton to the price of grain so that one pood of cotton bought 2.5 poods of grain, but Risqulov argued that it barely covered the costs of production. Instead, the Soviets should pay Central Asia world prices for its cotton.

Local leaders, like Fayzulla Xo’jayev, wanted to bring industry to the region. In 1925, he announced that

“our current policy…is we will establish new factories only in places that produce raw material for the industry i.e. we want to avoid the economic awkwardness of sending cotton thousands of miles away at great expense to have it processed in Moscow, and then to have the finished product brought back here” - Adeeb Khalid, Making Uzbekistan, pg. 160

This went against Soviet interests who wanted each region to have their specialties that could by brought together by the center and so Central Asia remained an agricultural focused economy, one the Soviets could exploit as they wished.

In the end, economic considerations and the ability to “trust” fellow Europeans versus Central Asians would always come first, exasperating existing tensions between the non-Central Asian Communists and the Local leaders. This led to great disenchantment with many Central Asian communists and local leaders.

Resistance

Secret Society Milliy Ittihod

Between the destruction of the city of Bukhara and Xo’jayev’s failed attempts to win some autonomy from the Soviets, several Young Bukharans began to search for another way to govern beyond the Soviet’s control. This discontentment with the overall situation turned into an explosive situation when Bashkir nationalist, Zeki Togan Velidi arrived in Bukhara and created his own secret society.

Bashkir Nationalist: Zeki Togan Velidi

[Image Description: A black and white photo of a man with a short hair cut and mustache. He is wearing round wire frame glasses and a grey military frock.]

Zeki spent most of his young academic life in Kazan and Ufa and during the revolution he became the president of the former Bashkir Republic. He sided first with the Whites and then switched sides but grew fed up with the Bolsheviks because of their controlling nature. He even sent a letter to Stalin and Lenin complaining about their “colonial” policy to the East and demanded that they stop persecuting national intellectuals, consider locals as candidates for Soviet positions, and allow greater local involvement in the organization of Soviet power and party in the Bukharan republic. Stalin and Lenin ignore the letter and Velidi broke from the Bolsheviks.

He traveled to Bukhara and, in April 1921, he and several members of the Bukharan government created the Union of National Popular Muslim Organizations of Central Asia also known as Milliy Ittihod. This secret society's goal was to secure the “independence” of Turkestan (which consisted of Turkestan, Bukhara, Khiva, the Kazakh Republic, and areas of Bashkir) and place its destiny in the hand of “Turkestanis” with freedom of religion and the separation of state and religion. They wanted Turkestan to have its own economy and army and direct access to European education without going through Russia.

There seems to have been another version of the goal crafted by the members who still believed in Communism, but still wanted greater autonomy. Their demands were similar, but the main difference was that they wanted full autonomy of the Eastern soviet republics united as a federation while remaining within the Communist framework. They wanted broad national rights, the withdrawal of all Russian troops except for the borders of the federation, their own national army, and a new government led by Milliy Ittihod.

This differences between goals illustrate that some people wanted to maximize their independence from Soviet control while others wanted to create a pan-Central Asian platform.

Milliy Ittihod was led by a Central Committee and held period congresses to tackle big questions. The Soviets feared this secret society and would later used its existence to send many Central Asians to their death during Stalin’s purge.

In terms of what Milliy Ittihod actually achieved, it doesn't seem to be much. However, the Cheka were able to intercept several letters to other governments asking for money and support against the Russians. But since the secret society wasn’t able to infiltrate the army and their reach into government was stifled, their usefulness was limited. They existed more as a nightmare in the imaginations of the Cheka then any real threat.

Usmon-xo’ja

Fayzulla's cousin, Usmon-xo’ja took a completely different approach.

He was elected head of the Central Executive Committee of the republic in September 1921, but he defected three months later and joined an assault on the Soviet garrison at Dushanbe. During the assault, several high-level Soviet commanders were taken hostage. He called for a general war against Russia and recruited people for his army. The Soviets broke the siege, but Usmon-xo’ja escaped, fought with Enver Pasha, and after Enver died, he fled to Afghanistan before permanently immigrating to Turkey and becoming center of the Central Asian émigré community.

Economic Resistance

When physical resistance was impossible or undesirable, people resisted through the marketplaces. Many Bukharan and Turkestan markets refused Russian currency and preferred trading with Afghanistan and India. The Soviets tried to disrupt these markets because they wanted access to Central Asian goods without having to pay world market prices or compete with other buyers.

The Soviet proposed Central Asia send grain and cotton to Russia either in payment for all the money the USSR was already funneling into Central Asia or through a barter system. This was potentially life or death for Russia, because in 1921, they were in the death grip of famine, and they desperately needed the food from Central Asia. Nevermind that Central Asia was also in the middle of a famine and the Soviets didn't seem to care.

For some fucking reason, the Soviets thought the republics would gladly subordinate its economic policies to the interest of the Soviet federation. Instead, Bukhara refused to put all of its supplies up for barter with the Soviets. A Soviet official wrote:

“During my stay in Bukhara I found a completely unexpected situation. I had expected that they will speak to me in a Communist manner, from the commonality of the interests of the two republics, but that there is not much in common is clear from the fact that the Bukharan republic has “declared private property sacred’" - Adeeb Khalid, Making Uzbekistan, pg. 152

Another Soviet official complained

“As before, [Bukharan leaders] continue to sabotage us with bread and to beg for money. The more one finds out about the political lines of the various ‘Communist’ groups here, the worse it gets. They try to outdo each other in their Russophobia. They make a very good use of their own position and godlessly swindle us both politically and economically.” - Adeeb Khalid, Making Uzbekistan, pg. 152

By 1923, the Basmachi were neutralized as a threat, the Soviets had been in Central Asian long enough to get a better sense of its needs and how to speak to its people, and they were seeing the sprouts of a loyal Communist cadre. They were feeling powerful enough to teach the region, especially troublesome Bukhara, it's place.

In 1923, the Soviets forced Fayzulla to purge his own government of four ministers, including the tireless Abdurauf Fitrat. Once they were ousted, other Central Asians realized the best way to earn Soviet favors and prove they could be trusted running their own government was to attack these "disgraced" ministers and soon expanded their attacks to include Fayzulla Xo’jayev for being a nationalist. The Soviets weren’t ready to get rid of Xo’jayev or the other "nationalist" chairmen of the republics, but the purge threw ice water on the Bukharan desire for independence and taught the rest of the region the limits of their power as Communist republics.

References

Making Uzbekistan: Nation, Empire, and Revolution in the Early USSR by Adeeb Khalid

[thepomegranatewitch]

Image description: Four photos of a rectangular strip of land with street and sidewalk to top and right, and bushes to left. The images show the before shot, a forked shot, a winding swale, and a swale mulched with mats of clover and woodchips.

Today at The Fifth Acre I got up early, caffeinated, ate, and dug a big long hole. This big long hole will act as a swale, collecting rainwater and soaking it up in a strip of land I inherited as adobe. Two weeks ago I hand mowed the volunteer clover cover crop with a sickle. That and the mulch were raked aside to fork and dig a winding trench. The patch is particularly compacted due to previous neglect and pedestrian traffic. Once I had my big long hole dug, I planted in the trench, on the hump, and to the property side of the hump (among the bushes) as listed below. Then I watered it, stepped on the seeds a little, mulched it with itself, watered it again (68F in February!), messed with some of the mulch to cover up some of the more delectable seeds, and then went inside to eat a massive cheeseburger.

birdseed, either sorghum or millet I foraged from a grocery store parking lot

canna, technically an edible. tall with small red flowers and bb like seeds. liberated a pocketful of seeds from someone's front yard years ago.

calendula, gifted from my dear friend. beautiful, regular flower, medicinal and edible

cosmos, some varieties edible. I got this from a seed exchange so will proceed as though inedible. birth flower for one of my kids and beautiful

wild / african iris, foraged off a dollar store parking lot, to use as ground cover and for simple basketry

lupine, this particular variety native to The East when I am in The West, but drought tolerant and pretty

marigold, edible and beautiful. We have a patch that have self seeded twice so I know our microclimate is well suited and I'll have at least one success

nasturtium, edible, beautiful, groundcover

poppy, unclear if from my edible seed or toxic variety so proceeding as though toxic. I love the look so they're visible from the windows.

scabiosa, black, foraged off a traffic center strip because they look cool and are drought tolerant

sunflower, from a seed exchange so a wildcard but hopefully will help with privacy

two wildflower blends for my area, one a party favour and the other from the dollar store, as hopeful drought hardy species that will self seed for years

zinnia, edible, beautiful, and pollinator attractant

Many people seem to feel gardening needs to be difficult, expensive, and all-consuming. Same for more ecological practices. While they can be, just as any subject can be, I want to encourage everyone considering either to try something small. This took four hours of able-bodied digging, seed scattering, raking, and lots of breaks. Now I'll trap water and have to irrigate less while cooling down my home - heatwaves are expensive when you don't have the proper green infrastructure to cool your built infrastructure. I'll attract birds and bugs with beautiful flowers that I hopefully won't have to do anything but occasionally water a couple times a year. I paid for only 3 of these seed packets, was gifted 3, and foraged or seed saved the rest. I'm too poor to put in expensive, thirsty landscaping with someone else's labour. But I can do this myself over the course of a warming morning.

[nahasfame]

Ed edd n eddy sound effects madoka

Ed edd n eddy sound effects madoka manual#

This happens in the ninth Bleach opening.The design is static, which is made painfully (and probably deliberately) evident when he does a slow motion backward face fault. In an episode of Ouran High School Host Club, Tamaki wears an extremely elaborate designed tea kimono.Principal Ench's suits in Crayon Shin-chan.It's stylistic choice (one of Akiyuki Shinbo's trademarks) rather than pure laziness, given how much they've embraced digital animation. Bakemonogatari, by the same studio, also uses this technique for patterned clothing.Sayonara, Zetsubou-sensei uses this constantly, mostly with Nozomu's various clothes.The pattern itself is animated, but still has incorrect perspective. Hell Girl's "kimono of exacting damnation" does the same thing as Gankutsuou and Mononoke.Mononoke, a recent anime series, uses this effect in a way similar to Gankutsuou.Gankutsuou is an extreme example that can only be described as an "acquired taste art style" - just about any detailed pattern or texture is screened in, including the characters' hair, creating an effect that's almost like an animated collage.Often this is because comics (especially manga) use tone paper to fill in the patterned article, which makes it rather difficult to show the proper orientation of the pattern. The effect is also sometimes seen in comic strips, with the pattern remaining the same orientation from panel to panel (and usually straight vertical and horizontal, regardless of the orientation of the fabric of which it supposedly is a part). Additionally, when intentionally used for lavishly animated content, it may transcend the notion of sheer laziness and become a distinct ( if sometimes bizarre) visual style. However, with the advent of more advanced digital animation tools to do such gruntwork, this trope may start falling by the wayside. Patterned clothes are hard to animate correctly and take longer to do, so animators just don't bother animating the pattern. This trope, like the Wheel-O-Feet, Four-Fingered Hands and others, spawns from the Lazy Artist or a lack of budget. This phenomenon is known as Unmoving Pattern (or for those who like jargon, perspective incorrect texturing). It's as if the clothing the character is wearing isn't so much patterned as a cloth-based wormhole to a similarly patterned universe, or that the character's clothing has had a static pattern overlaid on it through Chroma Key techniques. tartan, the pattern on the clothing will retain the same orientation regardless of the positioning of the character. Oftentimes in cartoons if a character is wearing clothes with a complex pattern, e.g. PAGES WILL BE DELETED OTHERWISE IF THEY ARE MISSING BASIC MARKUP.Ī subtrope of Cheated Angle. DON'T MAKE PAGES MANUALLY UNLESS A TEMPLATE IS BROKEN, AND REPORT IT THAT IS THE CASE. THIS SHOULD BE WORKING NOW, REPORT ANY ISSUES TO Janna2000, SelfCloak or RRabbit42. The Trope workshop specific templates can then be removed and it will be regarded as a regular trope page after being moved to the Main namespace. All new trope pages will be made with the "Trope Workshop" found on the "Troper Tools" menu and worked on until they have at least three examples.Pages that don't do this will be subject to deletion, with or without explanation. All new pages should use the preloadable templates feature on the edit page to add the appropriate basic page markup. All images MUST now have proper attribution, those who neglect to assign at least the "fair use" licensing to an image may have it deleted.Failure to do so may result in deletion of contributions and blocks of users who refuse to learn to do so.

Ed edd n eddy sound effects madoka manual#

Before making a single edit, Tropedia EXPECTS our site policy and manual of style to be followed.

[pearl-kite]

some fun experimenting and thinking about not noticing red flags

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

best laid plans, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: It’s the middle of the night. You’re asleep next to your model boyfriend, Jeon Jungkook, who is jacking off while touching your tits. Wait. Hold on a second. What? (He is still your model boyfriend though, even after all that.)

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; established relationship; playful banter and shitty jokes; actually low-key crack and fluff; smut (fem reader, m-masturbation, handjob (while sucking on JK’s balls, lucky guy), tiny bit of nipple play and pussy slapping, edging, cowgirl, penetrative sex); non-idol!BTS; the parenthesis are the reader’s inner thoughts and i did make a Dynamite lyric reference with JK’s dick and you can’t stop me

yes, the title is a pun, channeling my inner seokjinnie it’s what you think it is and it’s also not

–

Your dreams were always vivid and intense. 

Was it normal to have movie-level, hyperdetailed, sometimes not even involving you or anyone you knew (at least consciously), insane storyline dreams on a constant basis (without medication causing them)? You know, maybe not. You should get that checked out. But not today, because this is not the story about that (you really should get that checked out).

This is the story about you dreaming about your boyfriend jacking off next to asleep you and then realizing it was not a dream. 

At first you were like, man, that sure sounds like Jeon Jungkook breathing hard. Was he working out? Why are you having dreams about Jungkook working out? That's literally the most pointless, mundane dream you could ever have. Also, you weren't seeing anything, just blackness. What was the damn point of this dream you couldn't even look at him?

(To be honest, that’s very rude of you, brain.)

Jungkook always asked you to work out at home with him but, one, he was annoying as fuck to work out with because all he did was stare at you ("oh yeah, my bad for thinking you're sexy, holy shit, what a crime to think my girlfriend and future wife is hot!"); two, you literally had zero motivation to work out (not lazy, just, you know, didn't give a shit and Jungkook called that your great flaw of being his perfect girlfriend – but he loved all your soft bits so he was sending you mixed messages, tsk tsk); and finally, three, it always led up to fucking, so why go through all that trouble hyping yourself up in your leggings and sports bra, only to spend five minutes in them and forty-five doing a whole different kind of workout that didn't require clothes?

Exactly. 

Just skip that shit and get to the naked part. 

Oh, right, back to the whole deep-breathing Jungkook and you seeing darkness thing. 

Sometimes you had dreams with only sound and very little visual. It was disorienting, giving you the feeling of being trapped in a maze with no way out (dream analysts would be all over that shit) and once the images returned, you were usually naked (psychologists would have a field day with that). But this time, you were unmoving. Listening to tense inhale, drawn-out exhale, over and over, and you only recognized it as Jungkook because he did that thing where he sucked on his teeth a little, making that almost inaudible hiss noise. 

You felt heavy, tired, sluggish, as if you were dragging yourself through mud, in between the brink of conscious and subconscious, in that brief moment where you could control the dream but not your body, that little pocket of utopia. You searched for Jungkook in the darkness, curious to find him, and you couldn't, but he seemed to be beside you, to your right, where he usually was when you slept. Next to you, sometimes snoring so you'd have to smack him in the chest and he'd snort and stop (for a hot second, then you'd roll him to his side so at least he wouldn't be snoring in your ear). His pectoral muscles were bigger lately (you hated working out but you sure as hell didn't hate Jungkook working out) and the slapping sound was pretty satisfying now, palm to hard muscle. 

Kind of like the sound right now. 

Wait. 

You weren't slapping Jungkook's pecs.

You furrowed your brows. Huh? Why were you hearing that soft smacking sound over and over, Jungkook's low hiss and then your name in a deep hazy whisper and why was your front cold? You usually slept with only panties, no bra, but you weren't usually cold up top – that's what the linen duvet was for (you paid way too much for that, but you saw it on Instagram and, hey, it's your money, go off) and, to be honest, you used to be a cute pajamas person but, ever since you started living with Jungkook, he wanted you to wear as much as he did when he slept (read: literally only his boxer briefs). Lots of begging (and him being on his knees for you) later, and now it was your habit to strip before sleeping.

Anyway, back to being cold. 

You scrunched up your face and listened to the labored breathing in your right, a hand drifting on your stomach, tracing your bellybutton, moving up, light, delicate touches, the sound of skin on skin. A gentle fingertip brushed your nipple. 

You cracked your eyes open.

There was a tiny bit of light from your computer, the RGB keyboard casting a faint rainbow. You shifted your eyes to your right.

Jungkook's left arm was in an awkward position, softly caressing your nipple as he violently pumped his dick. 

On the bed. 

Underwear gone.

On the floor? Probably. 

He looked pretty damn hard. (Nice.) 

Your eyes floated to his face and his eyes were closed, mouth open, trying not to make any noise, gasping your name. Shapely jaw, soft cheeks, dark lashes, ash blond hair framing his handsome features, so beautiful it was unreal. His head turned towards you and his dark brown eyes slowly opened, purring your name lovingly. 

"Yeah, Jungkook?"

You saw the single blissful second it took for Jungkook's brain to catch up. 

Then he choked.

On air and his dick by squeezing it far too hard in complete and utter shock. 

"HOLY FUCK!"

He yanked his hand back, off your chest (feels bad man) and released his cock, causing it to bounce a little in the air (kind of sexy, not gonna lie), both of them shooting up to cover his rapidly reddening cheeks, one tattooed, one not, his inked right arm tense and his hand glistening with points of pre-cum.

You blinked innocently at him. 

"Oh, shit, fuck, I'm so sorry, um, l–listen," he sputtered, dick still sticking straight up, completely oblivious to Jungkook's embarrassment (ignorance is bliss). "I... I have a good reason, I s-swear."

You rolled onto your side and squished your tits together. Jungkook's brain seemed to implode a little, staring at your squashed breasts and hard nipples like it was the first time (even though you knew he literally sees them at least once a day).

"You're horny?" 

Your voice cracked a little from sleep and you coughed to clear your throat (not sexy, but such is life). 

Jungkook's shaking pupils were too busy staring at your titties. "Y-Yeah, I just woke up randomly horny as fuck, but I know how much you hate having your sleep disturbed so I was just going to edge myself a little... well, maybe finish…"

"You masturbating while touching my tits is not going to disturb me?"

"I... I've done it before..."

???????

???????

"Uh..."

"I don't touch you very much!" Jungkook blurted, grabbing your hands. "P-Please don't be mad! I only touch you a little and always very carefully! I never try to take advantage, I'm just horny, please, please, please don't be mad!"

He grabbed you by the shoulders and hugged you tightly. You grimaced, not because of the hug (Jungkook’s hugs were top tier), but because his hard dick jammed right into your thigh and smeared a giant line of pre-cum onto your skin (a little cold and not nearly as sexy as internet smut stories make it out to be, but maybe that was because you literally woke up to Jungkook jacking off without giving you so much as an invitation, rude). You gasped and retreated a little, but that made Jungkook try to grab you tighter and his cock bent upwards and jabbed you in the lower belly. 

Still leaking everywhere, by the way. 

"Oh shit–"

"Look here Excalibur, I'm not the stone waiting for the king," you winced, swiping your hand across your skin and wiping it on the side of his ass (hey, it's free real estate). Jungkook yelped, letting go of you. 

"Hey!"

"If you're horny, let's fuck, not joust. I don't have the proper equipment for that and I'm not an undercover Lancelot, as dope as that would be."

"I should be turned off by now," Jungkook muttered under his breath (probably cursing your poorly timed King Arthur jokes – you did have a tendency to wear your mind on your sleeve). "But I'm not because, fuck, look at this body..."

His hands were already running all over your skin and, if there was one thing Jungkook had an extra zest for, it was fucking you – all the time, twenty-four seven, rest in peace responsibilities if you ever decided to become a nudist, but thankfully you had self-control (not when it came to terrible jokes at inappropriate times though, that was your vice). However, sleepy you had less self-control and let him do whatever he wanted, running his fingers all over your chest, making you shiver and slide closer to him, rubbing your thigh against his length and he sucked in a breath, whispering your name hotly against your cheek.

"S-Stop, I'm going to get horny..."

"You're already horny," you hummed into his chin, running your fingers through his blond hair, closing your eyes again, listening to his soft moan against your cheek (he always sounded so good, so fucking sexy, it was sinful), your left hand sliding down between you both. his palms pressed into your breasts, squeezing them roughly as you cupped your hand around his length and balls (Jungkook was really warm and your hands were kind of cold, this turned out to be a win-win situation, sweet). You wound your fingers around his length with two fingers hooked around his balls, bouncing them lightly as you rubbed his velvety skin, sighing against his neck.

"Pog."

"Do not Twitch chat talk to my dick," Jungkook muttered. "Also, what kind of weak-ass handjob is this, are you just warming your cold-as-fuck fingers–" (well, shit) "–oh, fuck!"

You gripped his cock with your left hand and buried your fingers in his hair, tongue between your lips as you roughly stroked his length, making Jungkook squirm and gasp above you, jerking back. You kept your hold on him, tighter, feeling him swell and get harder, grinning, your eyes still closed, working him fast and firm.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Jungkook swore repeatedly, pinching your nipples and rolling them between his fingers (damn, he was making you work to keep this smirk on your face, but it was worth), tendrils of pleasure snaking through you. You bit the side of your lip, increasing your pace, squeezing just under the head the way he liked, pre-cum pooling around the pocket of your index finger and thumb, adding lubrication.

"Stop, s-stop, I'm gonna e-explode," Jungkook moaned, planting his hands onto your tits and sinking his fingers in the softness once more (hello? where's the titty love, this ain't all about you, Jungkook). 

"I like dynamite," was you answer, cracking one eye open. "Light it up." 

Jungkook growled in his throat, glaring at you. "I swear to God, if you weren't so fucking hot, I'd be so fucking limp right no–aah, d-don't, oh fuuuck, please..."

You slid down the bed, switching hands, attaching your mouth to his balls (he was probably grateful for that, can't talk with a mouthful of nuts, sad) and put your breasts on his thigh, rubbing your nipples all over his hard muscle as you sucked, starting off slow, then faster and faster, one to the other, tongue all over, Jungkook loudly rambling nonsense above you (you weren't paying attention, you had a dick to jack off and some balls to rearrange with your masterful tongue) until Jungkook squealed at your firm grip on the head, cutting off his orgasm once again.

"Stop edging me," he hissed angrily above you.

You blew a raspberry on his nuts.

"A-ah, fuuuuuuuuck!"

Oh, that turned out to be more pleasurable than either you or Jungkook imagined, because his eyes were gigantic and his hips were furiously humping your hand, but you weren't holding him tight enough for him to cum. You raised your eyebrows at him and Jungkook gave you the most displeased expression he could muster (he looked cute as fuck, a complete fail), ash blond strands clinging to his forehead, nose scrunched up.

"That was for jacking off without me," you tutted.

"You would have gotten pissed if I woke you up to fuck," he pouted.

"I need beauty sleep to be beautiful."

"I hear facials actually help quite a lot."

You burst out laughing and Jungkook followed suit, his rich, full, almost wheezing laugh, until he realized you had swiped a condom from the nightstand (yup, they were casually in a little moon-shaped dish by the bed next to the chap stick and phone charger, says a lot about you two), fitted it on him, and then you sat on his dick.

"W-Wait – oooooooh, fuck!"

You waited a second for your body to adjust, forcefully stretched out by his thick girth, but it wasn't that bad when you were controlling your muscles and expecting it, so you started rocking your hips after the second, sighing in satisfaction. Jungkook's eyes rolled back into his head, his long fingers bunching up on his chest, raising his ass to get deeper with every slap of hips to hips, your body talking to his, heat rising through you, branching out your spine and to your limbs, the best kind of workout (your only workout, be honest here), clenching your core, making Jungkook snap his head back in panic, shaking his head furiously.

"I'm g-gonna cum if you keep going l-like that..."

You leaned down, brushing his hands away and spreading your fingers over his pecs, running your nails over his hard nipples. Jungkook whimpered, chewing on his lip, you turning the tempo from a fast one to a longer, slower, more complete stroke from head to base, soft ass smacking his soft balls. He looked up at you, moaning softly, pupils blown wide, rainbow shadows over his face (damn, he's pretty, eleven out of ten, for sure), gasping your name, his hands finding your forearms and caressing them, eyelashes fluttering.

"O-oh, fuck, p-please... faster... wanna cum... you're so fucking sexy... ah, fuck, wanna cum for you..."

No one could say no to that, especially not you.

You slid your arms down to the bed, right beside his head, and increased the force, intensifying it all, Jungkook's fingers flying up and holding onto your nipples, the sheer wildness of your own pace tugging and pulling on them, your breathing deepening, panting hard, wispy and hot, his name on your lips, pleasure all over, passionately fucking him into the bed, and him jutting his hips back into your soaked walls, throbbing against the tightness, so hot, fire coursing through you, your juices soaking his crotch and balls.

“Jungkook, oh, fuck, yes...”

You squeezed him hard and Jungkook thrust into you with a groan, all hardness and thickness violently burying itself into your overwhelming heat and you moaned lustfully, pussy shuddering around his wonderful cock, feeling it shiver repeatedly, his orgasm filling up the condom so much that you felt the latex stretch inside you, jarring jerks with each of Jungkook's soft cries, his head shoved into the pillows, blond hair fanning out like a halo and practically wearing out your name with how many times he was chanting it.

You reached and held down the condom as you unsheathed (the beast), collapsing against the bed and laying down, wheezing a little, greatly satisfied at your work.

"Boom."

You weakly reached up and mimed a firework with one hand.

"Like dynamite."

"Oh, my fucking God," Jungkook muttered, peeling off the condom and immediately snatching the towel next to the bed (also says a lot about you two) and another condom, yanking off the other one (trash can next to the bed already, again says – never mind, you get it) and cleaning himself off before putting on the new one. "On your back."

You rolled on your back, snickering. "Three parts dynamite, with a nitroglycerin cap–"

Jungkook clapped a hand on your mouth and it smelled a whole lot like his cum. "This is not the time to be quoting the Addams Family, you animal."

You nuzzled out of it, grinning. "I'm just saying I want an orgasm equivalent to blowing up a small house."

"Oh, you'll get it," Jungkook growled, yanking your hips to the center of the bed, pushing your legs up to your chest, almost bending you in half. "You ready?"

You bit your lip, still grinning. "Of course."

One hand left your leg and you were confused for a split second.

The next you were gasping, Jungkook rapidly smacking his hand into your clit and pussy, not hard, but constant, swift smacks that got you wetter and wetter, quivering and struggling for breath.

"J-Jungkook, oh f-fuck, Jungkook..." you whined, fingers digging into the sheets, twisting them, bouncing your hips towards him. He inhaled sharply, fitting his finger onto your clit and raising himself.

"W-wait – oh fuck!"

Jungkook chuckled and thrust into your wet warmth, rubbing your clit at the same time. Your body squirmed, trying to alleviate the sudden high rush of pleasure, but Jungkook was stronger (was this the reason he worked out? no complaints here), his free hand pressing your leg down into your chest, your other leg crammed against his shoulder, his hand snaking in between and stimulating your clit, not having to move because you were moaning helplessly, rutting against him repeatedly, pulsating all around him, so good, so good, throbs of desire against his callused fingertip, eyes rolling back. Hard cock, engorged clit worked into a frenzy, your own hips fucking him back so hard that Jungkook was moaning with you, your name tumbling out from those pink lips.

"Cum for me, fuck, you sound and look so sexy, come on, come on..."

You would have praise for him too if you could breathe, but you couldn't, pleasure so overwhelming that your eyes closed, getting there, getting so close, and Jungkook he kept going until you wailed his name, back arcing, your tits hitting your thighs, forearms taut and straining, lower body lurching towards him and leaking out slick juices all over his crotch and yours, so much so that his finger slipped and his nail nicked your clit, turning your moan into a howl of ecstasy.

"Oh, shit, are you ok–"

You grabbed his hips, ignoring whatever the fuck he was saying, and slammed him down into your pussy, making Jungkook lose his balance and put his hands on the bed, yelping, and you hissing in his face, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, please, Jungkook, give me your cock, and Jungkook was saying something but your body gave no fucks, ears mysteriously broken at that specific moment, raising your hips to meet his as he sank down, Jungkook's face scrunching up and his pleas finally reaching your ears.

"H-Hold on, I want to last, stop, stop, stop..."

"Who cares about that, I need dick," was your very impatient response, but Jungkook grabbed your thighs and pinned you down, stopping you and him from moving, you whining and clenching around him.

"This is not p–"

Jungkook immediately fitted his hand over your mouth, narrowing his eyes at you. "No. Bad. Shush."

(How did he know you were going to say 'this is not poggers'?)

You wiggled your ass and Jungkook growled, pulling out and slamming back in, not fast, but powerful, cock getting harder and harder with your whines and cries behind his palm.

"This is what you need," he panted, deep and gravelly, one hand on the bed and one on your mouth, fucking you so hard that your ass was bouncing on the bed, creating a wet spot on the sheets with how drenched you were for Jungkook's lust-filled, husky voice. "Need me to fuck you silent, fuck, you're so tight and wet, come on, cum for me, cum for me, you sexy, sexy woman..."

Your body was already complying, pleasure wrapping all around, body so hot from the fire within, tongue pressed against his palm, moaning lewdly around his fingers as you came again, and he was so hard, fuck, Jungkook was so fucking hard right after he woke up, always, (a fucking mystery and eighth wonder of the world and your pussy was thoroughly investigating), so deep and so thick, your muscles clutching him tight, sucking him back in. His fingers separated a little, loosening his grip, and you heard your needy whimper mildly muffled by his digits.

"You're so good Jungkook, I love you, fuck, I love your cock, Jungkook..."

You looked up into his eyes, at his long hair hanging around his face, jaw clenched, smirking as he saw your gaze, biting the side of his lips in concentration.

"I love you too," he breathed. "You're the sexiest, most beautiful woman in the world."

You clamped around him and Jungkook groaned, eyelids fluttering, grunting as he forcefully thrust into you, your name mixed with a moan as he came again, fully sheathing himself in your quivering, abused heat, warm pulses soothing him and you all over. The sheets stuck to your ass, covered in your sweet-smelling cum.

(Good thing that was on his side of the bed.)

His hand glided up your face, pushing back your hair, shuddering as he rutted into your core a few more times, savoring your tightness.

"You alright, my dude?" you whispered nonchalantly, gasping slightly.

Jungkook cracked one eye open. "Yeah, I'm fucking fantastic, bro."

"Pog-"

Jungkook shoved two fingers into your mouth and you choked a little, pouting around his fingers (you weren't surprised though, you knew it was coming).

"I will whip this dick out and slap you in the face with it."

"That's kinda nasty, but also sounds kinda hot," you gargled around his fingers.

"... You're right. Damn, he's asleep. Shit."

Jungkook pulled his fingers out and wiped them on the towel, frowning as he glanced down.

"Only him and not us, something seems a little inverted here."

Jungkook chuckled and leaned down to kiss you (another reason why he was the perfect partner, still being affectionate, regardless of your loony antics).

"I love you."

-

in which you anger jjk by being annoying - wait, that’s every day well, he still wants to bang you counter point

--

masterpost

[cinnamonest]

okay but imagine being the evil god that subjugated xiao prior to his freedom from zhongli, maybe along the lines of the god of nightmares and fear like Daedric Prince Vaermina in the elder scrolls

every night he is forced to do your bidding and consume dreams all in your name and he just absolutely hates you, hates himself for being weak, for not being strong enough to stand up for himself and live a life as your slave

After every frustrating and humiliating time he is forced to do your bidding he retreats to the tiny space he can have on his own, and through clenched teeth he just stokes himself to the image of you on all fours, finally the one being subjugated as he takes control over you for all the times you used him, he leaves you sore and abused, feeling the decades or centuries of anger at his circumstances in the way he brutally pounds your cervix and stretches you open on his cock, filthy fingers that have for too long been tainted by your commands shoved into your mouth pulling your cheeks apart and splitting your lip with pain, to fill your aching hole with his cum and mark you all over with his teeth, to utterly tear you apart and consume every bit of you as he does, so you can finally feel how he feels to be used and worthless

He always comes to after, and faces even more frustration that his fantasies are merely that

…but perhaps one day when he freed from his eternal torment, his savior might just be gracious enough to allow him a few minutes with you before your final end

FOAMING AT THE MOUTH how did I not think of this possibility before omg, mean goddess darling that uses him for your dirty work and abuses him for laughs

However, he would likely realize that, given how nice the experience is -- both getting to absolutely wreck your shit and get his anger out in addition to the pure feeling itself -- that he wants more... but who is he to defy his new god, right? So he sits back, silently, quietly, a little sad that you have to die even.

But Morax actually comes to the same conclusion, right at the last moment -- standing above you, hovering the polearm right above your throat as you lay sprawled out on the ground. Killing you would just be a waste at this point, he says. Your power has been stripped from you, your leadership has been overthrown, you're essentially nothing now... besides, death is a little too kind, isn't it? It would be so, so much more fitting for you to suffer long term, to be humiliated and defiled over and over and over by the very being you once subjugated and caused so much suffering to... right? He turns his head over to Xiao as he finishes, an almost soft-looking, warm smile on his face. It's what he deserves, he tells him, isn't a permanent slave such a nice reward? It will be so helpful, since his new responsibilities will be fairly stressful. Of course, he sputters a refusal at first, as bad as he wants it, he claims he doesn't deserve such a thing... but Morax just chuckles and tells him to look at it as a responsibility, then. To break you and put you in your proper place. He can do that, can't he?

But it's not all bad. After a little while, your new master stops being quite so rough and cruel, his anger towards you dissipates -- not because he becomes less angry at the one who made him suffer, but because... you're not really "you" anymore. It's difficult for him to even see you as the same person, you seem like someone new, so quiet and meek and desperate for even a touch of kindness and mercy. He likes this "you." You become almost happy to see him, even if he's hurting you, since it's better than the perpetual mental torment of being along in that dark empty room he leaves you in, bound so tight you can't even move. When he comes home, that means you get to move your limbs, you get to see something other than the ceiling that you stare at as you're left alone with your thoughts and eventually run out of anything to even think, left alone in nothingness, it's pure torture. So you begin to crave time with him, you dread when he leaves. You sob at his feet and beg please don't go. He starts to take some comfort in your presence as you do his, and after a few decades, you barely even remember anything from before anyway.

Morax is rather proud of the decision too. Xiao is actually pretty eager to show you off, after a while, show how much progress he's made with you. He feels like he actually accomplished his task rather well.

[lightsovermonaco]

Body Shots (Pierre Gasly)

Inspired by (and beta read) by the amazing @limp-wrist-max​ thank you Mea! 

Masterlist

Word count: 3.5k

Recommended song: “Lucky You” by Sim Dane

Vacationing in Milan had its perks. Fine dining, luxury stores that were prime for window shopping, and the proximity to your best friend, to name a few.

When you'd touched down in Milan you had had no intentions of visiting Pierre. You had just finished your exams for your summer class and had a week before the next semester started up, so you had simply booked the cheapest ticket and boarded a plane. 

The intent had been to have some good wine, good food and unwind. Pierre saw your Instagram story minutes after you posted it and recognized the bakery you stopped at for lunch. And once he found out you were only a few minutes away from that weekend's grand prix, he had ideas that didn't involve you reading a novel all day.

Pierre had insisted that a last minute cancelation by a family friend had left a paddock pass unclaimed and had suggested you take it.

"You're my best friend, it'll be fun to have you experience a weekend through my eyes for once instead of sitting in the stands. Come visit me."

Something in the inflection of his voice made the simple request rub you raw. He missed you. It had been months since your last get together and you couldn't blame him. The last year had been rough for him and he  rarely had anyone physically at his side to help him through it.

Inviting you instead of one of his parents was about more than your current proximity to the track. He hadn't missed a beat in asking you, not hesitating to consider anyone else being with him this weekend.

Your stomach had turned as you climbed in a cab Sunday morning, not out of fear of something going wrong but because of the nagging feeling that something was about to change.

You'd known Pierre since you were kids. Your brother had raced in karting before pursuing another dream, but in the few short years you'd hung around European tracks you had managed to forge a bond with one of your brother's rivals. That friendship carried on regardless of the distance that separated you, kept alive by visits in the off season and once a year trips to the racetrack at Silverstone.

Pierre met you at the gates and you had barely seen him since.

A decent qualifying session saw the Frenchman start P10 on Sunday's race. He didn't hide the fact that he was disappointed, but come time for his final meeting with the team you'd never guess he was anything but ecstatic.

You had to be conscious about your mouth hanging open when Pierre stepped into the garage in his fireproofs with his suit half undone. The tuft of blond hair peeking through his backwards cap floats on an invisible breeze and he bounces on his toes. His brow furrows when he is handed a data sheet, listening intently to what the engineer points out.

Butterflies riot in your stomach when Pierre catches you staring and winks. You pray he writes the blush on your cheeks off as the heat and he must, because he raises his eyebrows and flexes a bit.

You laugh to cover the way you want to do nothing but strip him out of that tight fitted white shirt. Your crush was getting out of hand. Pierre's shameless, friendly flirting only escalated matters.

You told yourself it was nothing. He was like this with every girl he met, making a fool of himself to earn a laugh. You were no different, except maybe that you were a constant where most other women only got to enjoy his playful personality for a short time.

You're treated to a few long minutes of watching Pierre prep to climb into the car before he's heading out on track to line up at the grid. 

The race starts off fine, Pierre's pace is better than expected. One of the Haas's breaks down at the pit entry and Pierre's strategist decides to bring him in for a fresh set of tires. A kiss seems like the proper reward for their stroke of brilliance, which affords Pierre the advantage when the pits close soon after. 

Restarting on lap 28 is nail biting. Hamilton, Stroll, and Pierre make up the podium places. The entire garage gasps when Stroll goes wide at turn four. Hamilton serves his penalty and Pierre inherits the lead. Sainz jumps on the opportunity to attack.

Pierre defends brilliantly until the final lap. The team erupts when he crosses the line first, bringing home the win.

Red, white and green confetti sticks to his skin as he sprays the champagne over all of you. In the heat of it all, Pierre sits on that top step and shakes his head. You already know that the photos of him being snapped from all angles will be gorgeous, the sun shining down on the first French grand prix winner in decades.

A legend in the minds of his people and in yours.

You could scarcely believe it yourself. Your best friend had finally, after years of being pushed down, won a grand prix at the temple of speed. Red Bull had been wrong, just as you'd insisted when Pierre cried over losing his seat and his friend in one weekend. But god, did Pierre rise above it all.

Pierre catches your gaze just before he leaves the podium. A lifetime of emotion swirls around him like an enigma, begging you to find out what it was hiding. Your wave is barely more than a lift of your hand but Pierre notes it nonetheless, tipping his trophy in your direction.

You wait patiently on the sidelines as Pierre poses for pictures with his team on and off the track. His attention constantly falls on you, his grin widening each time he sees you tucked under the arm of an enthusiastic mechanic or crew member. Alpha Tauri was a family and you were an honorary member thanks to your connection to their driver.

An action packed hour of cameras passes before Pierre is able to break away. As soon as he's given the go ahead he passes his trophy off and marching to you. You're both practically running by the time you meet in the middle. You crash into him and he lifts you off your feet in a crushing hug.

"You did it," you whisper, overwhelmed by his success now that you've gotten the chance to celebrate with him. "I'm so proud of you."

Pierre laughs as he sets you on your feet. His smile is wider than you've ever seen it and you're sure his cheeks must be sore.

"Wish they allowed us to bring a friend up there," Pierre says softly, a smile melting into a sly smirk. "Seeing you doused in champagne is an image I wouldn't forget."

You shake your head, caught up in his ceaseless flirting. He had no idea that his honeyed words and gentle touches lit something inside of you, rattling your brain and making it impossible to form a coherent sentence. Instead you snatch the black and gold Pirelli cap off his head and place it on your own, earning you a peal of laughter.

"Looks better on you anyway." Pierre runs a hand through his sweaty, champagne doused hair, leaving bits sticking up at odd angles.

Someone calls Pierre's name, far enough away that there's no rush. Pierre's hands remain planted on your waist and yours stay wrapped around his neck. By the way his bright blue eyes bore into yours, you swear he's thinking the same thing you are.

"Thank you for believing in me," he murmurs, gaze falling to your lips.

"I knew it was just a matter of time," you tell him, inching up on your tiptoes. Tempted by his win, you want to ruin the best friendship you've ever had. You want to discover if the lips you spend far too much time dreaming about felt as soft as they looked. You want to know how it feels to be lost in Pierre, newly minted race winner, and find out just how he dealt with the adrenaline and euphoria of his incredible drive.

"Well done mate!"

Max Verstappen startles the two of you apart. You take a healthy step back and drop your gaze to the ground to hide your burning cheeks.

"Thanks." Pierre accepts the Dutchman's embrace and claps him on the back. "Sucks I didn't get to fight you for it."

"There will be more chances in the future. And I didn't expect to see you here, that's a nice surprise." Max knocks you with his shoulder, tipping you off balance. On instinct you latch onto Pierre's arm to steady yourself. You wait a heartbeat too long to remove your hand and both of you find anywhere to look but each other.

"So where's the party?" You ask, searching for a distraction from the way your palm still burns.

"Definitely not at Red Bull." Max shudders and you laugh because that's what you do when someone is being over dramatic. It rings hollow in your ears.

"I hear there's a few guys with adjoining rooms at the hotel who bought plenty of booze," Pierre says. "You and Dan wanna come by?"

"Is that really a question?" Max grins, already typing out a text as Pierre feeds him the details.

**********

"You should do body shots," Max suggests, which earns a roaring laugh from Daniel and a half hearted one from Pierre.

"I don't think so," Pierre says, "there's no one here I trust enough to let that happen."

"Not even your best friend?" Max gestures to you and shoots you a wink when Pierre glances over. "I think she's trustworthy."

"No thanks." Pierre holds up his plastic cup and salutes Max before draining it to the dregs.

Pierre's immediate refusal hurt more than it probably should have. You hadn't expected him to jump at the offer but having him shut the idea down so thoroughly hadn't been what you wanted either.

Max notes your pouty lower lip and speaks on your behalf. "Come on mate," Max insists. "You just won your first prix, live a little! It's not like you've got anything to lose, she's your best friend."

"That's exactly why-"

"Shut up, it would be fun! Wouldn't it?" Max says this last bit to you, a wild grin on his face.

Max expects you to turn red and object. That was his end goal. But what the Dutchman hadn't counted on was how drunk you already were on Pierre. On his smile. On his bright blue eyes, swirling in the aftermath of his unlikely triumph. And mostly on the not-so-sneaky way he glances at you every few minutes.

"Let's do it."

Pierre blinks, searching your face for any sign of distress. "Wait, are you serious?"

"Yeah, why not?" You shrug, suddenly fearing that you'd read him wrong and he really was against this whole thing. "Unless you don't want to-"

"Get the vodka," Pierre interrupts, nodding to Max though his stare remains pinned on you. Pierre latches onto your wrist and drags you around the room until he finds a table long and sturdy enough for his liking. 

"This a good height for you?"

The coffee table is low enough that you'd have to kneel. Luckily getting on your knees isn't something you'd mind doing for Pierre. You lick your lips without thinking. Pierre's pupils blow wide, black swallowing the swirling oceans of blue.

"Sure," is all you manage.

"Good." Apparently neither of you were able to focus on speech. You work together to clear the empty plastic cups and used napkins from the surface. Your hands brush when you both reach for the last cup and you just catch the way Pierre's breath hitches.

You and Pierre have danced this dance since you were teenagers. Each of you knows the steps by heart. The only difference is tonight neither of you were poised to bow out before the final lift.

"Beep beep, bitches!" You yank your hand away when Max's shout reaches you. Pierre's hand lingers in front of him,  outstretched as if your palm remained grazing his thumb. 

Max holds the bottle of vodka over his head as he wades through the crowd. "You're all about to be very, very entertained."

"Where's your chaperone?" You ask Max, searching for Daniel in the low lighting. You press your palm to your thigh, dissipating Pierre's lingering heat.

The Dutchman waves you off. "Went to get us more drinks. Pierre, isn't it kinda hard to do body shots if you're still fully clothed?"

"Who says I'm the one getting undressed?"

Max's grin dimples his flushed cheeks. "I mean you can ask her to take her shirt off in front of all these people if you want to."

"No," Pierre responds quickly. "Fine. I'll do it."

When Pierre strips off his shirt he gets more than a few whistles from men and women alike. That tended to happen when someone was built like a Greek fucking god, you supposed. Whoever voted for People Magazine's "Sexiest Man Alive" and decided on Michael B. Jordan had clearly never laid eyes on Pierre, with his bronzed skin, endless expanses of muscle, and brilliant cheshire grin.

Michael B. Jordan who?

Pierre hands the team branded shirt off and lays out on the table. He pillows an arm under his head, bare bicep flexed as he gets comfortable. Leaning in to kiss along the hard muscle was out of the question, however tempting it was.

Pierre looks up expectantly. "You coming?" 

Holy shit, this was actually happening.

"Yeah, I'm coming." You sink to your knees and Pierre laughs.

"Up here." He pats his thigh with his free hand and beacons you forward. "Please."

Screw it, you've already thrown your friendship out the window. This night ended either in heartbreak or awkwardness, might as well get your money's worth.

A few whoops break out above the music. The bassline isn't the only thing thundering in your chest as you straddle Pierre's thighs, hands braced on his chest.

"Okay?" Pierre whispers for your ears only. You nod with what you hope is a charming smile.

"Alright move," Max says, shooing you back until you're resting on your haunches. Max flicks the cap off the bottle and you grab it to take a long sip.

Max gapes at you and you wipe a hand over your mouth. "Close your mouth, you'll catch flies."

Pierre's thighs tense beneath you in response to your bold declaration. Dozens of Pierre's friends and team members gather around. For all you care, Pierre is the only person in the room.

"Last chance to back out," Max warns. You're too busy tracking the drop of liquid that falls from the neck of the bottle to splash onto the crease of Pierre's abs to bother responding. 

"Pour it out." Pierre's chest sinks with his demand, doing nothing but sparking your imagination, creating images of him heaving beneath you. You'd sell your soul to recreate the way you're currently poised above Pierre's hips with a little less clothing and no audience.

Max gives up hope on you replying and dribbles the alcohol up Pierre's abdomen, stopping just below his pecks.

"Have at 'er-"

Your tongue is on Pierre's skin before Max has finished his sentence. You feel the muscle tense beneath your tongue, going rigid at the first contact. The burn of the vodka doesn't even register as you lap it up, catching the drips that fall over his sides. 

You aren't sure either of you is breathing. Salty sweat mingles with the sharpness of the alcohol, an afterthought barely worth mentioning.

Blame the liquid courage or blame the high from Pierre's win, but you were confident Pierre was enjoying this just as much as you. 

Planting a hand on Pierre's hip, you steal a glance up at him to find him locked on you. You take that as permission to continue, dragging your tongue flat up his stomach and continuing well past where the vodka had been poured. Up between his pecks, over the curve of his throat that bobs beneath your tongue, over his chin until you meet his lips, already parted and waiting. 

Neither of you pay the shouts cresting around you any heed. You've both waited too long for this, endured too many almosts and what ifs to let the opportunity slip through your fingers. Your sticky hands cradle Pierre's face, angling it in a way that's to your liking so you can explore more of his mouth. He tastes like whiskey and mint, the juxtaposition of hot and cold scattering your thoughts. One of Pierre's hands finds the nape of your neck when you gasp for air, refusing to let you end the moment.

And it's pure, unending bliss that floods your veins when he nips at your lower lip, swollen and surely reddened from his kiss. His thumb sweeps across the back of your neck while you both fight to catch the breath currently evading you.

Daydreams didn't hold a candle to the real thing. One taste and you were addicted, craving as much as Pierre was willing to give.  

"Hey," he murmurs, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a stupidly gorgeous smile.

"That was nice," you tease, tangling your fingers in the silky blond strands of his hair. "I wouldn't be opposed to doing it again."

"Me too. Maybe somewhere where it's just us though. I wouldn't want to scandalize my team any further." You manage to steal another sweet peck before Max hauls you off Pierre.

"Fucking finally," Daniel says, clapping when you're upright again. "Do you know how long I've been trying to orchestrate this? The two of you really are dumber than a box of rocks. I can't believe all it took was Max suggesting body shots to get you two to kiss."

The arm that wraps around your waist feels right. Pierre hasn't hugged you like this before, with his chin resting on your shoulder and his nose nuzzling your neck, but it already feels like home.

Pierre ignores Max completely in favor of pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear. "Why don't we go back to my room? I'll pour more alcohol on myself if that's what it takes to convince you."

You're just about to take him up on the offer when one of his team members taps his shoulder. He glances at them impatiently, which the man thankfully doesn't take personally.

"They want some photos with you holding your trophy," he explains, handing a shirt and the star shaped interpretation of the Italian flag to Pierre. "It will only take a few minutes,  they promised not to keep you long."

Of course everyone knew exactly where your minds were. Sanity had long since left the premises, tangled up in crisp white sheets. Pierre's entire team and half the Red Bull garage had seen what had gone down while the prix winner was sprawled on that coffee table. There would be no chance of denying it in the morning. 

And while you'd never imagined that the first time you'd kiss your best friend would be directly preceded by licking copious amounts of shitty liquor off his super-heated skin, now that you'd experienced it any other way seems forgettable.

Pierre sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I mean, I already have my trophy, but…" your stomach lurches when you realize he means you. Pierre catches the way your mouth hangs open and he shoots you a grin before accepting the real trophy.

"You carry it," he says, not giving you much of a choice as he thrusts it into your hands. "I'm occupied."

You're about to point out that his hands are, in fact, free and that the more likely reason for insisting you carry the trophy was his usual post-race laziness when he slings an arm around your shoulders and tucks you tight to his side.

"Is this okay?" Pierre asks when you involuntarily stiffen. God, it was more than okay, it was perfect, it had just caught you by surprise. You'd only kissed him a handful of minutes ago and Pierre was already wrapped around your finger, smitten as if you'd been a couple for years.

"Yeah no, it's perfect. Simply lovely," you say quickly, stumbling over your words.

"Can I kiss you again?"

Your answer comes in the form of a hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. You prop the trophy on your hip and smile up at your race winner.

"You don't have to ask that ever again. My answer is always yes."

[fononik]

Making direct positive prints without a darkroom: pt. 1

Direct positive paper can be loaded directly into a large format camera or a pinhole camera to create positive image prints without an intermediate negative image. They are easily developed in a darkroom, just like any other photo paper, and contrast can be controlled by preflashing (exposing the paper to light) a certain amount before developing. This post will present a method to develop and preflash direct positive paper without a darkroom.

The specific paper being used is Harman Direct Positive Paper, which I purchased from B&H. The official data sheet rates the paper between ISO 1 and 3. I will be rating it at ISO 3 for these tests, and shooting in my Crown Graphic. 

Exposure tests

First, I want to nail the proper exposure. My first time with this paper, I shot it outdoors, and one sheet was completely white (overexposed) with no image, and the other had an image which was severely overexposed. There may have been some user error (not closing the shutter for the first one...) but the second I thought I had rated correctly. I decided to do these exposure tests indoors in a more controlled setting. 

(Henry is helping. Thanks Henry.)

I arranged some objects, exposure notes, and a gray, white, and black card under some lights. I took a spot reading off the gray card with my Sekonic for ISO 3, and this gave me an exposure time of 1 minute at f/11. I took four shots of this scene: -1, 0, +1, and +2, changing the shutter speed for each (so, 30 seconds, 1 min, 2 min, and 4 min). I overexposed for two stops because the paper is also rated at ISO 1, so there might be more wiggle room in that direction. Here are the four resulting prints:

Print 1, at -1 stop, is very underexposed, and print 3, at +1 stop, is very overexposed. However, print 2, while having the best exposure, is still extremely high contrast, which is characteristic of the paper. It fails to reproduce a range of gray tones without preflashing--notice the gray card is nearly as dark as the black card in print 2. Though, print 2, and therefore ISO 3, will be our starting point for the preflashing tests. (Also notice that print 4 has a chemical stain--I’ll get to this when discussing processing.)

In-camera preflashing

The data sheet links above gives one method for preflashing with a darkroom enlarger. Preflashing will soften the image and allow more gray tones to appear. However, as this method does not make use of a darkroom, I did in-camera preflashing. (Thanks to @ceegeedee​ for the suggestion!) There are a variety of methods out there already; for this one I will expose the print at my Raleno LED lightpad that I use for film scanning. I have it on a tiny point & shoot tripod, so I was able to position it on the camera rails like so:

However, as it is difficult to make a test strip, I will do four additional prints with differing degrees of preflashing. I read elsewhere that rating around -2 stops is good for preflashing, so my method here is as follows:

Take a picture of the scene at the proper exposure rating (here still ISO 3)

Take a spot reading of the light pad as configured above. Here, it metered for 1/60s at f/4. 

Preflash (double expose the sheet) at a rating lower than this.

The four prints I shot next had the following exposure settings for the preflash stage. These are roughly -1, -2, -3, and -4, but not quite (as my lens is max f/4.7 and has the older shutter speed scale). The exposure settings for the four prints below are:

1/100s @ f/4.7 (roughly -1)

1/200s @ f/4.7

1/400s @ f/4.7

1/400s @ f/5.6 (roughly -4)

And here are the results:

Compare print 1 above with print 2 from the exposure tests. The gray card is now obviously a gray card, and there is much more shadow detail visible. (There was one change in the scene: I removed the clock, because it was casting a big shadow on the model camera and also because my cats knocked things over while I was processing.) Of these four, I think print 1 looks best, with maybe also print 2 looking decent (but still fairly high contrast). I didn’t do a preflash rated at 0, because I read it would be too bright, but now I am curious. Even this preflash rated at -1 from the light source makes a huge difference, and that’s what I’ll be trying in the field next time.

Processing

With preflashing able to be accomplished in-camera, the last step is processing. I used the same supplies to develop sheet film to develop these paper prints. I have a Stearman Press kit, which holds 4 sheets in flat holders. You may have luck with the sheet holders that fit into the round tanks, but there might be some potential issues. For one, the fiber paper gets very wavy and curly. This is what it looked like when I opened the tank after processing:

Normally, the sheets should be flat and not touching. Here they are not flat and touching. Oops. This is likely why the one print above had a chemical stain. However, the other 7 I processed this way turned out fine. I used Ilford Multigrade developer, and the one caveat is that you have to develop paper blind: you can’t look at the image as it appears as you would in a darkroom. I developed for 2 minutes with constant, gentle agitation. I think the development time worked and I didn’t notice any problems that I would attribute to this. The rest, stopping, fixing, washing, etc, work the same as in a darkroom; you’re just still using the tank. This method obviously requires both a changing bag and the equipment to develop sheet film, but that is still a lot less involved than using a full darkroom. 

Potential issues

The exposure tests were done indoors with very long shutter speeds. There is the potential issue of how this paper handles reciprocity, and how the same changes in exposure settings will translate to much brighter scenes such as in sunlight. Also, if shooting outdoors, you do not necessarily need a light pad to preflash; any bright surface should do. It just needs to be consistently bright across the whole frame, so carrying a small diffuser of some sort might work just as well. Because you only get one chance at the image, the controlled methods here might not exactly translate to in the field, and you might end up with a ruined image. I hope to do similar tests of outdoor scenes soon. 

[acearohippo]

OMG i didnt know you had a tumblr! Ive read your lixuan fics on ao3 and wow 😳

I wanted to throw this thought your way. Uh nsfw 🔞 warning.

What if Xuan teasingly calls Ling daddy and it does something to him, cut to Ling counting Xuan's orgasms like a workout count 👁👁

Me: I'll make sure to keep my social media handle consistent so people can find me easier

Me, when people find me easier due to my consistent social media handle: *kill bill sirens playing over X Files theme song*

Hehe, yes, tis I! And thank you for sharing this morsel with me! 🥰

Sorry, it's taken me so long to reply, I came down with some sort of bug (love working at a daycare, really) and I've not been in the correct mindset to be all smutty... Till now :D

Had to write out the scene~

Nsfw under the cut

Warnings: Multiple Orgasms, fledgling Daddy Kink, sex talk, minor praise, Li Ling calling Tang Xuan baby, doll, and babydoll, neutral descriptions of Tang Xuan’s anatomy.

It would start out completely innocent at first, Tang Xuan calling Li Ling “daddy” because his skateboard broke and Li Ling pulled a toolkit out of nowhere and went to work fixing out. Why does he have a toolkit for a skateboard? He rollerblades, that’s why, but the randomness of it and Li Ling just automatically getting to work is comical to Tang Xuan. Tang Xuan then completely loses it when Li Ling starts dadsplaining on proper skateboard care and maintenance. It’s so out of character that it aligns exactly within character for Li Ling and Tang Xuan is delighted.

“Thank you, daddy, I’ll make sure to lube my wheels more.” Said with a cheeky grin, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Li Ling just levels him with a look and plays along. It’s a small moment, just a little light-hearted banter, and then Li Ling is back to watching Tang Xuan perform increasingly complicated tricks on his board.

Except, as the hour passes, that line- or rather, that singular word, echoes in his mind, followed by images of increasingly lewd situations where Tang Xuan could use it.

Li Ling lets a smirk settle on his face, the word humming in the back of his mind. He can work with this, and he lets his gaze grow heavy with intent until Tang Xuan notices. Tang Xuan doesn’t say anything, just raises a brow and skates over to him, casual and open-faced.

Li Ling grabs him by his waist and moves him towards the Union dorm building, no words exchanged but heated glances back and forth relay the message well enough, and it is reciprocated.

When they do get to their own room, Li Ling asks him to call him the word again.

“Hmm? And what does daddy need me to do?” The cheekiness is still there, but Tang Xuan is interested now, his voice low with arousal.

Li Ling smiles. “Nothing, baby. Just lay there and look pretty while daddy works.”

It’s so corny, they both break character to laugh it off. Tang Xuan pulls Li Ling into the bed with him and they strip down and bring each other pleasure.

Two orgasms later, and Tang Xuan now understands the beast he unleashed within Li Ling. He jumps on a particularly rough thrust from Li Ling against the sensitive spot inside of him, and it triggers another orgasm.

“What number was that one, babydoll? Gotta help keep count for daddy.” Li Ling purrs, enjoying the quivering mess he’s turned his boyfriend into.

Li Ling has found that sweet spot, where he can just grind against Tang Xuan’s inner walls and give him multiple orgasms in a row.

“Th-three…?” Tang Xuan barely gasps out, after another orgasm overtakes him.

“Hmm, are you sure about that? Daddy’s gonna have to teach you how to count, babydoll.” No sooner does he growl out the pet name Tang Xuan clenches around Like Ling, whining and tossing his head back in ecstasy.

“Well, that was number four. Count with me, doll.” Li Ling adjusts his weight and posture so he can have finer control of his thrusts. He grinds his hips against Tang Xuan’s pelvis and Tang Xuan clenches tightly around him for a fifth orgasm. Li Ling groans out the number, reaching his second orgasm of the night, but remains hard and hungry for more.

“You didn’t say it with me, babydoll. Try again~! Say it with daddy now!” Tang Xuan can only murmur the number and brace himself for the subsequent orgasms Li Ling will wring from him before the sun sets.

“And that was orgasm number 6, you’re doing so well for daddy.”

“Come on baby, lemme here you. We’re on 7.”

“You’re being so good for daddy, giving me 8 orgasms. Daddy’s going to fill you with his fourth load now, baby.”

“Fuck, babydoll, don’t fight it. It’ll feel so much better when you let go… A ha! There you go, doll! Look at you all messy for daddy. You don’t even remember which number we’re on, do ya?”

“Breathe, baby, just give me one more orgasm. Make daddy proud and hit the double digits. Just one more baby and daddy will fill you up one more time. Come on, come on, come on. You’re so close, baby, I can feel you tightening around me. This will be your tenth one, come on babydoll, make daddy proud-! Fuck! Look at you, yeah ride it out, baby, take your fill. You’re so damn good, so fucking amazing, of course, I’ll reward you.”

Of course, when their coupling comes to an end, Tang Xuan finds himself laying limply with a dazed grin on his face, eyes glazed over, sated and trembling. It’s not comical anymore and Tang Xuan knows he’s going to have to encourage more of this at later dates.