#he is devious and a do no gooder

[saturnbourne]

Me waiting for the one (1) person who writes fanfic for this obscure character to release another fic like a crack addict

[delightfully-deranged-dagur]

Finished my Total Drama OC Cast!

Let's meet the cast!

Alex. The Attention Hog

Doesn't care about anything except having everyone's attention on him. I mean, why wouldn't you pay attention to him. He's ripped, he's clever, he's hot, he's got muscles, did I mention he's ripped?

Finn. The Workaholic

Money, money, money. That's what Finn dreams about. It's why he works 6 different jobs and sleeps 2 hours a week. (If he's lucky) He loves money. He wants a lot of it. But the only way he'll accept it is through hard work.

And what's harder then winning Total Drama?

Gabriel. The Pretentious Goth

He barely glanced at you and he's already unimpressed with you. You're just not up to Gabriel's standards. Too mainstream and normal. Have you ever even worn a corset?

Just because he thinks he's better then you doesn't mean he has to constantly remind you of it. And yet he does.

Darla. The Visionary

Darla doesn't create art. She IS art. She breathes, eats and drinks art!

What exactly does she consider art? Oh you know, the usual. Glueing her schools desks to the ceiling. Swapping out the football uniforms for ballgowns. And of course, shaping her hair into the shape of the moon.

Rachel. The Rodeo Star

This devious diva has it all. Brains, brawn and beauty. And she's planning to walk away with the million keeping that all intact.

She's not a bad person, really. Just competitive. If she wasn't competing, she'd rather treat her fellow contestants to one of her Rodeo shows and some home-baked pie.

Raheem. The Oblivious Heartthrob

Raheem doesn't seem to realize how attractive he is. In fact, he doesn't realize a lot of things. He's kind and pretty book smart. But he's just terrible at reading social cues.

He feels terrible whenever he offends someone or make them upset because he didn't read their emotions properly. He doesn't really know to fix this issue so he just puts on a smile and suppresses his turmoil.

Olive. The Doormat

Coming from a big family where she doesn't feel like she fits in, Olive tries her best to help people so she'll feel accepted.

Now if only there was a way to help people without dragging so much attention to herself.

Lulu. The Clown

Lulu just wants to put a smile on people's faces and have fun. She can get easily carried away when she's excited. But once she calms down you'll notice just how pragmatic this Clown is.

Just because she's silly doesn't mean she doesn't have common sense, she might just surprise you in ways you didn't expect.

Phoenix, aka Francis. The Menace

Phoenix identifies as a problem. An inconvenience. An absolute menace you're never quite sure is messing with you, or is joking around. He randomly SHOUTS random words when he speaks, either another way to annoy people or just a disorder.

He lost his arm in a fire he may or may not have definitely caused himself. But he survived which is how he got the name Pheonix.

Cherry. The Competitive Dancer

Cherry values teamwork more then anything. She tries her hardest to be a valuable teammate and keep everyone focused. Of course, they might listen to her more if she tried to spend more time with the team outside of challenges.

After a recent betrayal in her dance troupe where someone sold routines to rival troupes, Cherry doesn't trust new people easily. And clings to the ones she does trust.

Augustus. The Religious Do-Gooder

Augustus is a sweet kid. Always looking to do a good deed for someone. That's how he was raised in what is definitely not a cult.

Good deeds are very important to Auggie here. After all, once you do a good deed for someone, they have to do a good deed for you. They have to. Because if they don't, things get ugly...

Janus. The Hippie

Janus is like, Fer sure, the chillest guy around. He's all about that inner peace stuff. And outer peace. And of course, in-between peace. He spreads his message of peace by sharing crystals, flowers, and songs played on his guitar.

People say Janus is incapable of feeling any hate. He loves everybody. But he's a romantic at heart and is still looking for that special someone to love.

Marlo. The Prankster

Marlo loves pranking people. Fart cushions. Prank calls. Acid in the towns water supply. You know, the usual. Okay so Marlo may be lacking some, what do you call it? Morals! And yes he's uncapable of feeling empathy.

But. He's also got a criminal record. So point is. When you see Marlo, run the other way.

Flo. The Rebel

Flo isn't a big fan of authority or "The man" telling her what to do. She'd rather live her own life, free from anyone's expectations or rules.

Her favorite past time is rocking out with her band, Voltageous Chaos! She's lead singer and bassist. Her little sister Beast is on the drums, BFF Prof. Cavity on keyboard, sleepy gal Moot on Sax and incomprehensible Zips on Trumpet.

Still looking for a Guitarist though...

Parvati. The Mythology Buff

Parvati adores learning about Mythology. Especially the creatures. Fantastical beasts she can only fantasize about. Of course while learning Mythology she also learns a lot of history and cultures from around the world.

She has so many thoughts going through her head sometimes she loses focus on what she was doing. But after stumbling a bit she gets right back at it and gives it her all. For a nerd she's quite athletic.

Sasha. The Nepo-Baby

Wait, you guys don't have family members working high in the industry and getting you onto TV-shows? But there's so many people in the industry, surely you're related to some of them?

That's what Sasha thinks at the least. She doesn't really see how many privileges she has in life. Which thankfully means she never taunts less fortunate people with those privileges.

Her dream is to become a famous singer, and she has enough connections to make that dream a reality. Of course she herself works hard on her singing and encourages others to work on their dreams too. She's very sincere and optimistic.

Tony. The Short-Tempered Greaser

Tony has always been a bit, vertically challenged. Something bullies picked up on. Which then got picked up by his younger twin brothers, who did get blessed with the tall genes and at 14 tower over their older brother.

The constant bullying at school and at home, unable to tell his mom in fear of worrying her, and never quite properly dealing with the grief of losing his father, has left Tony with a lot of bubbled up anger. And it doesn't take much for him to snap.

Madileighn. The Annoying Influencer

Madi worked hard to gain a following. But her general cluelessness about the problematic brands she endorses, sharing videos about animals that look cute but are in distress, and accidentally joining a pyramid scheme makes her tiring to be around.

As she genuinely believes she's doing nothing wrong.

Well. That's it. My Total Drama Cast! I'm planning on writing a fanfic about them.

Taking place after the 2nd season of the Revival, where the show goes back to the abandoned film lot for a Take 2 of Total Drama Action.

18 contestants. 9 per team. Only 1 winner.

Stay tuned for more news.

[msfantasy-anime]

Something Stupid

Izuku Midoriya x Reader

Summary: Deku is in love with a villainess and says something stupid

Warning: Aged up, Deku is an adult hero, Smut, Minors DNI, profanities, manipulative, BJ, face riding, domination, sub Deku, squirting, dumbification

Part one - Masterlist - Tip Jar

Cat and mouse is how you’d describe your relationship with Deku.

You would commit a crime.

He would chase you.

You would escape.

At first you hated him. That green freckled do-gooder always getting in the way of your next pay day. Ever since Deku stepped in, your burglary success has gone down quite dramatically.

You’re not quite sure when it happened, but one day you started to look forward to seeing that irritating crystal green eyes stare back at you with that intense ferocity he always did.

The way his muscles clenched around your form when he tried to pin you down.

The positions he’d put you in to stop squirming out of his grasp.

The commands he’d call would make you melt ever so slightly.

Your not quite sure when it happened. All you know is that one day you wanted to be trapped under those muscular arms, pinned into an impossible position as he make commands whilst pounding into your tight little hole.

There was something just oh so delicious about it all.

Corrupting the international hero everyone loved.

What would they think of their precious Deku sweating and whimpering under the devious villain as she milks him of all his essence?

These are the dirty thoughts that plague your mind regularly.

But atlas this is just a mere fantasy.

Deku would never sink to that level.

You will always remain at arms length… or so you thought.

It was just like every other night, you had stolen a precious relic and here is god-damn-Deku to save the god-damn-day.

This night you were really hoping not to see him.

You were holding The Koh-i-Noor, the maharaja had secretly commissioned you to steal the diamond from the English Sovereignty Exhibit which is hosted in Japan. This isn’t just some random pay-day, this is a middle finger directly to the English monarch and there was no way Deku is going to ruin this heist for you.

“I’ll give you one chance to return the diamond, do it now, or I won’t go easy on you.” Deku exclaims as electricity whips off his form. A playful gasp escapes your lips at his threat.

“Oh silly Deku, I’ll never want you to go easy on me. I’ll always want you to take me the hard way~” You coo as you dash across the roof onto the next.

“Must you flirt with every hero? I’m being serious, you’ve gone too far this time.” His teeth clench making his jawline taut in that way that makes you swoon inside.

“Now, now, don’t be jealous. My flirtatious are reserved for yours truely.” You turn around and flash him a cheeky smile and avoid his narrow kick into your frame. “Why would I flirt with anyone else? Your the only one I want to be pretzeled under your heavenly thighs.”

Making a mad dash for the staircase you make haste for the fire exit only to be pushed down onto the concrete below your feet. You splay flat across the floor as you take the impact of your fall, quickly kneeing into the ground ready to take off at a mad speed again, only for Deku to grab your head and push it back down.

You hold your arm out-stretched placing the diamond as far away from Dekus’ reach, back arching, hips high in the air. You feel Deku press his hand down onto your neck from behind to prevent your escape. His fingers stretched out the the relic you are holding onto in sheer desperation. You lock your legs around Deku and push your hips back into him to create some distance from the relic.

Deku groans as your ass slides across his crotch, his fingers quickly fleeting to wrap tightly around your hips and he unconsciously pulls your hips harshly back into his crotch once again.

A sudden blush shoots across your face.

Utter shock shrouds you as you finally feel and hear Dekus’ arousal.

More than that, he actually grabbed your hips and pressed it into his bludge for a second feel.

A sly grin spreads across your face as you lean over and look over your shoulder to see an very pink and embarrassed Deku pulling away from you.

“Oh god, oh my god, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” Panic fills him as he crumbles at his pathetic actions. “I can’t believe I just did that! Im so sorry!”

He falls back on his butt as you slowly rise onto your hands and knees, slowly crawling towards him like a hungry jaguar. “Oh Deku, you naughty boy!” Your laughter was teasing. Crawling between his legs, you begin to straddle him and continue your teasing taunts. “I can’t believe our precious hero just pressed his fat bulge into a villains ass, what would your fans think?” He began to whimper at your words as you began to slowly rut against his hips.

“I-I- d-didn’t mean too!”

You smile a the pitiful display beneath you. Deku looking incredibly pitiful as his hands wrap around your hips once again to add extra friction to your rutting. He begs for forgiveness whilst he is still whimpering and pressing his harden bulge against you. “My precious Deku, why are you lowering yourself to rubbing up against a villain? Are you not taking care of your needs properly?” He gives a shameful nod as he diverts his gave downwards. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, I’ll happily take care of you, just sit back and relax.”

Sliding off his lap you free his member from his suit, cupping his balls you rub them expertly in your hands, earning you an explicit moan. “Oh my, I didn’t realise how severe this case would be. You poor thing.” You wrap your hand around his raging boner and begin to slowly stroke him as you lock your eyes onto him. Placing his tip to your lips you give the smallest of licks. Deku rolls his head back and groans at the sensation. “I want you to look me in my eyes when I suck your cock for the first time.” He rolls his head back and looks at you.

Mouth widening, your mouth sinks on his veiny boner earning your Dekus s’ precious whimpers. Nose touching you pull your mouth back as Deku throws his head back once against, clutching the back of your neck, continuing to guide yourself along his shaft.

This was fun.

Your imagination could not have prepared you for the delicious sight before you. Your precious hero, clutching desperately at your hair, his face turning an impossible pink. His teeth gritting in desperation as you suck away at his weeping cock.

“Please- haft cum.” You nod and hum in agreement. Deku moans at the sight, his chest heaving heavy breathes. His muscles clench under the pleasure of it all as he releases his load down your throat. Swallowing eagerly you lick his tip collecting the final bead of cum adorning his shaft.

“You make me feel so hot, I’ve always dreamt of riding that gorgeous face of yours, do you mind?” Delirious from his unloading, he slides onto his back, waving for you to join.

Freeing your self from your confines you lower yourself slowly to Deku. He grabs your meaty thighs in haste and slams you into his mouth. Rolling your body down into his mouth you lull your head back at the sensation. His slimy tongue encircling your swollen clit, he sucks and nips at your box as you continue to ride his face. A warm sensation spreads across your thighs and crawls slowly up your abdomen.

“Deku your tongue feels so fucking good!” You praise, pressing your hips into his mouth. “Too fucking good!” You moan as a coil tightens in your tummy. Your so close to the edge. “Lemme ride your dick, I wanna ride your dick.” You whine as your squirm on top of his tongue. His fingers press bruises into your thighs, locking your pussy onto his face. “Mh-!” The coil in your stomach snaps releasing heat across your body.

Shuddering, Deku pulls his mouth away from your box and flips you onto your back. He grabs your ankles and drags your form to line himself up. He presses his tip to your slit and slides it along your sopping core. “Do you want me to fuck you?” He asks.

It was funny.

Too funny to hear the dirty words ‘fuck’ falling from his mouth and it was too funny that he’d had asked such a stupid question. A heavy laughter erupts from your lips at the absurdity of his words.

“Yes Deku. Incase you didn’t notice, I’m absolutely wet for you.” That’s all he needed to hear. Slamming his fat shaft down your tight slit. You choke on a moan as he bottoms your tight hole.

“S-s-so good.” He exclaims as he continues to pound into your weeping hole.

This scene was filthy.

You laying on your back as Japans number one hero holds you by your ankles, slamming his hard cock mercilessly into your sweet gummy cunt.

The cacophony of moans and groans that escape each other as you rut mindlessly into into one another, searching desperately for your highs. Using each other unapologetically.

Deku presses the back of your thighs into your torso as he begins to slam into you. The new angle pressing his thick dick into that sweet sponge spot. “Oh fuck Deku- your cock feels so fucking good, mh gonna fucking cum on you. Mh gonna cum.” You whimper as his tip rubs desperately against your special spot.

“Mh sorry- haft cum. Pulling out.” Your hands wrap around his arm, pressing painfully into his flesh.

“Don’t you fucking dare pull out.” You threaten, as your back arches, head throwing back at the coil retightening.

“Hafta cum- sorry!” Deku pulls out with a second to spare spraying his hot cum all over your stomach with a defeated groan.

Anger fills you as your orgasm rescinds back. You push Deku onto his back and straddle him. “Naughty boy! If you just came in me I would’ve had the best orgasm and could’ve just taken a pill!” A shameful blush cross his face and you begin to line up his member and slide down.

“Ah too sem-sensitive.” He squirms pitifully beneath you.

“Good!” You bite back viciously, as your hips slam down his lap at a delectable speed. His shaft rubbing against your sponge spot once again. Your orgasm is fast approaching. Looking down at Deku, he continues to mewl and squirm under your ferocious sex. “What is it?!”

“Too-too much!” He whines.

“Want me to stop?” He sniffles and shakes his head.

“Good. Then be a good little bottom and let me fuck you dumb.” A small cry escapes him at your words.

Poor precious pathetic little Deku. Whining how it’s too much, but moaning and rutting against your slick sex. It’s all too much. Seeing your precious little hero howling at the overstimulation. His eyes rolling back, the slight dribble that is escaping his mouth. Swear dripping down him.

It was so fucking unbelievably hot.

Your coil snaps harshly, a fire spreads ruthlessly across your abdomen making you come undone too fast. “Fuck!” You scream.

You coat Deku in your essence, your stickiness dripping down his thighs. The feeling of your fluttering walls clenching intoxicatingly. He looks up at your o face making him cream instantly on the spot.

Your hips slow to a halt as you come down from your high.

Both breathing heavily you roll off to his side and press a wet kiss to his lips, he leans into your mouth desperately.

“That- that was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“Thank you.” You whisper pressing another kiss into his cheek. “Same here.”

You tiredly move to stand only for your legs to wobble as you stand. You fix your costume and pick up the diamond once again you give Deku a small wave.

“Your not leaving already are you?” You swear Deku looked almost upset, but his voice remained neutral.

“Hafta- I can’t let you arrest me for a rightful crime” You pause looking at Deku one last time. “Don’t look so upset my little lamb- you’ll see me again I promise.”

———————————————————————————

“How could Japans number one hero let a low class villain escape with our precious diamond!” The museums director is sweating and yelling angrily. The hero’s representative sigh and message their temples.

“A heros protection does not guarantee any outcomes. We will investigate this matter and provide a incident report.” The directors fist slams into the table.

“Screw your incident report! I paid a lot of money for your failure of a service- oh Y/n! Thank goodness you are here!” Deku looks up at the familiar figure entering the room holding a tablet and one hand. “What does the security footage show?!”

His heart sinks in his chest.

“The feeds show Deku pursing the thief only for the cameras to malfunction soon after- IT confirms its impossible to retrieve further data.” The directors vein pops from his head, teeth clenching together an angry hiss escapes his lips.

“Get this useless hero out of here! I should’ve just hired Dynamight to begin with!”

“Director~ if I may. Deku saw and fought the villain himself. It would be best if Deku investigates the incident further rather than involving a second party in-“

“Non-sense. Dynamight has done excellent work for us in the past, the one time he wasn’t available for service this goes and happens.” The director grabbed the woman’s hands and began stroking it. “My dear Y/n I’m so sorry. I know how hard you worked on curating the English Sovereignty Exhibit only for some low life to come in and ruin all your hard work.”

“Fear not Director, I have full faith Deku will solve-“

“No! Deku, your fired! We are locking down the museum and contracting Dynamight first thing in the morning! Y/n my dear, please attend tomorrows contract meeting, I would like you to provide a report to Dynamight on the Koh-i-noor, please ensure you provide a full analysis on its significance and who may want it.”

The director takes his leave with his secretary in tow. You look towards a defeated Deku seeing his representative give him a small pay. “Head up, we can’t always win. Meet me in the car when your ready, we will drop you home.” She gives Deku a small smile and takes her jacket leaving you two in the room.

“I’m sorry for-“

“No need to be sorry my little lamb.” Deku whips his head up instantly, looking at your face his eyes drinking into your grinning face. You had placed a finger to your lips and point to the camera before moving your hand out in front of you. “I’m sorry things had to end this way. Thank you for your services, I trust we can continue working together another time.” She says teasingly.

Deku shakes her hand, feeling a small chip being pressed into his palm. She yanks his arms forward, leaning into his ear she whispers. “Hold onto our tape for me.”

[dareers-horniness]

Tinysmut Day 18

“Your days of trifling with heroes are over, Mephitizer!” Hyperstripe declared, flying overhead of the villainous skunk, his own tail and green cape flowing with the wind.

“I've seen how you've been turning my fellow heroes into skunks and have come to put a stop to it!”

Mephitizer chuckled, pawing one of the canisters at his waist, generously filled with his own effluvium.

“If it isn't the skunky little do-gooder, Hyperstripe. Ya know, we should be on the same side! After all, we DO both love the musky stench of our fellow skunks!” He suggested.

But the green and black suited hero simply floated high above him with a frown.

“That's where you're wrong! I'm no dim, stink-loving mephitis, you cretin! And now, the only place you'll be enjoying your devious odors is jail!” Hyperstripe declared as he nose-dived down.

But as soon as he was about to hit the villain, the air around him exploded into a thick, green fog, courtesy of the “gas grenade” stationed at the villain’s hip.

Hyperstripe immediately began to sputter, his lungs being forced to inhale the musk.

“W-where'd you go villain?” The heroic mephitis inquired, oblivious to were changes were being made to his body

As he continued to suck up the effluvium, his body thickened. His jawline became brutish and sturdy. His appendages ballooned out with a combination of muscle and chub

His body as a whole expanded, even his formerly chiseled six pack bulging over his spandex pants in a new gut.

“C-come face me, you c-coward… y-your stinky scents won't do anything to uh skunk like me!” He declared, still trying to avoid inhaling the musk.

Though the contrary was clearly true, even if it couldn't be seen by any onlookers or even the hero himself, as even his fur became haphazard and coarse instead of the expertly groomed, soft coat he previously toted.

Soon enough, he wasn't even trying to avoid sucking up the gas.

Instead, the brutish skunk was ADDING to it!

Hyperstripe giggled vapidly as he raised his tail and let out a loud, brassy fart.

FFFRRRRRRTTTTTT

“Hehe. Skunks are so stinky.” The former hero guffawed as he lumbered out of the gas cloud before the villain.

“Now what was that about skunks being immune to my gas, Hyperhuffer?” Mephitizer inquired to the dull skunk before him.

Though, of course, Hyperstripe simply chuckled before letting out a toot as part of his response.

FRRRT

“Guh-huh-huh. Heroes stinky.”

[positivelybeastly]

🖤 for miguel? 💀

attractiveness:

repulsive / hideous / ugly / not attractive / unappealing / not unattractive / meh / no preference / ok / mildly attractive / nice looking / cute / adorable / attractive / pleasant on the eyes / good looking / hot / sexy / beautiful / gorgeous / hot damn / would tap that / perfect / godlike / holy fuck there are no words.

Answering as this little gremlin, since he's the one with pertinent opinions.

Henry appreciates a man with a tight bod and an even tighter superhero suit over it, he's not going to lie (not about that, anyway). And yes, he does find him cute and adorable, for exactly the reasons you think - because he's a prick, and he will absolutely croon those words to annoy Miguel the instant he realises they'll gain any traction.

personality:

grating / irritating / frustrating / boring / confusing at best / awkward / unreasonable / psychotic / disturbing / interesting / engaging / affectionate / aggressive / ambitious / anxious / artistic / bad tempered / bossy / charismatic / appealing / unappealing / creative / courageous / dependable / unreliable / unpredictable / predictable / devious / dim / extroverted / introverted / egotistical / gregarious / fabulous / impulsive / intelligent / sympathetic / talkative / up beat / peaceful / calming / badass / flexible.

One of the many things Hank and Henry share in common is an appreciation of people who can kick their ass, and this is no exception to that rule. There is, of course, a degree to which he does find him annoying because he's a do-gooder (not as egregiously as some, of course), but that's never stopped him from being interested before.

how likely they would have sex with them:

not if they were the last person on earth and the world was ending / fuck no! / never / no way / not likely / not sure / indifferent / I’m asexual / maybe / probably / it depends / fairly likely / likely / yeah sure / yes / would tap that / hell yes / fuck yes! / wishing that could happen right now / as many times as possible / we are already having sex.

In Henry's own words?

"There's nothing more intimate between two men than a little bit of good old fashioned ultra-violence, don't you find? We'll work you up to the idea, don't you worry."

level of friendship:

never in a million years / worst of enemies / enemies / rivals / indifferent / neutral / acquaintance / friendly toward each other / casual friends / friends / good friends / best friends / fuck buddies / bosom buddies / practically the same person / would die for them / true friends / my only friend.

Henry doesn't do friends. He does do enemies, though, even if they don't want to do him.

first impression of them:

i hate them so much / i don’t like them / i don’t trust them / they annoy me / they’re weird / I’m indifferent / meh / they seem alright / they’re growing on me / truce / I think I like them / I like them / I’m not sure if I trust them / I trust them / they’re cool / they’re genuine / I think we’re going to get along / I really like them / I think I’m in love / oh fuck they’re hot / I love them.

I was very tempted to just put down 'I think we're going to get along,' but it broke all quantifiable measures of sass and sarcasm, so we'll have to go with Henry's standard - he doesn't trust anyone that isn't himself, but he's always got time for a fellow geneticist that has a strong reaction to violent, bloody murder. Basically a chance to do labs together, right?

current impression of them:

i hate them so much / i don’t like them / i don’t trust them / they annoy me / they’re weird / I’m indifferent / meh / they seem alright / they’re growing on me / truce / I think I like them / I like them / I’m not sure if I trust them / I trust them / they’re cool / they’re genuine / I think we’re going to get along / I really like them / I think I’m in love / oh fuck they’re hot / I love them.

"Let's be friends~"

[marigoldvance]

Trick or Treat 16

prompt: (Trick) One of them is a fallen angel.

[drabble under cut]

Fíli watched him fall, pathetic little thing, crashing down to Earth in a spiral of feathers and tears. Such a sad end to long loyalty. Really, didn’t the Big Man have a heart anymore? Fíli supposed not, having been around His do-gooders enough recently to see tension where there hadn’t been any until the turn of the century.

This one in particular had been in Fíli’s periphery for awhile, both assigned to the same threads of fate. Fíli secretly enjoyed how the righteous cherub worked, how invested he was for divine outcome. Sometimes, Fíli even let him win their tug-of-war if the stakes weren’t too high and his Master wasn’t paying attention. Which, he never was.

Feeling magnanimous, Fíli sauntered over to his angel, wings now crooked, fractured from impact, and feathers already withering into dust.

“Oh, come on darling,” Fíli said, “It isn’t the end of the world.” He gathered his angel from the ground, a lump of trembling limbs and big, misty cow-eyes, and tucked him under his arm. “There, there.” He added with very little compassion, though let it be known that he did try.

“What’ll I do now?” His angel asked, voice delightfully thin with melancholy.

Fíli slanted him a devious smile, “I’ll take care of you, pet, don’t worry.”

And while he meant it his promise with cruel intention, he won’t be able to deny that things don’t turn out that way. That is, not entirely.

[loverofdemoncorns]

Don’t you love how in Megstiel it’s technically a female demon and a male angel (though they’re just vessels and could be they/them) and not the other way around? because it’s usually seen that the girl is the innocent one and the guy is more devious but it’s actually Cas who is more of the do gooder and idk I really like this role reversal dynamic

Yes, I agree. I absolutely love their dynamic - that Castiel was an angel of the lord and did what he believed was for the greater good - loyal to Heaven; and Meg the evil demon loyal to Hell. I think in the end they both changed each other and found themselves outcast from their own kinds which is why they fell for each other - two soldiers without a cause other than each other. That dynamic changed them both and Meg became ‘kinda good’ and Cas ‘kinda bad’.  It’s a real shame they killed her off - despite the rumours Rachel asked to be killed off this wasn’t true and she was only thinking about asking because her worsening MS, but she always wanted to come back to the show. I think the writers really should have brought her back - it would have given Castiel (and even the Winchesters) some fantastic storylines, since IMO it felt like in later seasons the writers didn’t quiet know what do do with him and didn’t want to kill him off because of the fan reaction if they had. 

[soldier76xreader]

Risen!Demon!Reader x Demon!Jack

Stories of good demons that only do good things was just a fairytale to entertain young demons. A cautionary tale of seven do-gooders who got nothing but scorn and mockery from demon, human, and angel-kind alike.

Blessed with the divinity from an archangel, the seven were capable of great feats but were all killed off in the end.

That is what Jack Morrison thought until he encountered one himself in the parking lot of an abandoned brick and mortar super store.

The stories never gave descriptions of the Seven but it was clear that something was up with this ‘thing’ as he watched their form float - reality pooling in and around their half-asleep form like oil over still water.

Curious, he reaches out to touch and soon gets pulled in to overlapping realities and timelines for the former big box store. It’s lucid dreaming. It��s almost addicting to see how trippy it can all get as he walks about an almost wonderland filled with balloons, and spells, and fantastical monsters roaming about the busy, human-filled center like it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Their voice and presence brings a calm to him. Jack’s being split into two equal halves, almost a pointless copy until he finds himself less hostile to the outrageous dream this ‘Risen’ demon invited him in to see.

It’s only when he touches their arm that he feels their minds melding, pressed gently together as he hears their thoughts in words rather than context-less visions before him.

His other half lingers nearby but is more interested in playing devious tricks on the ‘citizens’ here, enjoying their realistic reactions, like any demon should. Not trusting this almost-other worldly being. 

No demon could be so warped and not have something dark lingering in their minds.

[antoine-roquentin]

Perfect equipoise: a perfect fantasy. A more realistic American tableau was unfolding in Chicago, where the conspiracy trial was at its entropic height.

During jury selection, the questions the defense wanted the pool to be asked included “Do you know who Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix are?” and “If your children are female, do they wear brassieres all the time?” In a pretrial hearing Judge Hoffman described the “intent” standard by which the defendants were to be judged: “The substance of the crime was a state of mind.” (That was just the way Time had defined Middle America: a state of mind.) To that standard, the defense was glad to accede. When the twelve jurors turned out to be middle-class and middle-aged, except for two girls in their early twenties, Leonard Weinglass, the lead defense attorney, moved for a mistrial, claiming his clients weren’t being judged by a jury of their peers—which would have to be chosen also from people not drawn from the voter rolls, because blacks, the young, dropouts, and misfits were not well-enough represented on them.

The government had selectively indicted to display a cross-section of the monstrous personages rending the good order of American civilization: the older guru (David Dellinger); two long-haired freaks (Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin); the by-any-means-necessary Negro (Bobby Seale); two SDS militants (Tom Hayden, Rennie Davis); two radical young faculty members (a chemistry professor, John Froines, and a sociology professor, Lee Weiner, who were supposed to have planned a bombing). The prosecutors warned on TV that the defendants might walk into court the first day naked.

That didn’t happen, though when court adjourned on New Year’s Eve defendant Froines and his girlfriend did pass out autographed nude posters of themselves.

The jury was sequestered every minute they were outside the Federal Building: if states of minds were on trial, even the cultural air was prejudicial (some stories they missed: the Mobilization, the Silent Majority speech, the Moratorium, the rise of Spiro Agnew, the second moon shot, the My Lai massacre). They received a respite from cabin fever the day after Christmas when they were treated to a Disney on Parade show. But even that was prejudicial: the monkeys in the Jungle Book number were go-go girls. Alice in Wonderland was done up in psychedelic patterns.

Jerry Rubin called his indictment “the Academy Award for protest.” Judge Julius Hoffman seemed to relish the notion. “Tell me something,” he asked New York Times reporter Tony Lukas, who had called up to ask for press credentials. “Do you think this is going to be the trial of the century?”

Outside, trial marshals confiscated spoons, books, compacts, nail clippers, attaché cases—and two pistols. Defense sympathizers waited half the night in line for a spot in the gallery; the judge gave seats instead to Chicago socialites (one hippie who survived the gauntlet leapt up in the spectators’ gallery during a defense argument to cry “Right on!” and was swarmed so badly a witness thought marshals might have broken some bones). When Bobby Seale’s family managed to get seats, Judge Julius Hoffman summoned a marshal and had these strange people with bushy Afros removed. The jury wouldn’t be able to watch his child’s and wife’s reactions when Seale was bound and gagged like a slave. They weren’t there on November 5, 1969, either, when Judge Hoffman sentenced Seale to an unprecedented four years in prison for sixteen counts of contempt of court and severed his case from the rest, turning the Chicago 8 into the Chicago 7. Reporters made a mad dash for the phones. The courtroom marshals unpinned their badges, put them into their pockets, and scoured the jammed courtroom for anything else sharp, fearing an outbreak of hand-to-hand combat.

The next day a defense lawyer argued the four-year sentence was illegal and asked the judge to explain himself. Judge Hoffman replied, “I have known literally thousands of what we used to call Negro people and who are now referred to as black people, and I have never heard that kind of language emanate from the lips of any of them.” That was the day Bob Hope sent out his letter to senators “FOR A WEEK OF NATIONAL UNITY.”

Judge Julius J. Hoffman was a strutting, little bantam cock of a man. On the first day of jury selection he read out the indictment to the jury pool like a nineteenth-century thespian. Defense lawyer William Kunstler objected. Judge Hoffman boomed, “Motion denied!” and said he’d never apologize for “the vocal facilities the Lord hath given me.” When one of his young law clerks was told to prepare a denial of the defendants’ motion to see the wiretap logs and replied, “But, Judge, that’s not fair,” citing the plain letter of the law, the old man flew into a rage that awed his clerk—who was told not to return to work after his vacation.

Federal judge selection was supposed to be random. But in Chicago, the fix was always in. In big mob cases, the state always angled to argue before Judge Hoffman: he always decided against the defendant and made the prosecuting attorneys look like heroes. He “is the bane of do-gooders who would give every bum a second chance, and a third and a fourth and a fifth,” Chicago’s American said. He was also a self-hating Jew who took willful pleasure in mispronouncing his fellow Jews’ names (Weinglass: “Fineglass,” “Weintraub,” “Weinruss,” “Weinrob”) and wouldn’t let one witness wear a yarmulke in court (“Take off your hat, sir”). He popped a vein when Abbie Hoffman called himself his “illegitimate son,” but hated David Dellinger (“Derringer,” “Dillinger”) most of all: he was a WASP who’d surrendered privileges the judge so dearly wished to possess. Hoffman was especially taken aback when one of the defendants informed him that the plaque for the Northwestern Law School classroom named after him had been ripped from the wall.

“The plaque?”

“Apparently while the board of trustees feels affection for you, the student body does not.”

The defense was determined to put the war on trial and the defendants’ lifestyle on proud display (the Boston 5 had “sat like good little boys called into the principal’s office,” Dr. Spock had pointed out, and were railroaded nonetheless). The Chicago defendants were determined to show why their state of mind was morally superior. The seventy-four-year-old they called Mr. Magoo was a hanging judge, hired to grease the rails for a conviction that would only be overturned on appeal. It was a show trial. So why not put on a show?

The prosecution presented its case first. Their witnesses were undercover infiltrators. Once, when a witness was called just as one of the defendants exited a side door, the rest of the Chicago 7 braced themselves: was one of their own a police spy? (Actually, he was just going to the bathroom.)

One prosecution witness was simultaneously a member of the executive committee of Veterans for Peace, the Chicago Peace Council, the New Mobilization Committee to End the War—and the Chicago Police Department Red Squad. The people most useful in the movement, radicals often learned too late, were the ones later revealed to be spies; being paid for their time by the government, they were the most avid “volunteers.” Another had enrolled in the Northeastern Illinois State College SDS and had led a group that pushed Northeastern’s president off a speaker’s platform. (The most militant activists, radicals also discovered too late, were often police-agent provocateurs.) He testified that Rennie Davis said their plan to recruit for Chicago was to “lure them here with music and sex”; at the meeting where he claimed he heard that, he himself had suggested disabling army jeeps with grappling hooks. A third prosecution witness was a college newspaper reporter hired as a spy by the Chicago’s American columnist Jack Mabley. A fourth had worked as Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin’s dirtbag motorcycle-gang “bodyguard.” A fifth was a policewoman who’d dressed for her work in Lincoln Park every day in white hippie bell-bottoms carrying a .38 Colt in her bag.

This witness, Officer Barbara Callender, testified blushingly, “Every other word was that F-word.”

Cross-examination: “Haven’t you ever heard that word in the station house?”

The government objected to the line of questioning. The objection was sustained. Part of the prosecution’s strategy was to establish that the defendants were obscene. Ten days later, when another Red Squad member testified, he said he’d told a newsman “to turn the censored cameras around because of that civilian brutality.” His side believed it was obscenity to say [censored] without blushing; the other believed it was obscenity during an evil war to save your shame for mere words: the war was the obscenity. (A joke going around the New Left: a policeman tells a protester to come back after she has removed the obscenity from her FUCK THE WAR placard and she returns with one reading FUCK THE.)

The prosecutors, U.S. Attorneys Richard Schultz and Thomas Aquinas Foran, were perfectly cast. Schultz was so ploddingly literal-minded he could call the most obvious Yippie put-ons devious incitements to riot. Foran was a Democrat who said he had been a closer friend of the late Bobby Kennedy’s than Tom Hayden had been. In his summation he spoke of his empathy for the kids, who “feel that the lights have gone out in Camelot.” But “these guys take advantage of them. They take advantage of it personally, intentionally, evilly, and to corrupt those kids, they use them, and they use them for their purposes and for their intents. And you know what are their purposes and intents?…This is in their own words: to ‘disrupt.’ To ‘pin delegates in the Convention hall.’ To ‘clog streets.’ To force the use of troops. To have actions so militant the Guard will have to be used…. ‘Tear this city apart.’ ‘Fuck up this convention.’…‘We’ll lure the McCarthy kids and other young people with music and sex and try to hold the park.’”

The prosecution’s aim was to reduce a complex stew of motives, interests, approaches, and personalities to a concentrated, unified plot. They said David Dellinger, the Gandhian who had little direct role in Chicago, was only pretending to be a pacifist and was really the rioting’s “chief architect” (“Oh, bullshit. That is a complete lie,” Dellinger shouted. “Did you get that, Miss Reporter?” Judge Hoffman replied, and revoked Dellinger’s bail). Prosecutors said the ham-handed self-defense training in Lincoln Park was combat training. Patrolman Frapolly described a meeting in which he claimed he heard plans to throw burning flares at the cops.

Mr. Foran: “Were any of the defendants present?”

The Witness: “Yes. Weiner and Froines were at this meeting. So was Abbie Hoffman.”

Mr. Foran: “Do you see Mr. Hoffman here in the courtroom?”

The Witness: “Yes, I do.”

Mr. Foran: “Would you step down and point him out, please.”

The Witness: “Mr. Hoffman is sitting with the leather vest on, the shirt—he just shot me with his finger. His hair is very unkempt.”

The hippies’ hippie-ness was on trial; style was a battleground. Abbie Hoffman, asked why they lured innocent youth to Chicago with sex and rock bands, replied, “Rock musicians are the real leaders of the revolution.” Posture was a battleground. When Judge Hoffman admonished William Kunstler not to slouch on the lectern designed by the Federal Building’s distinguished architect Mies van der Rohe, Abbie replied, “Mies van der Rohe was a Kraut.” He added that the courtroom was a “neon oven”—thus deploying his Madison Avenue brilliance in the service of the defendants’ pet theory that America was becoming Nazi Germany. Pencils, even, became a battleground: “primly squared off and neatly sharpened beside a few neatly stacked memos on the prosecution table,” the Evergreen Review’s John Schultz wrote; “askew and gnawed and maybe encrusted with a sliver of earwax,” a proud part of the “unholy clutter,” on the defense table. (When Abbie Hoffman, a very hard worker, took the stand, he said, “Work is a dirty word instead of fuck is a dirty word.”)

Humor was a battleground most of all.

The judge fancied himself a rapier wit. But when the defense table laughed at him, or with the defense—as when Abbie and Jerry showed up in judicial robes—he made sure the court reporter got it in the record, for in the courtroom laughter wasn’t appropriate. Which jurymen laughed when was how both sides kept score.

Based on that calculus, when the prosecution rested on December 9, the day after the Nixon press conference that earned him a snap 81 percent approval rating, movement sympathizers predicted a hung jury. That prediction led to a debate in the defense camp. Tom Hayden said that, since they weren’t going to be convicted, they could best get on with the revolution if they rested their case without mounting a defense, ending the affair in a mistrial. Others—Abbie, Jerry—said the trial was the revolution. The Yippies won: they would use their defense to introduce “Woodstock Nation”—the title of Abbie’s new book—to America. They would fight through the jungles of TV.

They spoke at colleges, women’s clubs, and churches to raise money for their defense, to warm receptions. At a tony synagogue in suburban Highland Park, Illinois, fourteen hundred turned out to hear them. At universities they were treated like the Beatles. At a University of Chicago rally, Rennie Davis announced he would continue fighting the way he was fighting even if they put a pistol to his head: “How can you be a young person and have any other position?”

Thomas Aquinas Foran would have said the same thing, if asked about his own position.

It seemed an auspicious week to indict an Establishment gone mad. As Wednesday night, December 3, 1969, became Thursday morning, December 4, what the Chicago Tribune had called the “wild gun battle” at Black Panther headquarters in a West Side apartment building left two Panthers, twenty-one-year-old leader Fred Hampton and lieutenant Mark Clark, twenty-two, dead. Lewis Koch, the young New Left producer for the local NBC affiliate, smelled a rat in the cops’ claim they were met with “a shotgun volley.” He’d seen film of the cops leaving the building: smiling, embracing, exulting as if they’d won a football game—not the behavior of men who had just survived an ambush. He put Panther Bobby Rush on the afternoon news the next day, who called it cold-blooded murder and invited viewers to the apartment to see for themselves. The Chicago Daily News columnist Mike Royko took him up on his offer. The morning that the conspiracy-trial prosecution rested its case, Royko published a column called “The Hampton Bullet Holes.” According to the police account, Royko wrote, “miracles occurred. The Panthers’ bullets must have dissolved in the air before they hit anybody or anything. Either that or the Panthers were shooting in the wrong direction—namely, at themselves.” Royko had examined the building with a ballistics expert, who identified at least seventy-six bullets coming in, including twenty-four in the wall near Hampton’s bed—and not a single one coming out.

Chicago cops failed to secure the crime scene. People lined up around the block to tour the open-and-shut evidence. Years later it came out that the FBI COINTELPRO had provided Chicago cops with the floor plans of the apartment, and an FBI infiltrator had slipped secobarbital in Fred Hampton’s drink the previous evening to make it easier to murder him in his bed. Such revelations would only have confirmed what the Chicago 7 defense already knew: the “justice system” wasn’t a system of justice, “law and order” was a cover for state-sponsored crime.

Those same days the last cop indicted for crimes during convention week was on trial. The jury absolved him of beating a twenty-year-old hitchhiker after only an hour of deliberation. The prosecution was so convincing, the defense so obviously false, the shocked judge implored of the foreman, “Are you certain, not guilty?”

The Silent Majority was practicing jury nullification, just as the Chicago 7 opened their defense.

The first defense witness was a supervisor at a candy factory. He displayed slides he had taken of police chopping their way through a crowd, kicking kids when they were down—without provocation, he said. The next day he was fired from his job. And any pretense to a straight defense was abandoned. The prosecution said the Chicago 7 had lured lambs to slaughter with music and sex. So the Chicago 7’s defense would be…music and sex.

Jacques Levy, director of Oh! Calcutta! (the off-Broadway play where the cast took off their clothes), Timothy Leary, Allen Ginsberg, Country Joe McDonald were all called to the stand. (“Dr. Leary, what is your present occupation?” “I am the Democratic candidate for governor in California.” “Doctor, can you explain what a psychedelic drug is?”) Judy Collins broke out into a chorus of “Where have all the flowers gone?” (Judge Hoffman: “We don’t allow singing in this court.”) William Kunstler presented folksinger Phil Ochs with exhibit D-147, the guitar he’d used to perform “I Ain’t Marching Any More” at the Festival of Life. He, too, tried and failed to sing.

The following colloquy ensued: Abbie Hoffman had “led the crowd in a chant of ‘Fuck LBJ,’ didn’t he?”

“Yes, I think he did….”

“Now, in your plans for Chicago, did you plan for public fornication in the park?”

Allen Ginsberg had been in Chicago helping calm things with his Buddhist chants. Judge Hoffman had once been an ally of Ginsberg’s. He’d ruled in 1960 that the avant-garde Chicago literary magazine Big Table wasn’t obscene, noting that William S. Burroughs’s Naked Lunch was intended “to shock the contemporary society in order perhaps to better point out its flaws and weaknesses,” quoting the Ulysses decision on the subversive necessity of art. But that was a different age, when such nuances were possible. Now everyone had to choose a side.

One day a clerk at Barbara’s Bookstore in Old Town saw a middle-aged man pacing around. A member of the prosecution team, he asked, “Do you have any of Allen Ginsberg’s books?” She went to hunt some down. He said, “Could you hurry up? The future of the country may depend on this.”

Later that day, on the stand, Ginsberg explained, “I was chanting a mantra called the Mala Mantra, the great mantra of preservation of that aspect of the Indian religion called Vishnu the Preserver.”

Thomas Aquinas Foran leafed through one of his newfound literary treasures.

Mr. Foran: “In The Empty Mirror, there is a poem called ‘The Night Apple’?”

The Witness: “Yes.”

Mr. Foran: “Would you recite it for the jury?”

The Witness:

THE NIGHT APPLE

Last night I dreamed

of one I loved

for seven long years,

but I saw no face,

only the familiar

presence of the body;

sweat skin eyes

feces urine sperm

saliva all one

odor and mortal taste.

Foran, sarcastically: “Could you explain to the jury what the religious significance of that poem is?”

Ginsberg, earnestly: “If you could take a wet dream as a religious experience, I could. It is a description of a wet dream, sir.”

Defense witness Linda Hager Morse was a pretty Quaker girl from Philadelphia who had won the Kiwanis Decency Award and first marched for peace on New York’s Fifth Avenue in 1965. She was now a revolutionary. The defense wanted her to talk about why it was necessary to overthrow capitalism. The judge ruled that out of order. The prosecution, however, was glad to pick up the thread in cross-examination, and the judge was glad to let them. What Morse said encapsulated the strangeness of the last four years of American history. One part sounded quite like Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society speech: “My ultimate goal is to create a society where everyone is fed, where everyone is educated, where everyone has a job, where everyone has a chance to express himself artistically or politically, or spiritually, or religiously” (Johnson: “a society of success without squalor, beauty without barrenness, works of genius without the wretchedness of poverty”). The other part couldn’t have been further afield from Johnson’s consensus bromides. Assistant DA Schultz posed the question: “You practice shooting an M1 yourself, don’t you?”

The Witness: “Yes, I do.”

Mr. Schultz: “You also practice karate, don’t you?”

The Witness: “Yes, I do.”

Mr. Schultz: “That is for the revolution, isn’t it?”

The Witness: “After Chicago I changed from being a pacifist to the realization that we had to defend ourselves. A nonviolent revolution was impossible. I desperately wish it was possible.”

Rennie Davis thought this was the defense’s most effective witness with the jury. He asked a reporter what he had thought of Morse’s testimony. The reporter’s answer spoke to the polarization: “It certainly was a disaster for you. Now you’ve really had it.”

Could your daughter kill?

The defendants had intended to win the sympathy of the big jury out there, the general public. Their message was seen through a glass darkly. “What did go on in Judge Julius Hoffman’s courtroom?” asked the back cover of one of the many paperback books that appeared later reproducing court transcripts. With no cameras to record it, it was hard to know. Afterward a friend asked Tony Lukas of the Times which of the defendants had defecated in the aisle of the courtroom.

Most newspaper coverage came from secondhand wire reports, built from a written record that the judge made sure reflected every defense outrage and whitewashed every prosecution one. The Times’s Lukas paid careful attention to such unfairness, but his editors pruned him ruthlessly: Abbie Hoffman always “shouted”; Judge Hoffman always “said” (even if it was really the other way around). To much of the public, the presumption was that the defecation was nonstop.

William Kunstler offered his summation to the jury on February 13, 1970: “I think if this case does nothing else, perhaps it will bring into focus that again we are in a moment of history when a courtroom becomes the proving ground of whether we do live free or whether we do die free…. Perhaps if you do what is right, perhaps Allen Ginsberg will never have to write again as he did in ‘Howl,’ ‘I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,’ perhaps Judy Collins will never have to stand in any courtroom again and say, as she did, ‘When will they ever learn?’”

Thomas Foran offered his summation: “At the beginning of this case they were calling them all by diminutive names, Rennie and Abbie and Jerry, trying to pretend they were young kids. They are not kids…. They are highly sophisticated, educated men, and they are evil men.”

The jury returned their verdict after five days. All seven were acquitted on the conspiracy count. Froines and Weiner were acquitted of the charge they’d constructed an incendiary device. But Dellinger, Davis, Hayden, Hoffman, and Rubin were found guilty on the indictment’s counts two through six, which cited Title 18, United States Code, Section 201—the provision of the Civil Rights Act of 1968, passed to honor the martyr Martin Luther King, outlawing the “travel in interstate commerce…with intent to incite, organize, promote, and encourage a riot” and to “speak to assemblages of persons for the purposes of inciting, organizing, promoting, and encouraging a riot.”

The liberal editorialists praised the jury’s ruling as judicious and well considered, a complex split decision: the system worked. Spiro Agnew called it an “American verdict.” It was indeed an American verdict: almost as soon as the trial began, the jury had split into polarized camps. One believed the defendants were not guilty on all accounts. The other believed they were guilty on all counts. Only three jurors actually agreed with the decision as rendered.

They had socialized apart, eaten apart—and, when together, spent most of their time in the jury room debating child-rearing philosophy. One of the convict-on-all-accounts jurors talked about the time she took her willful daughter to see a shrink who said she just needed “love and patience”—and how she stalked out saying of her daughter that she needed to have something “shoved down her throat.” They voiced their fears that their children would end up hippies, said things like “They are evil” and “This is like Nazi Germany—hippies want to take over the country” and “They had no right to come into your living room.” The liberal jurors argued that slovenliness wasn’t a crime, the prosecution was corrupt, and that for the first time they were afraid the government might be spying on them. They wondered whether the antiriot statute was constitutional. At that, the conservative side wondered, if the law didn’t protect decent people from this, then what did it protect them from?

A journalist later observed the sociology that divided the two groups. “The convict-on-all-counts jurors tended to be people who had moved recently from the city of Chicago itself to the suburbs. They were the hard-line we-worked-hard-and-won-our-way-according-to-the-standard-rules-of-social-mobility-people…. The acquittal jurors tended to be those who had been longer situated in the suburbs or outlying parts of the city, and were easier in their attitudes about raising children.”

Franklins and Orthogonians: they hated each other too much to agree on anything. They sent out notes to the judge that they were a hung jury. The judge refused to accept them: “Keep deliberating!” A juror finally brokered the split-verdict compromise. Judge Hoffman still was not satisfied. So he exercised his discretionary power. Over two long days, he called each defendant and each defense lawyer before the bench and delivered contempt specifications for each act of schoolboy naughtiness, sometimes reading out long stretches from the record: “Specification 1: On September 26, during the opening statement by the Government, defendant Hoffman rose and blew a kiss to the jurors. Official Transcript, Chapter One.”

Abbie Hoffman got a day in jail for that. He got six days for calling the judge, in Yiddish, shanda für di goyim. (The judge read the phrase, which meant “a Jew who shames Jews in front of the gentiles,” from the transcript haltingly and pronounced, “I can’t understand the following words.”) David Dellinger had insisted, on Moratorium Day, on reading a list of the war dead. For that, he got six months.

The law had spoken. John Lindsay responded, “The blunt, hard fact is that we in this nation appear headed for a new period of repression—more dangerous than at any time in years.” Foran, at a booster club rally at a parochial high school, said, “We’ve lost our kids to the freaking fag revolution.” Rennie Davis said that when he got out of jail, “I intend to move next door to Tom Foran and bring his sons and daughters into the revolution” and “turn the sons and daughters of the ruling class into Vietcong.” Jerry Rubin signed his new book—Do It!—to “Judge Hoffman, top Yippie, who radicalized more young Americans than we ever could.” And Tom Hayden said, “Our jury now is being heard from.”

In Ann Arbor, five thousand students and hangers-on marched to city hall busting windows and wrecking cars. The FBI put a “White Panther” on the ten most wanted list, who wrote from exile in the Michigan woods, “I don’t want to make it sound like all you got to do is kill people, kill pigs, to bring about revolution,” but “it is up to us to educate the people to the fact that it is war, and a righteous revolutionary war.” In Madison a student stole an Air Force ROTC training plane and tried to bomb an army ammunition plant (just as a student radical stole a plane in the newly released Zabriskie Point).

The preliminaries in the trial of the “Manson Family” were all over the news: Manson had hoped, it turned out, to foment a race war. Weatherman Bernardine Dohrn said of the murders, “Dig it, first they killed the pigs, then they ate dinner in the same room with them, then they even shoved a fork into a victim’s stomach! Wild!” On February 17, what appeared to be a copycat crime emerged, a hideous attack on a military family: a Green Beret captain, Jeffrey MacDonald, reported regaining consciousness from a knife attack to find his wife and two children, Kristen and Kimberly, dead. He remembered what one of the intruders, a woman wearing a “floppy hat” and carrying a burning taper, chanted: “Acid is groovy, kill the pigs.”

In St. Louis, at 2 a.m. on February 23, the Quonset hut housing Washington University’s Army ROTC program was burned to the ground. In frigid Buffalo, on February 24, the president of the State University of New York campus summoned cops to control the threatened disruption of a basketball game. The next night, forty students stormed his office. A police squad chased them into the student union. Eight hundred students attacked the police. At the precinct house, amid the Jewish-looking haul, one arrestee heard a cop say that America “should have let Hitler win, he’d have known how to take care of these fuckers.”

That same day, William Kunstler, facing two years in jail for contempt of Judge Hoffman’s court, gave a speech at the UC–Santa Barbara stadium. Ten years earlier he had dropped out of the executive-training program at R. H. Macy’s; how things had changed. “I have never thought that [the] breaking of windows and sporadic, picayune violence is a good tactic,” he now said. “But on the other hand, I cannot bring myself to become bitter and condemn young people who engage in it.” Students whistled and cheered. Hundreds strolled to a rally in the adjacent town of Isla Vista. One of them idly swung around a bottle of wine. The cops, thinking it a Molotov cocktail, arrested him. Violence broke out. Kids burned down a Bank of America branch. Ronald Reagan ordered his attorney general to look into charging Kunstler with crossing state lines to incite a riot.

On March 6 a mysterious explosion collapsed an entire town house in Greenwich Village. Cops searching through the rubble pulled out three dead bodies and enough live-wired dynamite bombs to blow up the entire block if detonated at once. The house had been a bomb factory, and one of the bombs was intended to slaughter attendees at an upcoming dance at Fort Dix. One decapitated body was identified by a print taken from the severed little finger of the right hand: Diana Oughton, a Weatherman. Another was a leader of the 1968 Columbia University strike. The third was a Weatherman based at Kent State University, in Ohio.

On March 11 a bomb gashed a chunk out of the corner of the Dorchester County Courthouse in Maryland, site of pretrial hearings for H. Rap Brown for inciting the burning of the schoolhouse in Cambridge in 1967.

The next night, in Buffalo, hundreds of students fought a running battle with police, throwing Molotov cocktails at the faculty peace monitors trying to keep the two sides apart.

Three days later Judge Hoffman received an enthusiastic clap on the shoulder from Richard Nixon. He was a special guest at the president’s weekly Christian service in the East Room, where the Reverend Billy Graham preached that America’s “differences could melt in the heat of a religious revival.”

In New York City one day in March, fifteen thousand people were evacuated from office buildings from three hundred separate bomb threats. On April 4, Governor Reagan, in a reelection campaign speech to the Council of California Growers, said of government’s dilemma of beating back the mounting violence, “If there is to be a bloodbath, let it be now.” That America was in the middle of a civil war had once been but a metaphor. How soon before it became real?

- Rick Perlstein, Nixonland

[whythinktoomuch]

anyone watching (or have already watched) season 2 of jessica jones?

Because I’m vibing hardcore with a SG AU again, except with another cast shuffle. Like... hear me out:

Alex Danvers as a reluctant vigilante superhero who’s trying to chase away her demons with a bottle of cheap whiskey. 

Kara Danvers as a reformed addict and radio personality, struggling to become an actual reporter. 

Lillian Luthor as a ruthless lawyer with a wandering moral compass who’s struck up a grudging alliance with Alex because they can use each other for their personal agendas.  

Max Lord as a competing PI who initially tries to hire Alex, then resorts to more underhanded techniques once he’s rebuffed. 

Furthermore, let me present for your consideration: 

Kara clumsily attempting to inspire Alex by bringing her the ashes of Jeremiah and Eliza. 

Alex realizing Jeremiah is still alive, though now infused with cybernetic enhancements that were necessary to save his life after the accident. 

Alura Zor-El being cut off from the Danvers sisters, never having been forgiven for adopting Alex for publicity purposes and grooming Kara into a child TV star. 

Kara still getting recognized for It’s Supergirl, a role she will only reprise if it means helping Alex 

Kara adopting Danvers as her last name to further distance herself from her biological mother

Mike Matthews–Kara’s super-powered ex & loose cannonball–showing up and dying, only to leave behind a Red-K inhaler that Kara immediately gets addicted to as some misguided attempt at super-heroism. 

Kara turning down a lovely proposal from Adam Grant, a perfectly nice boyfriend, because she. wants. more. 

Alex clashing with then falling for the new latinx superintendent, Sam Arias, who is only interested in doing right by her beloved child. 

Oh, oh, and oh! How will I ever incorporate my favorite OTP into this, you ask? 

Enter Lena Luthor, a selfless would-be do-gooder, who was on track to become a goddamn paragon of altruism.

.... until her brother got her hooked on drugs so she’d do his devious bidding for his shady-ass company, Luthor-Corp. 

Currently speaking: Luthor-Corp’s been shut down, Lex is in prison, and Lena is off drugs, thanks to the Danvers Sisters’ intervention. 

She’s now kinda working for DEO Investigations, much to Alex’s annoyance, and seems to be helplessly in love with Kara, much to Alex’s even greater annoyance. 

Oh, and is there some weirdly sister-like tension between Alex and Lena because Lillian has essentially disowned Lena post-Lex’s imprisonment while reluctantly taking on Alex as a surrogate daughter? 

You fuckin’ betcha. 

[coromoor]

I wonder if the qs hair color have some significant meaning. Like for example mutsuki green for jealousy saiko blue for sadness... what do you think?

I think it’s certainly possible!

Saiko | Turquoise

Positive keywords: communication, clarity of thought, balance and harmony, idealism, calmness, creativity, compassion, healing and self-sufficiency.Negative keywords: boastfulness, secrecy, unreliability and reticence, fence-sitting, aloofness, deception and off-handedness.

Blue doesn’t quite fit Saiko but Turquoise definitely does which is what her hair colour mostly is.

Saiko’s character has both positive and negative traits associated with this colour. Creativity in her kagune and her compassion towards ghouls especially come to mind. Communication regarding the colour turquoiserepresents  “open communication from and between the heart and the spoken word. It relates to the electronic age and the world of computers, and communication on a large scale” which fits Saiko to a tee. She wears her heart on her sleeve for all to see which means her feelings are freely shown to others. However, because of her tendency to “fence sit”, she’s always had trouble standing firm by her feelings. She had doubts about whether ghouls were ‘the bad guys’ and yet she was always reticent in speaking up about it

until recently

She was unreliable for most of :re

But following Shirazu’s death, the Quinx’s goal to look after his sister’s medical bills and becoming a senpai to the new quinx has seen her begin to show responsibility

Urie | Purple

Positive keywords: unusual and individual, creative and inventive, psychic and intuitive, humanitarian, selfless and unlimited, mystery, fantasy and the future.

Negative keywords: immaturity, being impractical, cynical and aloof, pompous and arrogant, fraudulent and corrupt, delusions of grandeur and the social climber.

Urie’s character begun the series as almost entirely presenting those negative traits. Deep purple especially fits him: “a powerful color, it can also indicate arrogance and ruthlessness”. However, as his character development progressed, he’s moved towards more of those positive aspects.

As an artist/painter, Urie has a creative flair which lends itself well to his promise as an investigator. He figured out that Torso was a taxi driver far before anyone else. But he definitely strongly represented the negative traits associated with purple. “Delusions of grandeur and social climbing” is pretty much the definition of the Urie x Promotion ship

However, like Saiko, Shirazu’s death has also led to Urie learning selflessness and embracing those more positive traits over the course of :re, becoming a strong and caring leader.

Mutsuki | Green

Positive keywords: growth and vitality, renewal and restoration, self-reliance, reliability and dependability, being tactful, emotionally balanced and calm, nature lover and family oriented, practical and down to earth, sympathetic, compassionate and nurturing, generous, kind and loyal with a high moral sense, adaptable, encourages ‘social joining’ of clubs and other groups, a need to belong.

Negative keywords: being possessive and materialistic, indifferent and over-cautious, envious, selfish, greedy and miserly, devious with money, inconsiderate, inexperienced, a hypochondriac and a do-gooder.

Whereas Urie’s character seems to progress from a strong focus on the negative traits to the positive aspects of his colour, Mutsuki’s moves in the opposite direction. The series starts off highlighting his compassion, sympathy, generosity and kindness, however we see small moments where that darkness trickles through. In the Auction where it was hinted he consumed human flesh to survive, his uneasiness when he visited :re with Haise and saw his interactions with Touka, the foreshadowing that he had a hand in his family’s murder, “I will lie again”. Eventually this manifests into the darker Mutsuki we see presently, focusing on his envy towards Touka and possessiveness over Haise. Despite that though, this all has a root in the positive trait of “a need to belong”

Wanting to take things back to a time when the Quinx were together with Sasaki- a family unit. Something that Mucchan didn’t receive during his formative years.

Shirazu | Orange

Positive keywords: sociable, optimistic, enthusiastic, cheerful, self-confident, independent, flamboyant, extroverted and uninhibited, adventurous, the risk-taker, creative flair, warm-hearted, agreeable and informal.

Negative keywords: superficial and insincere, dependent, over-bearing, self-indulgent, the exhibitionist, pessimistic, inexpensive, unsociable, and overly proud.

Additional negative keywords: dead

Shirazu’s character at different points in the series represents both the positive and negative traits associated with the colour orange. His personality is sociable, enthusiastic, self-confident, uninhibited, informal. At the beginning of :re he’s self indulgent and comes across as superficial- often jumping into a fight attempting to take credit for the salary bonus involved. “Money” was his driving force for killing ghouls. 

Yet as the series goes on, we see that motivation has unselfish roots, as it’s to pay for his sister’s medical bills, and his warm heart shines through his rough personality more and more. 

[halloweenfor]

Scary Costumes - Boys Dark Lord Costume

Theme Halloween Costumes

Scary Kids Costumes

So he’s mastered the dark arts. He’s mastered the skill of the sword and how to dominate on the battlefield. And those guys over there? Yeah, he’s got himself legions of devoted troops who are ready to march with him into battle, obliterate his enemies, and help him capture the realm once and for all too! There’s got to be one more thing we can do to help him rule… oh yeah, it would definitely be making sure his reign is ready to go by getting him this Dark Lord costume for kids!With this devious look, he’ll be able to put all his shady skills and mastery of wickedness to use, and chances are, he’s going to be ready to bring a thousand years of terror to the realm. Gone will be the white knights, elves, and do-gooders across the kingdom; because your child will have the means and the know how to expel them to faraway lands when he wears this terrifying costume. With a frightening plastic helmet and battle armor, he can be prepared to bring a reign of terror to a distant land or even just onto your own neighborhood. Let’s just hope that he’s content with pillaging all of the trick-or-treat candy and doesn’t ask for all of the gold too!

See Details & Get More Deals at: Best Halloween Costumes 2019 :: Shop

[qarajhcreations]

Friday Night Lights, Khodrin’s Journal part two

This is the story of the Friday Night Lights campaign, as told through the eyes of the Mountain Dwarf Fighter, Khodrin Emberhelm. This also means that if Khodrin doesn’t see (or hear, sense, smell) something happening, he doesn’t “experience” it.

With the farmstead secure, the odd group that came to aid against the dog-men, have accepted me to join them on their journey. A rowdy and unruly lot, at least that’s my first impression of them. Oh well, as long as their antics are kept without a Dwarf as the victim, this should be, in the lack of a better word, acceptable. Their objective isn’t quite clear to me, I heard talk of a monastery, must be the Silver Oak one near Athlin. I’ve heard it mentioned a couple of times, but never heard anything more specific as to where or what. The group seems, mostly, honourable enough, the Half-orc Paladin appears to be of high spirits at all times, and to my surprise, the voice of reason in a lot of situations. I was not impressed with the amount of air, to the amount of dog-men, her axe managed to strike. Must be the Orcish side in her. There’s a glimmer of toughness to her, even out of battle, and she seems bent on acting in fairness, or at least what she deems as “fairness”.

I was happy to see a Halfing amongst the group, someone else to take the top off the “you’re the short one here” jokes, she’s a wee lass. Nimble, fast and seems devious. The kind of person you’d have to watch out, when guarding a caravan. I don’t know if she enjoys the center of the action, or if she’s just that much faster than anyone else, but her armour and twin daggers are obviously not meant for locked down combat, granted the dog-men weren’t exactly eqiupped for it either, but any longer battle isn’t her deal. Or maybe it is; a suicidal Halfling, or maybe a Halfling seeking glory in combat? Who knows other than herself? My first impression is, that she makes some hasty choices, without always thinking them through first. Reasonable and friendly, as any Halfling I’d ever met. She seems to partake little in the antics and theatrics, though I think she enjoys being entertained, as long as it is not her on the recieving end. The two Tieflings, as if one wasn’t enough, appear as agents of chaos. Admitted, their abilities are useful, mostly, in combat and they don’t seem to let their antics endanger a friend in combat. I didn’t even catch the one’s name, the group seems to mostly refer to him as just “That Tiefling”. I think it’s wiser, for my own safety and sanity, to keep a distance to them. At least for now.

The bard acts as the instagator, though his bardic talents seems... Well, hard to describe, I haven’t really expeirenced them yet. He seems keen on joking about the Halfling’s height, possibly something I’ll have to endure as well, though I’m sure a well-placed gauntlet or boot can make him regret that. He also seems to enjoy putting That Tiefling in distress out of battle. The very idea of potentially endangering someone without a purpose, I can only shake my head at the thought.

I find the mage Mariah to be a little distant towards the rest of the group, mayhaps that her wisdom makes her able to not join in on the antics. Reasonable and level-headed, she seems just and, unlike most of the others, actually skilled at her craft. I don’t particular enjoy the use of magic, but even I’d admit that the ability to hurl something, seemingly out of nowhere, with great force at enemies is quite handy. Along with the group are also two Knights, I haven’t been able to converse with them, they appear to keep to themselves. The task must be one of importance, as the knights seems to dislike the group taking detours, but perhaps a chance to strike up a conversation shall rise soon enough.

We’d been trudging along the grassy hills for quite a while, when someone suddenly realised that we had not checked the dog-men bodies for loot. I would have dismissed the chance of finding anything, the dog-men weren’t really wearing anything that could conceal any loot, and their equipment was... crude, almost insulting to any person with just the slightest idea of working a forge and anvil. But a majority found it a good idea, though the knights DID try to keep the focus on the task. Apparantly, I’m not alone in seeking fortune here.

Returning to the farmstead, we found that a large number of the very dead dog-men, wasn’t laying as corpses where we left them. And there didn’t appear to be any signs of something burrying or devouring the corpses, the idea of undead dog-men struck my mind slightly, but I shook it out again, as I began to loot one of the deceased creatures. The smell, a mixture of fried, wet and slightly rotting dog, was almost as bad as when I had cleared out a Goblin nest along with some of the other caravan guards. The others also seemed to be less than pleased with the stench. Maybe it kept them from concentrating, but none of them appeared to actually find anything of importance. I found a small pouch, worn leather and a simple string with a couple of coins in it. Well, all fortunes start small.

Turning a bit more south, we had the distant mountains on our left, a feeling of loneliness struck me, but there was no certainty of Dwarves residing in these mountains. Over the next hill, the grass had turned a darker green, the grass was taller, thicker, as if untouched by cattle or wanderers. Several white areas seemed to dot the grass, it seemed very strange. It seemed the wisest to be cautious, but where there is caution, there is also curiousity. And where there’s curiousity, there is also stupidity. That Tiefling went over and literally poked his bare hand into the white mass of... whatever it was. In the blink of an eye, a large shadow rushed out of the whiteness, and lashed it’s fangs into the skin of that Tiefling’s hand. A massive, black spider. And it did not seem pleased. As that Tiefling withdrew in surprise and pain, the spider lashed out again, seemingly doing a lot of damage. The Paladin rushed over, battle-axe in hand, and Mariah was preparing some kind of spell.

Meanwhile, Liri, the Halfling, had chosen a wiser, though still risky way of investigating the webs; poking it with daggers. As on a rail, another large spider came forth, finding itself facing Liri and myself, I had been staying a few feet from the web, I was not going to touch those things. At least no with something that could get stuck or get bitten. The spider started attacking Liri before I could react, but it never seemed to be any real danger. I wouldn’t want to miss out on the action, one can never be too sure. In a fluent move, I stepped forward in the tall grass, cautious not to step into the web, and swung my hammer at the spider’s face. It gave a nice loud crack as metal struck and broke the carapace plate, but the spider wasn’t defeated yet. I had my shield up, ready for the spider to come at me, in the moment before it was about to lunge, I heard a faint, but powerful whisper in the air. An insult of some kind, directed at the spider? Peaking over my shoulder, the bard stood, pointing fingers at the spider. What, are you going to sing it to death? Apparently, the whispers worked, and the spider encased itself in web and stopped moving.

Meanwhile, the other spider had been dealt with, the Paladin had taken a few hits, though nothing serious. There was an anxious feel in the air, as we all could see more of the webbed areas. But despite the commotion of the battle, no-more spiders appeared. After a short debate, we agreed upon leaving the rest of the webs and potential spiders be; the spiders seemed only to come forth when their nests were disturbed. Not making the same mistake twice, we decided to loot the destroyed nests, but sadly not much of value was found. Other than remains of humanoid origin and tufts of fur, similar to that of the dog-men. It seemed like the plains where bristling with life... And not-life.

Keeping a close eye on that Tiefling, just in case of him wanting to poke another nest, we moved back to the trail once more, heading south-east again. We came across yet another farmstead. Here the farmers seemed calm, and reacted defensively towards requests of being evacuated to Athlin and the Silver Oak Monastery. They explained that the spiders acted as natural defense, eating marauders, bandits and other no-gooders. With silent and unseen nods, we agreed amongst the group to not mention to the farmers, that we killed a couple of their defense. I wasn’t exactly sure if this was the right thing to do, but the farmers seemed sure that they were safe. I hope they are right. They offered us shelter and food for the night, but it was only afternoon. And, after one of the knights pointed out, that we’d gone only about some 15 miles, due to the detour with the spiders, and going back to loot the dog-men, so she suggested that we instead made way further south.

Walking along the foot of the mountains, we discovered a path in the stone of some sort, and after a short walk, we came upon a sealed Dwarven door. I had no idea that there would be, excuse me, have been other Mountain Dwarves here. Then again, most of the remaining Mountain Dwarf strongholds, are pretty secluded, and not really in contact with other settlements. The runes on the frame of the door seemed to spell something out, I was hoping to discover why this hold, or outpost, was abandoned. Alas, all I found was the name of this stronghold, “Herndarum”. I fear I may have led my fellow travel mates down, I’m a Dwarf, and could tell them nothing except for the name of this place. The barren stones here seemed completely devoid of life, no animals and no plants. We decided to not investigate further, and with a heavy heart, I returned along the others back to the foot of the mountains. My thoughts go out to the Dwarves who lived here, may they have found greener pastures and not an untimely demise.

Around evening-time, the landscape finally changed from the grassy plains. The ground became less and less solid; dirt turned to mud, and mud turned to murky, stagnant water. We had entered the northern part of The Moonlit Mire. To survey our plans foreward, the knights pointed out how dangerous and decieving the swamp could be. One of the two remaining knights had knowledge of this swamp, or at least experience with moving through swamps in general, took point as we huddled together what ropes we had, tying all group members by the waist (and the Halfing under her armpits) in a long chain. What with the size of the others in the group, apart from Liri, I would not be able to see much, so before anyone else, I called it and said that I would take point after the knight. Would also give me a fair chance of finishing a fight on my own. The group seemed to almost all want to be in the rear part of the chain, though I’m uncertain why. It ended up with that Tiefling right behind me, and the Halfling next in line after that. The second knight took the rear, and the others were in between that.

Our progress was slow, but, I must admit, with the knight’s guidance, the trudge was uneventful. Perhaps for this reason, my mind began to wander, I thought I saw something appearing in the surface of a mud bank, then disappearing short after. The distance was too great for me to make out, what it actually was, but, as if guided by my curiousity (and the fact that I was distracted from the knight’s guidance), I continued forward where the knight had made a turn. before I could react, the solid ground seemed to vanish beneath me, and the icky water reached up to my arm-pits. I tried wiggling back, flailing my arms in a hopeless attempt to pull myself up, but just then, something seemed to grab tightly around my right boot. I was about to pull on both parts of the rope that I was tied with, but then thinking about it, niether that Tiefling nor the knight seemed grandous in strength, and likely, it would more be me pulling them in, than them pulling me out. And the Tiefling would probably make a big fuss about it. Instead, I just turned my head over my shoulder, and called out, without distress in my voice, “Uh... I may be a wee bit stuck here, some help please?” I could audible hear the knight groan. To my surprise, that Tiefling actually listened, and didn’t try any of those magic tricks of his. Though the pull was light, it was enough resistance for me to haul myself up.

It didn’t feel like whatever was clamped around my boot, had any force of it’s own, and as I got out of the muk, I lifted my foot and discovered why; a skeletal hand, with no arm or person attached. The hand seemed to wiggle, and I swear, that Tiefling almost fainted at the sight. We moved towards an area that appeared to have larger mounds of solid ground, above water-level as well. The was just enough room to camp down for the night, and needing some shut-eye, I took first guard. Joining me was that Tiefling, who claimed something along the lines of the “early night time being less dangerous”, I don’t think there’s any proof to that claim. The knight, who took the rear guard, also joined the first shift. Nothing happened during the watch, except we saw some odd blue lights circling something quite far out in the swamp. We decided not to act upon it, the danger of the mire’s murky water, plus that Tiefling being squeamish. We woke up the next guard shift.

Almost as soon as I sat down, as there wasn’t room to lie down, even for a Dwarf, my eyelids grew heavy. Though I didn’t get much sleep that night. The sound of combat, got me up and ready. The first thing I noticed, was that the rope was cut, and that Tiefling was no longer bound to me. Next, as I looked out over the mire, I noticed the Halfling getting pummeled by the blue lights from before, in the glints of lightning, I saw what looked like a crate of some kind. Liri’s cries for help were pitiful to say the least, as she really didn’t seem to do well against the blue lights. The distance was pretty far, and it’s not like I’m exactly trained in using my light crossbow, but lodging a bolt and pulling the weapon to my chin. The dry thunk of the bolt shooting off into the night, seemed louder than the other times I had fired it. I saw one of the blue lights flicker a tiny bit, my shot must have hit somehow, though if the Halfling did little damage, my bolt had done even less. Eventually, we managed to defeat the lights, and Liri returned to looting the crate. Sadly, it’s contains were meager and of little interest. Going back to a sitting sleep, the rest of the night went on without further disturbances.

The next morning we managed to trudge further north, the mounds of solid ground became bigger and with less distance between them, some thoughtful souls had even taken the time to place down rounded logs, serving as small bridges. On one particular large mound, we saw something really strange: A growth of some sort, with a pair of legs wiggling halfway into it. Surely, if you got stuck in a bush like that, all you had to do was push yourself back out. Well, unless you were piss-drunk out of your senses, of course. Feeling curious, we managed to pull the individual out. To my, and I think others’, surprise, the person was covered in some sort of sludge. And it seemed we managed to disturb... something. The bush game to life, and suddenly a huge mass of vines and plant-matter rose and started attacking us. The Bard told it something that, apparantly made it flee to another mound, I’m not entirely sure how that works. Either way, the Halfling and the Half-orc decided to follow the thing, to fight it. Both of them managed to make jump across. Despite of there being an absolutely perfect dry, and safe, route to get there, crossing the wooden logs. Drawing my warhammer, I went the long way around. Which apparently didn’t exactly fall well with the Bard, who, just as I was reaching the plant-thing, inspired me to leap at the creature. Ten feet, which I would easily have covered normally, but noooo, someone had to be picky about it. Didn’t see himself in the frey, but not minding sending others into danger? Seems like something a ruthless commander would do. I’ll keep in mind to whack him a bit around later.

Both the paladin and the Halfling had their troubles with the large thing, it’s large viney arms seemed like living clubs. Meanwhile, the rest of our band tried to deal damage from afar. I say tried, because it wasn’t really effective. With a shrug, I swung my hammer against the mass, it did hit, but as I halfway expected, it didn’t do much. You don’t cut trees down with a hammer, you use an axe. Sadly, I didn’t bring one. The thing lifted both “arms” at me, I readied myself for the attack. Stung like crazy, and suddenly I found myself being lifted upwards, and befroe I could react, I was the one being digested inside the plant monster. There was no air, and i could feel the sludge sting and burn, trying to disolve me. I kept my breath, when you’ve been in the depths of a mine, you know that the air is bad. It was a while since I had last been in a mine, good times though, but some things never truely leave you. I could hear the sounds of struggle, my travel mates were trying to slay the thing. They weren’t exactly being quick about it. I would have to endure a little longer. I tried to push myself out, but to no avail at first, my strength was failing me. My fate... was it to end by a bush? No glory in that, this was no Necromancer in black armour on a horse, no fire-breathing Dragon... this... a PLANT, should be the end of me? It’d be a lie, that much I’d tell you.

With a forceful push, I managed to get myself out, with no help from anyone at all. Still holding both shield and warhammer, I was back, and it was time to whack this overgrown piece of weed into submission. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Tiefling somehow turn into a plant in a ceramic pot. Which pretty much sums up how useful everyone except the Halfling and the Half-orc was being. I gave a couple of swings to the swamp-creature, the first one struck clean, but I must have gotten some sludge in my eye, as the other one missed completely. Eventually we managed to bring the plant-monster into a state of “no longer alive”. Meanwhile, the knights had tended to the person, and brough him back to life. An Elf. No wonder he’d have trouble getting himself out of the plant, Elves are all smooth legs and skin, not much in terms of strength. I began wiping myself off, the strings holding my beard in braids and my hair in a knot, had been dissolved. Didn’t feel like my beard had taken damage though. I began sieving through the plant remains, I found an odd leather pouch. I opened it and saw some documents of some kind, without taking them out for further inspection. Something inside me, told me it belonged to the Elf, and as he was alive, that would be considered as stealing. Had he died, it’s contents would have been mine, a little something for my troubles. Instead, I handed the pouch to the Half-orc, who seemed having little trouble digging through the pouch, though she didn’t actually take anything. The Elf, apparantly from a place somewhere southwest of the mire, claimed to be a courier.

With that over with and done, we ventured further east and north, still only clinging to the foot of the mountains. I couldn’t wait to be out of the mire, to feel safe amongst dry rocks. We followed the stream of the river, and eventually the water turned from green and brown to a more clear blue. We halted by a lake, a much needed bath as opportune here. And I wasn’t alone in that thought... Even though I was the only one who had actually experienced something that needed a washing. One of the myths about Dwarves, that I’ve heard, is that Dwarves despise water. As a drink, it’s true. But Dwarves take showers too, some are actually pretty decent swimmers, not me though, and freshly caught fish, simmering in a mead-sauce, is quite the treat indeed. I turned my back to the group as I got out of my chainmail and dark-green garments, placing them in a neat bundle near the shore, along with the rest of my gear; my backpack, crossbow, warhammer and shield. The water was cold, but refreshing, it was quite pleasant.

But not all pleasantries last, with this group, I find that they rarely do. Suddenly that Tiefling rushed, bare-naked as the day he was born, out of the water, faster than Goblin realising all his mates are dead, and he’s going to be next. The others also got out of the water, though I’m not sure if they were chasing by, or spooked by the Tiefling screaming. What an obnoxious person indeed.

[kingofthewilderwest]

This might be kind of weird but, have you ever imagined seeing things from a dragon hunter's perspective?Believing that dragons are to be treated like farm animals (or even below them), getting pissed at the dragon riders for destroying anything you've tried to build, constantly being attacked and your hard works are ruined. It's pretty hard being a dragon hunter too isn't it? Of course I don't think this way personally, but wouldn't it be interesting if the story is told by the opposite side?

I don’t think this is an odd thought at all! I like it! I honestly wish that more of this perspective-switching were done in media. The best antagonists, and most realistic, are those whose perspectives are understandable. Human beings tend to have decent reasons for behaving as they do; the dragon hunters are no exception.

Honestly, I think that the dragon hunters can be presented even more favorably than how you described them. Your description of the dragon hunters might perhaps be interpreted to some readers as the hunters looking at the dragons with little concern or even contempt, and a lot of focus on their own personal problems. But I think that there are a lot of ways we can legitimately humanize and make sympathetic the dragon hunter characters. It doesn’t mean we have to agree with all of their actions, but I think they have a very fair case for being humanizable and understandable.

Trading animals is nothing new to human civilization. I’m not going to go into the morals of whether or not this should be the case, but the fact is that countless humans across countless civilizations have hunted, fished, and domesticated animals to be eaten for millennia. How long has humankind raised pigs, chickens, and cows for consumption and survival? How long have people hunted elk and deer or fished salmon and trout out of the waters? The dragon hunters are pretty normal people to capture dragons and then sell the creatures for profit. It’s been in human trade for innumerable species for millennia to do things like this.

Really, the oddballs are the Hairy Hooligans. Everyone else in the Barbaric Archipelago across dozens of islands... are pretty accustomed to dragons being fought in battle or captured for trade. Dragons aren’t pets, dragons aren’t friends.. .they’re enemy creatures. It’s normal to hunt or fight dragons in this society, just as it’s normal to eat chicken or fish. It’s only the Hairy Hooligan Vikings who have befriended the dragons... and very recently, at that.

So I don’t think we need to talk about the dragon hunters looking “down” upon dragons in some sort of contemptuous or unsympathetic way. It’s not like they’re attacking family pets. They’re not being crueler than normal in this society to dragons. From their perspective, they’re just living their day-to-day lives doing typical societal things in how you treat dragons, just as most cultures don’t mind if you eat a chicken for dinner.

From the dragon hunter’s perspective, Hiccup’s gang are complete oddballs. Those kids are doing something monumentally bizarre. The kids are disrupting good, honest, economic trade. The Hairy Hooligans are flying around and being lawless menaces, disrupting legal trade and making it harder for these hunters to earn their honest wages.

The dragon hunters are engaging in a common Viking trade that has demand across lots of islands. The dragon hunters are going to be people with real lives and real cares. There are going to be brother dragon hunters who are doing this together, and find great happiness in engaging in this activity. They are the heroes who sail bravely across the islands and capture the dangerous beasts that burden their island homes. Some Vikings are proud warriors who defend their home from invaders; the dragon hunters are those who fight the most dangerous enemies, the dragons themselves! There are going to be husbands and wives on the dragon hunter crews with families back home. They will have families that they love and care about; this dragon hunting is their income, and the means by which they can feed their spouse and children and maybe their elderly parents they’re taking care of at home. They will be upset when their ship gets sunk and they’re stranded on an island... Hiccup’s destroyed their ship, meaning it’ll be many more months before they can sail home to see their baby child. And there are going to be dragon hunters who have no one to return to, who constantly sail across the archipelago because there’s nothing back “home,” but have found a mission and a goal and a purpose on the open seas conducting this trade. There are going to be dragon hunters who question Viggo’s trade practices and wonder if they are ethical, but know they have no other job to go to if they quit. There are going to be dragon hunters who have a mean streak in them and enjoy harming the dragons. There are going to be other dragon hunters who respect the dragons they capture, and look with awe at the creature on the other side of the cage bars.

The dragon hunters are going to be people with happy tales and sad tales and tales of family and love and honor and moral questions and conflicted feelings and senses of pride and conviction and happiness and more. They don’t have to be any more villainous than Stoick was in HTTYD when he wanted to fight the dragons Hiccup wanted to save.

Sure, yes, there will be devious dragon hunters. We’ve seen some of them on the shows. Some of them enjoy capturing or threatening harm to Hiccup and the gang. Some of them have a bit too much of a violent streak to them. Some are going to be greedy for power and wealth. Totally. There will be bad apples in this bunch. But not all of them have to be, and if we really look at RTTE from their perspective, we’re going to see a lot of motivations that are very understandable and not at all... dark and demonic.

I love what you say about Hiccup and the gang being a nuisance! From the perspective of an everyday dragon hunter, Hiccup and the gang are being horrifically annoying. They’re do-gooder vigilantes harping after a cause that basically nobody cares about. They’re screwing up all the hard work you put into things, they’re being EXTREMELY reckless damaging SO MUCH expensive property (LIKE ENTIRE SHIPS THOSE ARE NOT CHEAP), they’re messing up the trade of multiple islands, they’re being unreasonable about what society and civilization is typically like. These unruly kids might believe in their cause, but from the perspective of the dragon hunter, it’s going to be a pretty ridiculous and pointless cause. All the fires the youths have set, all the buildings they have collapsed, all the ships they have sunk... I’m sure there are more than a few dragon hunters who wish these obnoxious kids would pay for the damage they caused. You are, as you so aptly put, being constantly attacked and your plans put to ruin as a dragon hunter.

I’m not going to say I agree with the dragon hunter perspective, either. I’m not going to say that them attacking Dragon’s Edge and fighting teenagers with weapons is ever okay. It’s not okay. And there are so many other things they do that are not okay. The entire point of the first HTTYD is that the Vikings don’t have to be violent to dragons, after all. Dragon hunters could treat the dragons better. But there’s definitely a way to turn this story around, look at their perspective, and understand why - even if their actions aren’t always right - there’s a reason they’re doing what they’re doing.

[maedarakat]

✍🏻 please

(Thanks!!! You didn’t include a pairing tho so I hope you’re cool with me just doing my fave boys? XD This is going to be around season 1 and maybe 2, pre-redemption Dagur bc he’s fun.)

—-

Dagur stared at the parchment in his hands, expression extraordinarily dumbfounded. One of the Riders had just … Terror-mailed him a letter?

The Terror was even still hanging around - just out of reach and ridiculously good at avoiding thrown knives. Almost like it was waiting for a response to this drivel.

He’d of course spent a good portion of time over-analyzing it. Was it a distraction? The set-up for a trap? It wasn’t from Hiccup and it didn’t ask him to meet him anywhere though.

Nope, just inane babbling from one member of Hiccup’s little dragon-loving group. There was nothing to really do but tear it up and throw it overboard. Which he almost did, but Savage stopped him.

“If you don’t mind me suggesting, sir, this could be an opportunity? Write back and tell the boy to meet you alone if he really wants an … “ Savage peered over Dagur’s shoulder to re-read the lines that had his leader so flustered. “An arrow-launcher for Snoggletogg.”

“Arrow-launcher! As if I’d actually send anyone else a Berserker crafted arrow-launcher for anything, let alone for -” Dagur paused, mid-tirade. “Wait, is it Snoggletogg today?”

Savage shook his head. “Not for four more months sir.”

Dagur scowled, but made his decision and stormed toward his cabin. “Nobody disturb me and leave that Terrible Terror alone. I’m writing a response.”

——-

Dear Blithering Dragon-Rider Idiot #1,

OF COURSE IM NOT SENDING YOU AN ARROW-LAUNCHER FOR SNOGGLETOGG, YOU COMPLETE MORON! Why in Loki’s name WOULD I?!? I cannot believe you’d even DARE ASK ME for such a thing?! Are you serious?!? 

Can’t you ask your parents?!?! I heard you can get a pretty nice selection at the Northern Market. None as close to the quality on my ship, so I guess you’ve got decent taste, but still - DON’T YOU EVER, EVER ASK ME FOR SOMETHING LIKE THIS AGAIN. 

It seriously weirded me out. 

- DAGUR THE DERANGED

P.S. And I hope your tree catches fire!!!!

—–

“There, I sent it.” Dagur and Savage both watched as the Terror flew off, disappearing soon in the fog that surrounded the Berserker armada.

“What did you write?” asked Savage, nosey as ever.

“What do you think?!” Dagur snapped. “I told that rider where he could shove his stupid request!”

And that was the end of it, until the next letter came.

——

Dear Dagur the Deranged,

Wow, I had no idea you would be so offended? Sorry. You’re always offering Hiccup stuff and he doesn’t appreciate it, so I figured I could use some of that misplaced affection to fulfill both our emotional needs.

And also my need for a totally awesome arrow-launcher. 

You sure you don’t have a spare one? Or a broken one I can fix that’s just taking up space on your ship? I promise I won’t mind if it’s a wreck, just put a festive little bow on it or something. It’s the thought that counts, right?

Ooh, but besides all that, do you worship Loki too? I’m so happy to hear that if it’s so - it fits you! You’re clever and devious, He’s clever and devious … If you ever want to talk trickster gods and their frustrating yet endearing ways of making life interesting - then I, Tuffnut Thorston, am your man.

Also, thanks for the tip about the Northern Markets, but if my parents actually liked me enough to get me one, they’d probably make me share it with my sister. 

Do you KNOW how hard it is for two people to work the same massively destructive weapon at the same time? Trust me, the projectiles do not go where you want them to. Just ask Sven’s sheep. We all had to eat a lot of mutton that night. It was good too; I still don’t get why the Chief was so mad.

Anyway, I hope your tree catches fire too! Ours does every year, as a tribute to that time Astrid decimated almost everybody’s house with exploding dragon eggs.

Have a Happy Snoggletogg! (I’m wishing you one early, in case you manage to kill us all before it gets here. Hopefully with an arrow launcher because that would be ironic and kind of funny.) 

See you on the battlefield!

- Tuffnut Thorston

P.S. What would you like for Snoggletogg, assuming we all live to see it? I probably can’t afford or steal anything fancy, but I can always write you another poem.

——

Dagur was enraged. Livid. Also, more confused than ever. 

This had to be some sort of trick. Why was this crazy Rider still talking to him? It was like having a prisoner you just couldn’t make shut up.

Or resist talking back to. 

What he should do was crumple this stupid parchment up and throw it over the side. But then that Terror would hang around all day and annoy him. 

Dagur growled and ignored the strange look Savage gave him, as he ordered the man to find him better parchment and some more ink. 

He didn’t write letters that much; but he wasn’t about to send something smudged and tattered back to this dumb kid. Maybe if he wrote completely bluntly and in big letters, the Rider would get that they were enemies.

Not friends. Not … quill pals.

—–

Dragon Rider, 

You seem to be confused, so let me help you out here. 

I’m not sending you anything for Snoggletogg, and I don’t want anything from you either. Thanks for the offer, but –

We are enemies. I want to kill you and your buddies and all your little dragon friends, including your stupid Terror that keeps dodging my knives. Actually if you wanted to send me anything, send me more knives. I’ve lost at least three over the side because of that thing. Who knew they could be so fast?!

Seriously, write to me again asking for anything, and I’ll blow up your entire house the next time I attack Berk.

- Dagur the Deranged

—–

Dear Dagur,

Okay, I get it. I won’t ask for anything. Just surprise me. 

Some knives are totally coming your way, though. Nice ones too, with polished antler handles and sharp edges. The merchant almost sold them out from under me, but I distracted him by pointing out a rainbow and snagged you four. 

Also, if you blew up my house, you’d be doing us all a favor. It’s a total mess. I’ve been begging the local dragons to ‘accidentally’ torch it, but Hiccup keeps stopping me. It’s a shame; my mom would get a new house built and new furniture, so she wouldn’t have to clean for a while. She hates cleaning. Gets it from me. 

Oh and I guess Pop would have to drink out in the sunshine. Or the rain. He could use a quick rinse either way, he’s gotten kinda ripe since I last visited.  Pshh, Dads today, am I right?

Anyway, that last letter was so serious. Dare I say formal? You sounded like you could use some cheering up, so I wrote you a poem. 

I know it’s not Snoggletogg yet, but I’m sure we’ve missed your birthday by now, anyway. (Hey when is your birthday? Let me know.)

Here’s the poem:

There once was a rider named Hic, Whose tyranny would make you sickThough love him we will,And we follow him still,Sometimes he can be a real prick

——

Dagur snorted and started laughing out loud, causing a few heads to turn. He quickly caught himself and glared them back to work before turning back to the letter in his hands.

He had meant to get rid of it this time, really. But it had just been so boring today. 

He had to admit, the kid had some nice poetry. Also, the thought that he had an actual belated (or was it early?) birthday gift coming his way honestly thrilled him - especially if it was stolen. 

Because buying things with money and prestige? Boring! As a chieftain’s son,  expensive gifts had always felt like people were sucking up to him, so whatever it was had no meaning really. 

But this do-gooder dragon-rider had actually broken the law (and definitely had gone against Hiccup’s wishes) just to get him a nice gift. 

That was … That was just so … thoughtful?

He bit his lip, a little conflicted, but then shook his head to clear it. If someone was wanting to be nice to him, it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean he had to be nice in return. 

But maybe it wouldn’t hurt anything to keep writing back.

—–

Rider,

Thanks. That poem was pretty funny. I’ll accept those knives too, since you’re technically just paying me back for the ones I lost. I hope you don’t expect anything big in return, like mercy or extra food rations when I eventually kill and capture you all. 

I’m no good with poetry … maybe you’d like a story or something? I know some pretty scary ones. Ooh, I bet you can make that big kid with the Gronckle scream like a little girl!

My birthday is the 15th of September. 

Regards, Dagur

P.S. When’s yours? Maybe I’ll just try extra hard not to kill you that week.

—–

Well, it wasn’t anything he’d brag about to his men, Dagur thought, watching the Terror fly off. But maybe being quill-pals with the enemy wasn’t such a bad thing.

[riddleculed-a]

@featheredfiend

“Yes. Your Martini has been here gathering dust, Edward, I was growing impatient. You weren’t stopped by the Toddler in a Trench Coat, were you? Someone really needs to impose some sort of curfew on the youth of this city.”

Edward smoothly slid into the chair across from Oswald as he glanced around the club. “Please, as if you’d let this place gather any dust,” he quipped as he ran a gloved finger across the top of the table and made a show of inspecting it for dust. “You’re much too proud,” said Nygma smugly as his eyes fell on his drink before plucking the glass up. “I have yet to see our new do-gooder. Why?” He leaned forward with a devious grin. “You worried about me or just bummed he hasn’t done away with the likes of me?”