#i've never driven that far in my life

[hood-ex]

Oh hell yeaaah just got offered a job in Montana. Love how that worked out lmao. Quitting current job tomorrow and offered new job tonight.

[six-of-ravens]

not to beat a dead horse, but I think the primary reason why I simply Cannot with greek mythology is that in ~2017ish this genre of posts became popular that was like, "greek gods as modern day aesthetics" and the first couple I saw were fun, but....then it became clear that EVERYONE was just using the EXACT SAME stereotypes and...yeah. I saw like 30 of these posts. I considered deleting tumblr for a while over these posts. they were SO annoying and blandly surface-level but everyone making them thought they were sooooooo hyper-intellectual hashtag dark academia.

and of course right after that there was a boom in greek mythology content, presumably started by TSOA and that one videogame about Hades teenage son having to talk to allt he other gods or something... idk all I remember about that game is it's the first time I ever heard the term "roguelike" but it seemed too boring to warrant such an interesting genre title WHATEVER. ANYWAY. so now whenever I encounter greek mythology media I'm like, "do you have real, well-formed opinions, stories, and a knowledge of history, or are you just enamored with picturing Hades as a motorcycle gang zaddy and Athena as your hashtag dark academia queen mommy, and decided to slap some aesthetics together into something vaguely resembling a story?"

[beatrixstonehill2]

"This is..... so much more thrilling than I ever could've imagined! I think I'm beginning to sympathize with women who drop everything to become trad wives or porn stars. Kidding...... maybe. As you all know my team were tasked with moving to South Africa for a five-year archaeological expedition, I guess you could say. My team are all women, and we were warned that the customs in this region of South Africa are very relaxed toward women. Almost like the deep south in the US right now. I told them we'd be pretty far from major population centers and it shouldn't be an issue but..... that was apparently wrong information.

We arrived and saw our lodging was right in the middle of a charming small town near the quarry my team intended to study. Immediately we were met by local guides who gave us the rundown. We'd be driven into the city twice a week for major shopping, otherwise we'd stay in this town. We were checked out by a local doctor, who had us strip naked, asking us about our sex lives, history of partners. The man laughed when we all said we slept with under ten men each, handing us our own vial of fertility drugs, assuring us that number would get higher very quickly.

Our guide told us to be respectful and not spurn the curiosity of locals, especially the men, in both the city and the town we'd be calling home for five years. Immediately, upon waking up the next day, a group of fishermen, all in their twenties and thirties came upon us. They were some of the most fit, chiseled men I'd ever laid eyes on. All of them wearing only shorts, their heavy erections visibly pressing against the fabric. We said hello, and before we knew it we were being passed around like mere toys. I guess the rumors of a certain group of men having large endowments is..... very much true. I'd never been fucked so hard in my life. Most men I've slept with were so clumsy and afraid to do anything I might deem offensive. These men did not care one bit about my pleasure, or even my safety. They were studs in the truest sense! We were fragile mares, helpless like maidens as we were held down and brutally fucked for hours.

When they finished, our holes flooded with what had to be a liter or more of semen, we looked at each other, and despite having been essentially gang raped, we all agreed it was the most thrilling, glorious sexual experience of our lives. So, spurn we did not! All of us made sure to wear skirts and dresses so our holes were readily accessible for the locals. Needless to say the constant sexual intervention has delayed our expedition quite a bit. We've all lost tally of how many men have fucked us. Thousands, by my estimation, and it's wonderful to know I'm so sexually experienced now! I very quickly stopped seeing it as rape, more so I was fulfilling my womanly duties to the local men. I daresay this is how humanity fared for thousands of years before puritanical religions ruined everything.

We've been here a year and four months. We're all five months along with our second batch of children. These pregnancies are looking markedly larger than our first. It's so exciting to see our wombs expand so quickly. To our surprise the men did not simmer down whatsoever as we became immensely pregnant with at least triplets. On the contrary, the larger our uteruses stuck out, the more men would rush over to ram their shockingly large cocks into us. It's incredible to realize what my body was always capable of! I always treated sex so daintily, soft and erotic, come to find out my body was capable of being forty weeks pregnant, my womb filled to the bursting point with four kicking, ten-pound children, as dozens of men pound away at my swollen, dilated sex. My body has taken so well to this I feel like I'm finally achieving its true purpose. Seeing my body endure so much sex, cocks forcing their way into my holes so large they're less fit to impregnate a girl than scramble her innards.

It's naturally grinded our professional affairs to a halt. But I don't see any of us complaining, in fact I'm looking forward to getting so pregnant I might lose the ability to get up and walk, like many local girls. It's positively thrilling to consider I might be little more than a bed-bound, fuckable womb in a few short moths, my sex wettens are the mere thought. The quarry has been there for hundreds of thousands of years, I'm sure it can wait. Until then, I think I'll ask that local doctor to increase our fertility drugs, on a scientific level I'm morbidly curious to see just how many kids can fit in my womb. It's so exciting! I'm hoping I be filled with over twenty, imagine, all those men pounding away at my poor body, as I stare at my towering belly, pinning me down, an entire classroom of children writhing away inside me. Such a thing..... would necessitate repeat testing for many years to come. Not sure we'll be making the five-year deadline. But that's fine, I don't mind calling this place home far longer."

[nouearth]

servicing justice: superman [1]

pairing ; kal-el / clark kent / superman x m!reader. fandom: ; dc, superman. word count ; 2144. series ; servicing justice. genre ; smut. rating ; m. warnings ; bigdick!superman. blowjob. gloryhole. handjob. mouth-fucking. oral (reader giving). sexworker!reader. note ; yeah, okay. maybe i've been watching too much of a certain video genre, ahem. but i hope you guys enjoy my first smut! it's been a WHILE since i've written one, so i know it's rusty, HAHA. looks-wise, i mostly had maws's superman in mind (because the art style is so good and so himbo), but feel free to imagine it with any superman!

it isn’t the most comfortable position to be in. you’ve been kneeling on the floor for quite some time now, waiting for your assigned client. your palms begin to sweat to a minimal but uncomfortable degree. did i fuck up already? you ask yourself as your mind clouds with questions, doubts, and even judgement regarding this new job.

“jesus, what did i get myself into…” you recall the long process it took for you to end up here. the intensive (and ridiculously long) process of reading and signing multiple forms and documents almost had you backing out of this opportunity. though looking back at it, it was understandable since it’s quite unheard of to be… a sex worker for superheroes.

for an incredible pay, your privacy will essentially be stripped away starting from today. all phone messages, calls, and social media activities will be monitored during your venture as a sex worker, and that post-graduate life was not going to pay itself. for the most part, so far everything seemed… great? being driven to work by a chauffeur, having your own personal room and health coverage provided, and most importantly… eating free lunch was not bad at all.

or maybe you’re just naïve.

all you had to do was kneel and suck a few superhumans off. as the newbie, you were told that you’ll be starting on gloryhole duty due to privacy reasons; at least until you built enough camaraderie. though, you didn’t even mind since there would certainly be less strain on your body.

you couldn’t help but snicker at the mere thought of an entire league of superheroes holding a meeting regarding this subject matter. especially since almost everyone in the world, including you, holds these superheroes in such high regard.

“meeting is adjourned until 9 am tomorrow! until then, please help yourself to some delicious food trucks from outer spac-“ your humorous imitation of a noble superhero is silenced when you hear the door opening. within your private booth, all that blocks you from meeting your approaching client is another door with a hole cut through.

your curiosity is piqued when you catch a sight of the man’s physique through the hole. plaid shirt and jeans aside, and assuming he had to underdress, he’s huge. maybe because you’re kneeling right now, or maybe it’s the fact that you’ve never been near a superhero before, but you couldn’t help but be in awe at the size of the man. your eyes complete a full body scan by the time he approaches the door and before you could say something, he does.

“sorry i was late-“ a gentle voice echoes behind the door. contrary to his soft voice, the man’s large hands work aggressively at his belt, unlooping the leather with impatience yet eagerness as he anticipates the mouth that’s been waiting for his arrival. “there was this whole thing with this cat in this tree and then this school bus got hijacked- not my best day, unfortunately.”

“i’m sorry to hear that. sounds like a stressful day, yeah?” your voice is compassionate. you felt bad for the unnamed superhero and a part of you wanted to continue the conversation further, but your job isn’t to listen to their feelings. it’s to pleasure.

“yeah…” a huge sigh of relief expels from the man’s dry throat when he pulls his pants down. frustration stains another one of your client’s sigh, clearly troubled by the restrictive fabric guarding his erection. you watch with parted lips as he couldn’t help but give himself a needy stroke through his tight briefs, fondling his balls then beelining his palm to the very plump tip of his cock. your own cock hardens at this scene, and you find yourself doing the very same. mimicking his impatient hand to tend to the sensitive pressure below, you tiptoe the fine line between frustration and pleasure as your tightening pants and briefs define what it means to be an absolute nuisance. “very stressful.”

it doesn’t take much time before you’re faceful of cock and somehow, you manage to salivate more than you did a minute ago. the man’s throbbing erection is brimmed with thick pre-cum, stress practically leaving his body with every drip. it’s a heavenly sight that’s enough to make you stick your tongue out just in time to catch the substance into your mouth, not wanting to waste a single drop. the salty taste always catches you off-guard yet at the same time, it puts you under a spell. a tantalizing spell that commands you to drag your warm tongue over and back the underside of his thick shaft, completely avoiding the plump glans to have his cock leak even more… stress.

the taste of his musk drives your palm further into your erection, palming at whatever you could as you preoccupy yourself with teasing the man. you almost felt bad for him. contrary to his build, his whimpers are… so small, so weak. you notice his hands grip over the top of the barrier, and it turns you on upon realizing how this supposed hero could become so fragile at the simple taunt of your tongue.

“please…” the superhero whimpers out, needlessly fucking the air in hopes of granting his cock some type of friction. you’re amazed, and a little proud, by how much pre-cum he’s been leaking by now, and it all goes right onto your tongue. the wet muscle follows the natural curve of his cock to meet up with the wet and plump head. his hips buckle into the barrier and feeling it shake, you keep him steady by wrapping your hand around his shaft. you’re addicted at this point. addicted to the salty taste of his pre-cum as your tongue licks and explores into the slit of his cock, while at the same time, your hand works at his large cock in slow, but steady strokes.

“oh christ-“ he breathes out, repeating the same two words under his shaky breath as you continue to pleasure him with your tongue and hand. after a few licks, you pull away to give your tongue a break. in doing so, your grip tightens around his shaft to pace your strokes quicker. when you find a moment where your wrist needs a break, you let your client catch his breath. his cock throbbing more and more with every passing second when your tongue and hand aren’t exploring him, and you bask in the sight of it. you believe you deserve a medal at this point. not for doing a great job (though, it doesn’t seem too far-fetched), but for having control. you haven’t even sucked him off yet, but you’re content on remaining just like this for a while longer. though, that wouldn’t be fair for the superhero.

before he could whimper out another plea, your warm mouth finally wraps around the head of his cock and your ears perk at the sound of his low moan almost instantly. your hand returns to its rightful position around the lower base of his penis as you cycle your tongue over the glans, satisfying your need to taste his musk once more. seconds later, your hand lets go when you push your head farther, taking in an inch more of the hero’s cock. your knees dig into the floor as you push your head more and more, stretching your mouth with his cock until you feel yourself gagging.

“fuck.” you sniffle out when you pull back. perhaps you were challenging yourself too hard. you think to yourself as you catch your breath, using the remaining moment to sloppily jerk him off with your saliva. part of you wanted to challenge yourself to deepthroat him, impress your client on the first day. but you already know you wouldn’t be able to take it… at least, for now.

“you could hurt someone with this, y’know?” for some reason, you thought you needed to crack a joke as if there was an awkward silence that needed to be filled. maybe you just wanted to hear him talk again. his voice is warm and inviting, somewhat fitting for a superhero or even a television host as the moment you hear his voice again, you felt safe.

“i have before- oh god.” you lube up his cock with your spit as you continue to jerk him off, refraining yourself from fucking his slit with your tongue again to concentrate on his words. “which is why i don’t do this much- sex and stuff… it’s all troublesome, really.”

“yeah?” and just when you talked yourself out of challenging yourself, you feel the competitive spark ignite inside of you again. “well, i guess you just have to find the right one. could be anyone, even people you just met.” you try to play it nonchalantly, hoping that double-handing his wet cock would distract him.

he was beyond speechless at this point, moans drawn out by means of your sloppy strokes. you swear you can hear his heartbeat behind the barrier when you lean your head closer to suck him off again. you moan along with him, drawing out every breath of yours as you bob your head up and down, taking more of his cock every time you come down. your hand twists and strokes the remaining few inches that isn’t violated by your tongue and mouth, following your mouth like a reel as your intent to make him cum is fervent more than ever.

it hurts. your mouth hurts by how large your client is and tears brim in your eyes as you hold yourself back from gagging. but you don’t stop yourself because you’ll know it’ll be worth it. your endeavor to please him to the fullest has you drowning out his groans into white noise and you can barely register the fact that you’ve been on paused for a while now. you find yourself in a closer position than before, where your mouth is open, lips fully pressed around the carved hole as the superhero fucks into your mouth, fucks into your gags like you’re his personal flesh light. you didn’t care how dirty you looked, how you had saliva and spittle dripping out from the corners of your mouth and onto the floor. who would see? and you didn’t care that you were too preoccupied to touch your dick right now, because you know you’ll be thinking about this very moment for the rest of your life. and right now, you didn’t know if you wanted to be covered in his cum or to have your mouth be filled with it.

remaining in this position, you glance your teary eyes up at his grip over the barrier again. the strength in his grasp forms small cracks in the material of the barrier and that was the sign you knew you fulfilled your sense of purpose.

“christ, i’m going to come-“ your eyes shut again and you breathe through your noise, bracing for impact. he pushes his cock down your throat and hits that sore spot one last time before unloading his cum into your mouth with a stifled groan. warm, hot seed quickly fills you up and you pull your head back an inch to fully enclose your lips around his cock, ensuring none escape your lips.

in a heartbeat, you swallowed it all. his warm cum coats the back of your throat like medicine and you moan around his cock at the taste, intoxicated. you made sure to lick every inch of his cock clean, calmly slurping any saliva and cum that threatens to leave your mouth as you pull back up with a soft pop, swallowing the remaining remnants of his stress away.

“t-thank you. i needed that…” he pulls his softening cock out, careful in avoiding the hole as he was still sensitive. “did you need a tissue or anything? i think i have one somewhere…” you can hear him rummage through what you can only assume would be his bag and you find it charming, a quiet laugh leaving your swollen lips as you lean back onto your elbows to take a breather and stretch your legs out.

“no, no. i’m okay. i, uh, don’t think i wasted a drop.” you proudly brag, only for him to respond with a shy chuckle. you watch him tidy himself through the hole from a leaned back view, occasionally tilting your head in various angles to see if you could catch a glimpse on who the mysterious superhero is, but the barrier remains an obstruction to your view.

“well then, i… uh… thank you for your service.” he covers up the silence with another laugh and you join in, re-adjusting his pants and belt before turning his back towards you and heading out the booth. “i’ll try not to be late next time.”

© nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. and if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[phantomrose96]

I think one of my least favorite Reddit personalities is what I'm gonna call Destitution Superiority.

It's a pretty disturbingly popular mindset I encounter frequently on Reddit. The kind of people who are like "Yeah I always save 75% of my income and I do this by never buying any single thing I do not need" "I've cut out 100% of processed sugar from my entire diet and it's great for my body" "I spend (absurdly long) time at the gym and eat (absurdly few) calories every day which I weigh and count it's really turned my life around."

And the thing is like, I believe them when they say doing this makes them feel good! I believe this satisfies a primal need for accomplishing a difficult task, for being proud of their efforts, for feeling superior to people who are simply too "lazy"/"impulse-driven"/"ignorant" to do the same.

...But by god. What's the end game? Do these people want to hit 80 years old and look back on their entire life pride which was just... self-deprivation? Do they want to look back and think "thank god I never once tried a delicious piece of cake" "thank god I missed my friend's birthday party so I could hit my gym goals" "thank god I'm dying with millions in the bank which I never let myself use or enjoy in life"

They're defining themselves by what they refuse to let themselves have. They're seeking accomplishment in being less, and doing less, and consuming and spending less so they can soak in the ephemeral brain chemicals that say "you did good by denying yourself this experience." And what happens when they crack? When day 487 of no desserts they feel weak and have a cupcake and hate themselves? And they go back to their hivemind which tells them they were simply weak and need to get back on the horse. It's sad. It's sad to watch.

And it is so very dangerous for how easily people will get sucked in. How extremely easy it is to blur the lines between "healthy, responsible behavior" and "cultish adherence to denying yourself pieces of your own life." They don't recognize that line themselves. Because if you try to bring this up with them, they deflect as if you were suggesting they plunge themselves deep into the opposite obsession. "Oh you think I should just spend every single dime I earn and end up in debt and broke?" "What are you suggesting I just let my health go because it's easier to sit on the couch every day."

No. I just think the narrative around "responsible" behaviors of finance and health needs to address the far-too-pervasive phenomenon of people overdoing it with cultish adherence, and locking themselves out of life, experiences, and joy, because the chemical rush of choke-hold control on their life--(or worse, the fear of slipping and being seen as one of the irresponsible others)--blinds them to the fact that they earnestly want to shrink the one and only life they have to live.

[ruiniel]

What You Choose

Fandom: Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba

Pairing: Rengoku Kyojuro x f!reader

Count: 2K

Rating: T (M later)

On AO3

Summary: I recently watched/read KNY and have emotions. Likely done before, but wanted to get this out of my system so wrote it down. Rengoku survives the fight with Akaza, but some battles are not so straightforward.

Tags & Warnings: Rengoku lives AU, multichapter, blood, injury, pining, angst, second person POV, demon slayer!reader, tsuguko!reader, alternating POV, Oblivious Rengoku Kyojuro, for a while at least, Death, Mild Gore, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut

All characters depicted are 18+

I.

Everything fades. His body is going numb, his vision blurs as he stares down at his reflection in the dark pool of his own blood, unable to lift his head. The cries of grief surrounding him become dim and scatter like dying leaves from his consciousness.  

I've done my duty, I've given my all.

The last he remembers is a small, clawed hand and a sudden, blooming flame bursting through his shattered torso, scalding him from within in ways his own fire never could. 

I see... So this is what it feels like… to burn. 

The balmy weather outside has no effect on you, seated at the side of the infirmary bed, your head in your hands. 

“Perhaps you should go and rest. There’s been no change, and we’ll be sure to inform you of any developments.” 

Aoi’s words are void of their usual sternness. You’ve heard them before, and yet—

“I’m fine, I really am.” You gaze back at the prone figure lying motionless beneath crisp white sheets. His gold and crimson hair is messy, and you’ve never seen him so pale, his features so sunken. The bandage covering his left eye is stained red in places, the usually smiling lips dry and bloodless.

Aoi sighs but says nothing else, and soon her departing steps echo against the walls.

I can’t. I can’t leave his side. You wish your thought could reach him, down to whatever place he’s struggling in now. You ball your hands into fists over your knees, a poor attempt at holding your composure. Please, come back. Please.

Weeks have passed since the mission on the train, since your group has returned with wounded bodies and spirits, though none in such a critical state as your mentor. Rengoku Kyojuro has not awakened since, and in contrast, since the nightmares the demon has placed upon you in that baleful encounter, you’ve not been able to sleep more than two to three hours every night. Every time, waking up in a sweat, the memory of what happened always the last image you remember. 

“How is he today?”

You’re drawn from your thought by the gentle voice of the person you feel like you owe a life of debt to, and turn to gaze into the tired, worried eyes of Tanjiro Kamado. He stands by the bed now, glancing down at the Hashira. The slow rise and fall of his chest is the only sign that he is still alive. 

You shake your head as Tanjiro takes a seat. “How is rehabilitation training going?” 

Tanjiro smiles, still staring at the bed and its unresponsive occupant. “Almost done, I feel my strength returning to what it used to be and more. I admire how well you’ve upheld yourself, though,” he murmurs. 

It’s true, for some reason, you’ve been the least scathed of them all, needing much less medical care than the rest. No, you know the reason why. “It’s because of him,” your words escape you. “If… if he hadn’t trained me as he did, if he hadn’t driven me so far beyond my limits, I don’t know if I would have survived for as long as I have in my role.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard. They say Lord Rengoku’s methods are… harsh to say the least.”

A smile tugs at your lips as a known pain pricks your heart. “But… but I’ve been remiss in thanking you, young Kamado—or rather, your sister. If she hadn’t…”  Your throat tightens; you don’t want to break down, not here, not before Tanjiro and not before him, no matter he can’t hear it. 

“Please, please don’t worry, it was a stroke of luck and quick thinking on her part, I only brought the box closer—”

“... she healed him! I saw the flames engulfing him, I saw the wound close. I don’t know how she did it but… Nezuko is someone... very special.”

Tanjiro lowers his head in humble acknowledgement. “I will tell her.” Then, as though remembering something, he reaches into his pocket and hands you a small bag. “Here, I’ve not seen you join meals very often and… well, please take them.”

You don’t have the strength to refuse, and take the bag from his hand, meeting his kind smile. “Candies…”  You thank him before placing them on the bedstand, and after a few more moments of sitting in comfortable silence, Tanjiro takes his leave. You watch him depart, endeared by his manner and honesty. He has a good soul, a strong will—perhaps the strongest you’ve known, apart from…

You stare back at your mentor, memories of the past flooding behind your eyes.

Five months prior

“Good! Again!”

You’re panting, your total concentration breathing nearly failing as you evade another deadly arc of the Third Form: Blazing Universe. 

The sun has westered and a bluish twilight sets over the lands, but your mentor still has you parrying his unwavering techniques, before making you attack using combinations of them in turn. 

“Lord—lord Rengoku—”

His blazing speed cuts your words short as your blades clash, and you stare into bright, golden-rimmed irises. He’s smiling, as usual, with a devilish spark in his eyes. There is a sudden flutter in your stomach, overriding the fatigue in your burning muscles. “Come now, don’t tell me you’re beat! You’ve come so far after only three years!” he says as you fall back, lunging for another attack the following second.

The sudden weakness you feel when you’re close to him has you confused, because it was not there before. It all began in the past year: whenever he stares at you in a certain way, whenever he touches you during training or meets your eyes, something gnaws achingly at your chest. It’s as though you need something from him, but have no idea what it is. 

“I knew it from the moment I took you on as a successor,” he says, merciless in his offensive. “If you—” Parry. Lunge. “—carry on like this—” Attack. Jump. “—you’ll reach a Hashira level of skill in no time at all!” 

You don’t have the chance to reply, though his words feel like honey coating your senses. At first, he’d been sparse and strict, keeping to instructions and nothing else. But you struggled, worked harder than you had for anything in all your life, and it seems he acknowledges this fully now. 

“Now—Ninth Form: Rengoku!” 

That means you must attack, and he must deflect. But—Ninth Form?! “I—I can’t, I’m… I’m too exhausted for the Ninth!”

He bursts forward with Unknowing Fire, forcing you to duck and curl your body, rolling away into the dust, rising on one knee. 

The Flame Hashira turns, pointing his weapon at you. “Is that what you plan on telling the demons?”

“Well, no, but—”

“At no point during a battle will you have the luxury of biding your time. If this were an actual encounter, you’d be dead.” He no longer smiles, his face turned cold, eyes glinting like molten steel.

You feel the rush of shame like fangs biting into you, fueling a horrible need to prove him wrong, to rise up to the challenge in his voice. With a hiss and a groan you grip the handle of your katana tightly, breathing and striving to light that spark in your heart. 

With a cry you speed forward, clashing with him in a desperate lunge. 

“Ha!” The smile returns as you grit your teeth. “Better!”

His face is so close to yours again, so close you feel the rush of his breath on your cheek. 

Your knees feel weak again, and you close your eyes, pushing forward in an attempt to skew his balance. 

What the hell is happening to you? 

“Faster, the fire is still weak! It must rage!” the Hashira says, grinning like a madman now, and where once you enjoyed the path of learning and reaching your full potential, now his attitude brings forth an ache that confuses you and leaves you anxious.

Even so. Your blades sing against each other as you lunge back in a high jump, landing in a lowered stance with one palm braced against the earth. Your uniform is wet on your back, and you’re closer to your breaking point than you've ever been.

But the thought of disappointing him, now that feels unbearable. So you do what you always do: you push yourself more, more, harnessing all your strength into one melting core, bathing your heart in it and firing up your veins. 

You attack.

He laughs outright. “Not bad, but—” Your swords clash, fiercer than before. “I know you can do better, and you can be faster.”

“I’m doing all I can!” you yell, at the end of your tether now. It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last. But he takes no offense, he never does, and that's one of the things you appreciate about him. “But you—you make it impossible! You always want more, even if you know I’m not ready for it!”

It must be the fire rushing through you that has you speaking this way, daring to say such words despite knowing full well what you were in for, when you accepted to become his successor. 

“Wait until you’re ready, and you will never improve!” the Flame Hashira throws back.

A growl leaves your throat as you fall back then speed towards him again, trying the Second then the Third form in succession sloppily but you’re past caring. 

Your arms feel as though they will tear and your bones might splinter as you crash against his unwavering stance, and you meet his scarlet-gold gaze as he speaks softly, his voice imbued with warmth: “You can surpass the impossible. I believe in you.” 

Your eyes widen, that damned ache ringing through your body like a weakening poison and—

For one split second, your stance weakens, and you’re thrown back, losing your balance and falling heavily onto the ground. 

Rengoku stares down at you, tilting his head to the side with a strange look on his face as he sheathes his katana. 

Your vision sways, your lungs might burst. You barely clutch at the helping hand extended to you, aiding you to your feet. He grasps your shoulders. “What happened there just now? Your focus melted like wax.”

“I…” You can’t look him in the eye. His hands on you diffuse heat, permeating through your clothing. It feels good. It scares you. “I don’t… know.”

“Tomorrow, again,” he says, releasing you. “Please do better. Remember we’re doing this for you, but foremost for the people.”

“Understood,” you murmur, biting back tears as you watch him walk away.

Midnight has arrived when you end your reverie, thinking about that emotion that took root in your body and spirit, growing stronger as time passed. And you never dared tell him, never dared facing it nor can you explain why. You take a deep breath, leaned with your arms folded on the edge of the bed, your forehead resting on them. You never told him, and now… 

And now with each day I’m losing hope.

Your shoulders are shaking, and your eyes sting. There is no one else here but you and him, the long chamber of empty beds the only witness to your breakdown. 

You’re so absorbed by despair, you don’t perceive the faint movement, or the hand gently placed on your head.

“... Why are you crying?”

You choke on a silent sob, blinking in shock at the low, throaty voice, broken with disuse. Slowly, you raise your head.

He's staring at you, a bleak smile on his lips, and you're utterly, incomprehensibly frozen.

“You… you’re awake?” It feels like the dumbest of questions: your body knows the truth before your mind catches up. 

“That… depends. Are you really here?” he asks in turn. 

You nod, biting on your lower lip and wiping your eyes with your sleeve. “Yes, yes I am.”

The smile wavers for a moment as he grimaces in pain. “Oh, I see. Then… it seems… you’re not rid of me yet.”

All the gods in all the world couldn’t keep the emotions flooding you at bay, and you shake your head as warm tears flow down your face. 

PART II

[foundheavenly]

“I've returned”

Disclaimer: English is not my mother tongue so please be nice :)

Words: 750

Plot: You have been married to Sukuna for centuries until the moment you had find your end. But you're back, reincarnated in a different body, and it's now modern time.

Pairing: sukuna x reader

Theme: angst, comfort, worship, devotion, reincarnation

You had been his wife for years and even if Sukuna hadn't really liked you at the first place, looking down at you only as a pathetic and annoying human being, he had learned to get along with you. And with time, the king of curses had learned to love. You had find a way to get underneath his skin and cold attitude. At first, he even hated you for it. He never truly understood how you could do that.

But then you had died and he had been left lonely for the very first time. With your loss, he had become crueler than ever.

A century have passed and he is now back as the strongest curse, possessing the body of a teenager, Yuji Itadori. Sukuna just wants destruction and murder for Jujutsu Society. However, he wasn't ready to see you, in the crowded streets of Tokyo, reborn.

You have awaken in a world far different from the one you remembered. The air was different, the sounds unfamiliar, and the surroundings alien. As you gathered your bearings, you realized that you were in a new body, a vessel that felt both strange and yet strangely familiar. And you didn't know how it could even possible.

Memories from centuries past flooded your mind. You were once known as the queen of curses, and you had shared a love that transcended time and death with Sukuna. You had been inseparable, bound by a connection that defied the mortal coil. Until the day you met your end by the hands of one of the strongest sorcerer from your time.

But you had been given a second chance at life. As you navigated this new existence, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. It was then that the memories of Sukuna and your centuries-long bond resurfaced.

Driven by an inexplicable force, you sought him out. In this bustling city of skyscrapers and technology, you knew you had to find the one who had been left alone for so long. The one who had showed you unconditionnal love and devotion. Your heart, now beating in a mortal chest, quickened with anticipation. Because you could feel him around, his loneliness and rage echoed through the surroundings.

It didn't take long to sense his presence. Sukuna, the ancient being you had loved for eons, was still there. As the wind blew through your hair, you felt a strange yet strong sensation down your spine. You felt like someone was watching you. You looked around quickly and, to your surprise, it was him. You frowned as you became aware of this new, young body he was in, but you didn't care. You could feel it in the depths of your being. You felt an overwhelming sense of affection coming through. You wanted to rush to his side but you control yourself.

As your eyes met, recognition flickered in his red gaze. Time seemed to stand still as the weight of centuries bore down on you. There was a mixture of surprise, disbelief, and a spark of something deeper—something that transcended the boundaries of time.

He continued to stare at you, his expression unchanging as always. But you could feel it. He was relieved to have you back. Then he titled his head.

"Sukuna" You whispered as you were quite shocked, the name carrying the echoes of your past. "It's me. I've returned."

His eyes softened with a mix of emotions, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. The void of loneliness that had haunted him for so long began to dissipate. In that moment, you knew that your love, forged through centuries, had endured and would continue to defy the constraints of time.

A sly grin played on his lips as he looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes. "My queen" He uttered, his voice a rich resonance that sent shivers down your spine. "Time may have changed our forms, but my devotion to you remains unchanged."

He extended a hand, and you took it without hesitation. As your fingers interlocked, the familiar warmth of his touch enveloped you and you couldn't be more relieved to have find your home again.

[macabrecake]

Devilish Intentions

➛ Pairing: Incubus!Leon S. Kennedy x Female! Reader

➛ Warning: Just pure smut and demon shit meaning- minors back off

➛ Note: I've been dead on here for so long and I'm really sorry about that so hopefully this little treat I had saved in my W.I.P.'s makes up for it! Everyone please stay safe and Happy Halloween! 🎃

"Mmh, Leon!~"

Another breathy whimper emits, earning you a low dangerous chuckle from the demon towering over you, before his claws dig deeper into the sweet, supple flesh of your hips and slides into you again. Hitting that sensitive spot inside you once more.

The gasp that escapes you is sudden as your hands frantically latch onto his blackened arms in a feeble attempt to keep yourself grounded, and shyly peek up at the beast.

In all his breathtaking glory.

The thin layer of sweat covering his beautifully toned body that moves with enigmatic vigor. Casting him in a light shimmer that mirrors the subtle shine of the ebony horns resting atop his head, abound with locks of sand blonde fringes that softly flutter with every little groan and huff that utters from soft pale rose lips. Hellfire red irises hold your gaze from the depths of night filled eyes. Clearly proud by what he sees.

Don't be shy.

Please keep looking at him.

He loves your eyes.

They confess so much to him. How good he's doing, how badly you need him. Your moans, your wails, and all your sweet melodies in between keep him alive. However, eye contact satiates his hunger the most. And he's starving for more.

Leon's eyes travel downward to take in the view of your breasts bouncing with every steady thrust he sends into your weeping hole. Unable to stop from pulling his bottom lip between his fangs in a smirk at how prominent his marks stain your skin. Evidence of his possessive nature. He doesn't care though, the different pink, purple, and red hues look so stunning on you. A gorgeous painting of his own design.

But the real masterpiece is what he sees when he looks down…

There.

The points where you both connect with a rhythmic slap. Where your shared arousals splatter every time his throbbing cock disappears back into your soft pink slit. Amplifying just how truly wet your cunt sounds. That's what gets him to moan with delight, what sends his demonic wings trembling with glee. You wrap so nice and tight around him. Almost too small for him in fact, given how a slight bulge appears in your lower belly every time he sinks back inside you.

Leon's eyes light up even brighter at the sight, almost deranged with excitement. Because holy fuck that's hot.

You're in shambles.

A perfect mess.

All for him.

He praises you for that, by leaning down to place his lips upon the hollow of your throat. Teeth like his close to such a vital area should scare you. Yet it only sends a blissful shiver down your spine and makes you let go of another airy moan. Leon hums at that, feeling your sound vibrate against his lips.

"Louder my little dove." He utters sweetly into your heated flesh before his lips work their way up to yours, so close to kiss you yet still so far away, and releases a hoarse whisper. He can't hold himself back any longer, and he knows your coil is close to snapping as well.

"Let Heaven and Hell know how good I make you feel."

Who are you to deny such a request? Especially when he's not exactly giving you a choice. Leon's large hands creep down from your hips to cup your ass, then lifts you a few inches off the bed. And abruptly pounds your dripping pussy harder. Driven with animalistic need as he heavily pants into your ear.

The new angle and speed hits so many spots inside you with such precision it pulls the most euphoric scream from your shuddering frame that clings to him for dear life. The demon doesn't mind one bit. That sound is what he'll commit to memory as he squishes you close to his body.

Leon never let's go, even when you cum. And you cum hard around his heavy cock, gushing all over him and onto the sheets beneath you. A growl rumbles within his chest at your walls clamping down on him so tightly. He can't stop himself from burying his face in the crook of your neck with another harsh bite while he brutally fucks you through your orgasm. Promptly earning him a squeal at your release being drawn out. "Ah!~ Oh F-uck Leon!"

You sound so cute like that.

Leon practically purrs into your skin when his own high is finally reached, making him go still and lightly shudder. Your quiet whimper tells him all he needs to know. You're completely stuffed. So full to the point his cum will ooze out of your visibly pumping cunt once he pulls out. He smirks rather proudly at that, knowing that'll be such a pretty sight to behold.

But he doesn't move yet, not wanting to disturb the way your smaller frame embraces him, like he's your favorite teddy bear. Leon can't help but smile at that and softly bump his nose against yours, "Did I break you, sweetheart?" His sultry tone rumbles out rather teasingly. Letting his smile burst into a sharp toothed grin at the sound of your tired little breathless giggle, "Maybe a little."

The warm sound of a chuckle resonates from Leon as he rewards you with a small but loving kiss, allowing his wings to furl around you while he holds you close, fending off the autumn chill that sweeps through this blissful Halloween night. With his hunger now greatly satiated, all he wants to do now is hide his treasure from the world.

Hell will not have you, and Heaven doesn't deserve you.

[canmom]

reading Brainwyrms by Alison Rumfitt. it's interesting. clearly part of the post-Topside wave of trans lit, with the same 'plugged in to twitter' energy, but way more British about it. which means most of the allusions are very transparent to me. it's a combo of... hardcore kink driven romance as the main arc, in a near-future setting in which TERFism goes further to the point of outright bombings, and a scifi element with alien brain parasites that it's gradually building towards.

compellingly written, I'll give it that for sure - I lay down to read for a bit and before I knew it I'd read like a third of the book. the main character's disaffected, traumatised air is well observed, and the kink doesn't hold back.

I think my reservation with it so far is that it feels a little too much like a polemic blog post about the way things are going. the MC Frankie is a trans woman with a pregnancy kink who survived a bombing at a GIC and now works in social media moderation - it's all stuff that is blatantly Relevant To The Argument, as it were. it's tricky to criticise it for that because it's like, what you're saying is that it's tightly constructed and thematically consistent and that's bad somehow? but I think I've come to feel that I like fiction to bring me something a little new and unfamiliar.

the chapter I most enjoyed so far was actually a more metaphorical, abstract interlude, in which resistance to fascism is cast as becoming 'one mass of queer flesh, which now grabbed and clawed...'; 'faces locked in kisses until they became one face. the cops would try to pull at this mass, but to no avail'. very 'faggots and their friends between revolutions' stuff.

the chapters which are presented directly as social media posts and articles are also sharply observed. i think a lot of fiction in which the internet features heavily suffers from not understanding the internet very well (Hosoda's Belle for example), but for example the chapter 'Curious Cat' where an anonymous person (blatantly Vanya) is sending messages asking for help with a parasite, and getting rebuffed or misunderstood, and the chapter where Frankie relates a murder of an instagram model by a stalker who posts about it to a reddit community devoted to her, read as very real.

a lot of the story is about responding to a terrifying political situation in sexual terms - a flashback chapter depicting Frankie having sex with some terf's pretentious brother ("with each thrust from him, she thought to herself, I am a traitor, I am a traitor to the cause"), or the preface which jokes about how in another world the author would be writing 'cool horror stories about vampires raping werewolves, ones with no subtext at all'. I prevaricate a little on whether this is a compelling examination of a theme that I do find interesting (the mysterious origins of sexual desire) or just edgy for its own sake.

this is an odd novel for me in some ways because while on one level, this is about people who I could very easily be a single degree of separation from were they real, it's also about a facet of life that is still quite alien to me and in many ways I only know about second hand. I've never been to a kink club (that wasn't in an MMO anyway lol), I'm way too much of a nerdy autist shut-in to know what it's like to be someone who would feel put out if she hadn't had sex in a week. so even before the parasite stuff, it's hard to know how much of Frankie and Vanya's stuff is real, and how much is fantasy. is this really how things go between people? it sounds kinda fun, but unlocking the door this far has already taken years.

when I've read books about the crazy lives that American trans girls supposedly live and interesting sex they're apparently having, they've been at a certain remove, the other side of the Atlantic. and this book feels sort of similar, even though I know it's set right on my doorstep. idk, I've never been good at this.

anyway I don't think I want to write fantasy novels so directly about The Discourse of the day, but it's probably good that someone is. that said, it's hard to parse like... ok, it's titled brainwyrms, and 'brain worms' is a common way of describing an obsessive, cultish idea you receive from the internet.

and like if you look at the newspapers, or twitter trans discourse, you certainly could believe that this country is on a rapid slide to putting us in camps. however, my day to day life has been... it's not without hostility, but the average street harasser isn't doing it because of a Guardian or even Mail article. this country has a subculture of deranged weirdos who hate our guts, and a political class who will happily stoke culture war shit to score points, but most normies I've met don't care one way or another that I'm trans - they might mention a family member or friend they know who's also trans. the day to day conflicts are over way more prosaic shit, the landlord vs tenant forever war, or how the kitchen should be cleaned. which of these windows is more informative of the 'overall' state of affairs? not that a more violent terf cult is a bad premise to write a novel around, but a sense of impending doom is a pretty powerful mechanism to keep you scrolling, right?

like in 20, 40 years - will the terfs really be bombing the Tavistock and banning transness, as Rumfitt imagines in her near-future setting preface? or will they go the way of those newspapers in Thatcher's time who smeared the gay movement, just as they smear us today? of passing political obsessions like 'new atheism'? I don't know the half-life of cult shit.

anyway, time to read the rest of the novel, and see how it handles this brew that it's concocted.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for blocking my business partner and our mutual friends?

First of all, I want to establish that I'm not an idiot. I don't think I'm the smartest person in the world, I didn't do very well in school, and I'm generally a bit forgetful. I've been struggling with undiagnosed mental illness and neurodivergency for my entire life. My family growing up was very anti therapy and I've only recently brought anything up to a doctor. However, I like to think I manage myself pretty well. I have my own systems for doing things, and they may be unconventional, but it works. I've come to terms with the fact that no matter what I do, I'm going to have to work a lot harder than the average person and get a lot less credit. That's just how it is. I have two jobs, one of which is at a restaurant, and the other is a business that I started with my friend. It's still fairly small and local, but I'm really proud of how far it's come.

Me and my business partner, we'll call her Shelly, have a group of friends that we hang out with from time to time. I honestly don't like them very much, but Shelly, who has been my best friend for over a decade really enjoys hanging out with them, so though I've expressed to her that I want to start seeing them less, I've stayed friends with them, both to make Shelly happy and to avoid any drama that might be caused.

Among this group of friends is someone we'll call Dianne. Dianne will insult and berate me consistently, and then insist it was a joke. Nobody has ever laughed, and I have told Dianne that I don't find any of it funny. The other members of the friend group (aside from Shelly) said that this is just how she expresses that she likes somebody, and tried to make it seem like playful banter, but the insults are incredibly one-sided (I've never said an ill word about her to any of them, and especially not to her. I'm not rude.) and she never insults anyone but me and sometimes Shelly.

Recently ( a couple months or so ago) she started taking digs at my intelligence, as I have been a few minutes late to a couple of our hangouts, and I have trouble with my left and right. I said explicitly that I don't like it when people treat me like an idiot. I tried to be polite, but I won't stand for that. Also, being late and directions are very common things for people to struggle with, so I don't understand why that insinuates that I'm at all unintelligent. She also may have gotten this idea because I don't tend to laugh at her jokes, which are mostly things like "that's what she said" and other cheap and immature sex jokes. She usually tries to brush off the fact that I don't laugh by saying I must be dumb because I don't get her jokes. I do, they're just not very clever and I clearly have a different sense of humor than her.

I just kept trying to avoid any sort of conflict, because the rest of the group makes Shelly really happy. But then it started to get worse. The whole group seemed to be influenced by these jokes, and stopped expecting me to be able to do anything. I wasn't even the designated driver anymore, even though I'm usually the obvious choice because I don't drink. Dianne told me I'd probably crash because she didn't think I could read street signs. I've driven her home multiple times (during none of which she's been sober enough to remember my driving ability) and I've never driven at all irresponsibly while any of them were in the car. The whole group, aside from Shelly, began making jokes about how I was the resident airhead. For my birthday, Dianne got me a toddler sippy cup, and a card that said "Congrats, you're 2!". Get it. Because I'm so stupid I'm basically a child. Ha ha. So funny I forgot to laugh.

The last straw for me was when Shelly sent me a business email that was like "Are you going to be able to get the books done in time?" and basically told me to make sure I wasn't lazy when it came to keeping track of the sales, even though I've never been late with that kind of stuff. I really care about our business, and I keep track of all of the financials and do our taxes. I don't have a degree or anything, I could never afford college, so I emailed Shelly back very passive-agressively about how if she doesn't think I can do it in time, she can hire a real accountant.

We met with the friendgroup the next day and I was incredibly pissed. Dianne made another dig at me, something about our business probably going under because I'm too incompetent to do anything. I snapped. In the midst of yelling at her, I said "I am not stupid. You don't get to treat me like I am." and she said "But aren't you, though?" and I stormed out. I blocked everyone, except for Shelly.

I texted Shelly and said that she could be friends with whoever she wants, but that I'm never speaking to any of them ever again. Shelly said that I was being overdramatic, and that they're all being awkward to her now because they know that we're such good friends. I apologized for putting her in a position where she felt like she was in the middle, but told her that I was not about to take any more of that treatment. I told her I'm disappointed that after all this time, she let other people dictate the way that she sees me. When her new friends call me stupid, I can let it slide off of my back, but when my best friend of over a decade starts treating me like I'm incompetent and I can't get anything done, that really hurts. She told me that I need to learn to take a joke. I blocked her too after that. We've continued having meetings and being mostly civil, but we haven't spoken outside of that, and all the friendship is gone.

I'm mostly concerned about how this situation is going to affect our business, because I have worked so hard and I'd hate to see it fail because of petty drama and insults. I'm now feeling like I made a huge mistake by blowing up. Should I have just kept quiet to protect my job and friendship?

What are these acronyms?

[adnauseum11]

Defence Logistics (John Price x Reader)

2.6 k words

CW: swearing, canon-typical violence, minor character death

This work is part of the S.N.A.F.U. series, the Masterlist is pinned to my blog

I don't know why, but I've struggled with this chapter more than any others lately. The format I chose, the tenses, all of it was a puzzle I've been wrestling with. I don't know if it's my insomnia making a come back or what, but I have been agonizing on this one. Almost scrapped it altogether but have decided to be brave and let 'er rip. I found writing John without the warmth he has for his love a bit jarring, having the ability to turn off that part of yourself and focus on wrecking damage on others was hard to capture. If it's subpar I can only apologize lol - the next chapter is already coming easier.

Feedback welcome, if folks have any tips or suggestions - this is all for fun and improvement! (that's what I keep telling myself anyways lol)

Masterlist

John’s transfixed, watching rusty blood swirl around the shower drain, his mind still back in the field. He’s showering off before he drives home from the black site, situated deep in the English country side. He’s bruised in several places, with a fresh cut across his lower forearm where the Commander’s knife had connected during a wild swing. The dull throb pulls his brain back to the present moment, making him realize he’s slowly dripping blood all over his own feet. He lifts the cut above his heart and tries to refocus his thoughts. Kate’s dealing with the paperwork, folding their use of equipment into existing work orders. Gaz and Simon are also showering, medical and debrief waiting for them all on the other side of the steam. John’s mind keeps running over the events of the last few days, looking for anything he’s missed.

Thankfully, he and Ghost had arrived in Lithuania a whole day ahead of Gaz’s taskforce. They had driven across Vilnius in an SUV that had been held together with good intentions and baler twine, as far as John could make out. It had rattled something awful, to the point they had ditched it on a side road and hiked the last few rough miles, working their way across farmer’s fields dodging cattle and sheep in the early morning light. The Industrial section was set outside of city limits, in between old farms, where the smells and sounds would be less likely to disrupt the rhythms of life. The physical exercise helped re-center John’s mind on the task at hand. The way things had been left between himself and his love had unsettled him, giving his mind a stone to turn over instead of focusing on his immediate surroundings. He’d said more than he’d wanted to in explaining his departure, opening a can of worms he hadn’t intended and couldn’t put right before he left. If Ghost noticed John’s initial lack of focus, he said nothing.

The intercept point was more or less on top of the taskforce’s rendezvous point, in the back end of a massive sheep field with a small hut built out of field stones. By the time they arrived to do their recon, he had pulled himself together mentally and was feeling more present. John’s body remembered the training that had been drilled in to it, the rust of retirement flaking away as time stretched on. Soon it was nearly like he had never left.  He and Ghost discussed how to proceed in various probable scenarios as they checked the surrounding area.

How many people were involved in the revenge plot would depend on how the commander split his forces, to John’s mind. If he kept Gaz under his direct command there was likely no one else involved and Gaz was unlikely to survive the mission. If he sent Gaz with one of the other men, it was more likely they all were involved and it was more probable they would detain Gaz for information. Ghost agreed with John’s assessment, and they scouted the area before making a small camp a quarter of a mile from the rendezvous point to wait.

The downbeat of helicopter blades alerted them to the taskforce arriving a few hours after dark. John had signaled to Ghost, stubbing his cigar out and flipping the night vision goggles on. Then he and Ghost set out, snaking through the underbrush, using trees as cover as they moved in on the clearing and the stone hut. Once they got within a few hundred yards of the edge of the clearing they fanned out, Ghost swinging wide behind the unloading area.

They watched silently as five men disembarked using ropes, the wash of the helicopter blades obscuring any noise for several long minutes. Finally, it lifted, slowly claiming altitude again in the darkness, a handful of blinking lights the only outward signal of its location. The men had immediately moved on the stone hut as they landed one by one, quickly sweeping and entering it. John and Ghost had stayed in position, watching the hut for signs of life. Eventually the men exited, filtering into two separate groups. One group of two and another group with the remaining three. John located the Commander, pointing out the line of travel and giving a shove to one of his men. He squinted through his goggles, quickly identifying Gaz as the other man in the Commander’s trio.

As the groups split off into the darkness, the former Captain let the warmth of his anger wash over him again, keeping his movements purposeful and his mind on task. Staying a healthy distance behind, he stalked the trio as they hiked along the edge of the pasture, using trees and the waist high rock fence as cover. John tracked them easily with his night vision, quietly moving deeper in the woods. Ghost had shadowed the other group who were working their way further into the woods, opposite to where John and Ghost had camped and back towards the plant. When the Commander paused a few miles later near the badly rutted dirt road, their intent became clear to John.

The Commander’s group was set to create a diversion at the front gate of the chemical plant while the secondary team got in and collected the intel they were after. John waited until they were moving again to softly relay his plan to Ghost who responded with a subdued “rog that” in his ear. John moved incrementally closer on silent feet, waiting to see how they would go about creating their diversion. He watched as the Commander motioned Gaz to push forward, yanking a grenade from Gaz’s tac vest and pressing it into his hand. John had to force himself to wait, the instinct to get to Gaz pressing in on him tightly.

 The front gate was framed with two concrete pillars, into which were sunk the posts for retractable chain link fencing. Beyond that, a bar gate, manned by middling security guards wearing flak vests and holstered pistols. John had guessed they were there to keep the local gangs out more than they were prepared to deal with para-military operations. He was proven correct shortly after when Gaz lobbed the grenade in his hand at the chain link fence. It landed close enough to blow the gate off its track, making what was left of the twisted metal hang at an awkward angle. The explosion rocked the gate house, making the men inside shout and duck for cover. Gaz lobbed another grenade, this one blasting the gate off completely, the smoking metal smashing into the ground with a loud screech.

The men inside the gate house finally got themselves organized and started cautiously coming out, using the door as cover as they opened return fire into the darkness. John watched as the Commander gave Gaz’s shoulder a shove, jerking his head towards the gate house. John understood in a flash the Commander was trying to position Gaz where a stray bullet wouldn’t be blinked at if it connected. John was instantly moving, his feet creeping him closer to their position when Gaz did the unexpected. Instead of scurrying forward as they all assumed, he threw himself backwards, kicking his legs up to get leverage as he swung his body around to lock legs with the other soldier, standing beside the Commander. He went down in a heap, Gaz wrestling for top position for all he was worth.

John sprinted the last few yards, yanking the unsuspecting and now screaming Commander by the back of the tac vest before he could interfere. Chaos reigned as shots continued to pepper out from the gate house and the men shouted each other down. John hadn’t been fast enough getting his hands clear, the Commander yanking a Bowie knife free from his vest and swinging wildly over his head, trying to fend off the attack from behind. John grunted when the tip of the knife skittered across his arm but he didn’t stop in his action, drawing his rifle butt up and bringing it down on the Commander’s cheek as he stumbled backwards. The blow knocked him unconscious, his body falling the rest of the way into a heap.

Gaz was still scrambling on the ground with the bigger soldier, trading blows before John stepped in, levelling his pistol at the man’s head and pulling the trigger without hesitation. Gaz was instantly covered in a spray of brain matter and blood, and his hands came up instinctively, warding off another shot from the same direction. John had spoken up then.

“On your feet soldier.”

John had offered him a hand and it took Gaz’s brain a split second to recognize the ex-Captain.

“Cap - Laswell said you uncovered this shitshow. Wasn’t sure you were going to leave your new girl for this though.”

Gaz had extended his hand, letting John haul him upright. John had hummed non-committedly, not wanting to get into the specifics of his presence in the field. He reached into his vest and pulled out zip-ties, handing them to Gaz.

“Smart man to not let him get you in a bad position. Get him restrained for now.”

He muttered before tapping his coms.

“Ghost, how copy?”

There was a brief pause and then Ghost’s deep voice was in John’s ear.

“They’re almost at the target. The explosions and gunfire pulled all attention from the rest of the building. Moving fast.”

“Regroup with us at the vehicle once they’re successful. Anything goes off the rails, I want to know ASAP. Out here.”

“Rog that, Captain.”

John let go of the comm and lifted his rifle again, firing a few bullets into the air. This riled up the security guards again, setting off another round of wild shots into the now eerily quiet night.

“Strip him. No insignia.”

John gestured to the remains of the solider, blood and thick brain matter pooling on the ground. Gaz started ripping the patches off the dead man’s vest, stuffing them into a spare pocket of his own. John reached over, using the muzzle of his rifle to push what was left of the man’s head to the side, reaching in to the neck and yanking the dog tags off, handing them to Gaz as well.

“Help me get this one further into the woods.”

John kicked the foot of the Commander, and Gaz stood, taking an elbow on one side. They carried him backwards, his dragging feet going silent as they entered deeper into the woods. Gaz counted out a hundred steps and then they propped him up against a tree. John rummaged around, pulling his field first aid kit out and locating the smelling salts.

“We’re going to wake him up. I want to know how many people he’s involved in this revenge scheme.”

“Think he’ll tell us the truth?”

“Won’t know unless we ask, soldier.”

John broke the salts and waved them under the unconscious man’s nose. Gaz refastened his gloves, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched the man wake.

“Oi, OI.”

John’s tone was abrupt, not giving the waking man time to adjust to his surroundings.

“Wha- “

“You wanted the 141, Commander, you’ve got ‘em.”

When it took the man a beat too long to respond, John reached out and slapped his cheek with his open palm, jerking his head back against the trunk of the tree.

“Wake up Sunshine. What do you want with the 141?”

The Commander’s words are slurred, likely concussed from the blow to his head.

“Killed my brother – “

“You want revenge.”

John’s tone was flat, emotionless. The words unamused and to the point.

“Justice.” The Commander coughed, his head lolling to the side as he squinted up at them. “But we make our own, don’t we Captain?”

“If we’re lucky. Any more of your men involved? You already got one man killed.”

“No.”

The word was spat out, the hatred tangible in his tone.

“Norris feeding you information?”

“Get fucked.”

John looked over at Gaz who nodded silently to John’s unasked question. John had raised his pistol and pointed it at the man’s foot.

“Norris feeding you information?”

“I said get fu – “

John unloaded the bullet into the man’s foot, the bones and flesh splintering inside his boot. A bloodcurdling scream rang out, bouncing off the trees, making it seem like it was all around them. John lifted the pistol to aim at the man’s knee, his face impassive as the scream died down, replaced with frantic wounded whimpering.

“Norris feeding you information?”

“Holy fuck, oh shit, wait, wait, wait please – “

John leaned in, speaking lowly for the man’s ears only, not sure how much Gaz had been told.

“You send a sexual predator to my woman’s place and expect this to go well for you?”

John didn’t wait for an answer and shot the man’s knee out, the spray of blood missing Gaz this time but catching the side of John’s chest. The howl the Commander let out was unearthly, birds startling from their nighttime roosts. Some deeply tucked away part of John that demanded the collection of a pound of flesh was perversely satisfied with the sound. John stepped away again, training his pistol on the heavily bleeding man’s uninjured foot. Gaz stood, emotionless as the ex-Captain moved around the prone man, the dark forest obscuring their movements from the road.

“Last chance before I even you up. Norris feeding you information?”

“He’s the one who told me about my brother being at Las Almas!! He’s the one.”

John had shot a look at Gaz before turning back to the now heavily wounded man propped up against the tree. He gestured to the zip ties behind the man’s back with the muzzle of his pistol.

“Cut him loose.”

“You’re going to pay for this – I’ll make sure everyone knows-”

John took aim and unloaded a final bullet into the man’s skull, shards of bone and brain mixing with the wood splinters and smoke in the air. Gaz startled but collected himself, stepping over to cut the ties off the body, pocketing them. The dead man’s arms fell forward once the tension of the plastic tie was released. John helped him strip any identifying insignia silently.

“You need to radio that you were ambushed, both men down. Do you have a secondary exfil?”

“Yeah, if we can get to Belarus, the location is a few clicks over the border.”

“We’ll take the vehicle as far as we can. Ghost is going to rendezvous with us, let’s move out.”

John had waited to loop Ghost in before reaching out to Kate with their new exfil plans - taking turns sleeping in the vehicle for the rest of night while pushing on to the border. This gave Kate time to organize their ride and run interference with the story of the ambush. Which is how John spent Christmas Eve, crammed into a dilapidated SUV in the rural area of Lithuania’s border with Belarus, amongst his mates eating cold MRE’s again, all of them tired but alive.

Simon’s deep rumble knocks him out of his mental reverie, calling him back to his current position under the steaming water of his shower.  So far, outside of the problem of Norris, the only thing John has been able to surmise he’s missed in the last few days is Christmas dinner with his love.

“Laswell said she’s sending the medic in after ye’ if ye’ don’t git yer ass in gear, Cap.”

John shuts the water off with a sigh and presses his lips together.

“That’ll do, Ghost. I'll be there shortly.”

Next Chapter

Ao3

Tag list:

@deadbranch @beebeechaos @cadotoast @syoddeye @writeforfandoms @itr-00 @chloepluto1306 @batw3nch @magsmagic @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @chickennn-soupp

[vsaintsin]

Writeblr Re-Intro

Yo! I'm V Saintsin. Or V or Vin or Saintsin or whatever you want to call me that sounds right on your tongue. I'm a self-proclaimed Social Media fumbler who got a late start to the party and has never quite figured it out. I hate how hipster and edgy it sounds to say "I'm bad at social media" but like I used to work with some people who actually managed the social media accounts for the business we worked for and there were rules and whatnot and damn, I think online media is just not my medium. That being said, here I am! Hah

I'm an author and general mess who's hoping to be the miracle man (somebody who makes a living writing silly little stories). I do use a pseudonym but please hear me out when I say I didn't realize how edgy it sounds, it just has some sentimental value to my personal life. I'm so sorry that I sound like I'm in my emo phase HAHA

About me -

He/Him Transguy from the American Midwest (arguably the south, depending on who you talk to, but the older people still say "Sodi-pop" and "ope").

I'm dysautonomic, bendy, permanently sleepy, and a survivor of Crappy Doctors Who Suck At Doctoring.

I like DnD, Pathfinder, Baldur's Gate 3, Cyberpunk, Dragon Age, and other things in that vein.

I do make art of my stories and characters (Tablet is currently not working so I'm in a dry spell).

My writing background is predominantly ancient, dusty RPs from as far back as the foopets days and fanfic writing on Quizilla - I am an old and wizened elder of the net.

My formal education was music performance and behavioral neuroscience, I don't really know how I got where I am.

This is not my first rodeo with tumblr but it is the first time I have anything to SAY instead of just lurking.

In the event of malfunction, you can put me outside for 5 minutes and I'll probably factory reset.

My existence as I know it hinges on a massive number of sticky notes plastered throughout my room.

What I'm lookin' for -

Idk, whatever? I'm down for most things. Did you write it? Cool, let me see. I'm not too bent on genre or anything, just fascinated by the art of storytelling.

A bit tentative with fanfiction but that's just because if it's not a fandom I'm familiar with I am rather clueless about what the hell is going on and if it's a fandom I am familiar with I HUNT DOWN THE DEEP LORE.

I like art a whole lot, including fanart. Also art advice, love seeing things from different perspectives and learning something new.

Mutuals, really, for any reason. Building better connections on here, getting to know people. I am hideously bad at this but I try.

What I write -

Science Fiction with heavy subjects that matter to me - trigger warnings on a story-by-story basis.

High Fantasy (eventually books I think?) characters and their backgrounds for DnD and Pathfinder - I have been tempted to share these to help people get ideas or just for free use?

Things that I delete because I have crippling imposter syndrome and publishing makes me nauseous (doin' it tho).

Stories that I hope will make people feel less alone or that people could relate to, stories that I wish I had when life was worse and I was reaching out for anything I could find to keep me afloat, stories that try to be critical of things that SUCK in a way that's any helpful.

Lots of curse words and cussing (that's just how people talk 'round here), dubious science, things that I hope might make you cry but in a good way though.

Character-Driven stories that revolve more around the development of the person and less around the plot itself if that makes sense.

I've put blurb things below for my primary project/series which features a grumpy, queer, 37-year old chain smoking Frenchman and his misadventures with life and love and unbridled rage. If any of that sounds cool stick around and hang out? (This part is a plug bc I did a thing and I'm proud of it) And if my books sounds interesting the first one is 99 cents on Kindle and you just need a phone and a free app to read it!

THE SECRET OF LIFE (Published) - Sci-Fi/Psychological Thriller, Bi M Lead, Lovers to Enemies, AI but the oldschool cool kind not the real world thing that's stealing our future

Carlisle-Trystan Antoinette is a mercenary on a hard road, navigating life and death itself in an infinite cycle started by powers above his understanding. He has one mission - warn The Dianican Space Station of the coming threat and put a stop to a war that would encapsulate the whole of the Sol System before it can ever begin. Unfortunately for Carlisle, reality is a tenuous thing, made up only by our understanding of it. At least, according to his Psychiatrist, who tells him that there is no war, that he was never a mercenary, and that what Carlisle is experiencing is a severe but manageable psychotic break. Stripped of his combat enhancements, his bio monitor, and everything he's every known, Carlisle has a decision to make. Does he give in to the thoughts and memories, so real that he can almost taste them, or does he live a life of comfort and ease, returning to a husband and daughter that he left behind?

TWs: Domestic and War Violence, suicide, rape, medical trauma, grief, drug use

THE SILENCE OF ANGELS (Due July '24, TSoL 2) - Betrayal and Rage, Learning how to love again slow-burn romantic subplot, Learning how to Dad, A general inability for any one thing to just go right

(Quick Rough Blurb that offers no spoilers for TSoL) Making connections isn't easy for somebody who's accustomed to burning bridges. Isolation has always been Carlisle's mantra for surviving his life. Playing a role comes second nature, pretending to be the man that everyone else wants to see in him. When an old friend is murdered Carlisle finds himself as the primary suspect with all evidence pointing to him so clearly that even he calls to question what he is capable of. Unwilling to believe that he could commit such a heinous crime, Carlisle sets off to find the truth of his friend's death - was Carlisle framed or does he truly have the capacity to bring such harm upon those he loves? Old and new bonds will be tested, faith broken, and the future of everyone called into question as lines are drawn and sides are picked.

TWs: Violence, mentions of SA, graphic character death, more grief, more death

I don't know what else to say... Later!

[ceilidho]

tell me something nuclear winter ghoap NOW!! (bo)

BO!!!!! ok you wanna read what i've got so far?? it's not very much but here's what i have for my project that's tentatively titled "permafrost"

At first, it comes as a series of lights in the distance, a gentle rain like a cascade of falling stars. And then, it goes dark.

It happens over the course of several hours. By the time the dust settles—and it never settles, never really settles, always hangs in the air and renders it unbreathable, unlivable—and the sirens quiet and the last few screams die off, there’s hardly anything left. Hardly anything left living. 

The initial blast doesn’t reach up the country and, for that, Johnny lasts the months after the first nuclear bombs are dropped. Somedays, he can barely recollect the hours after the initial impact; they come back in foggy chunks, stumbling out of his house, boots crunching over the glass that had been blown clean out of the windows, covering his eyes against the flash of light and staring out into the distance at the mushrooming cloud of smoke just cresting the horizon. The bottom falling out of him at the sight.

More bombs hit other parts of the continent, several in Russia, throughout Asia and down into Africa, and across the pond as well. The world goes up in flames in an hour. In his cabin up in the Scottish Highlands, crutches jammed under his arms in his haste to limp his way outside, he sees the blast and then hears it a minute or so later. A roar rippling through the air. 

It shatters the world. 

In the present day, the boat sways where it’s roped to the wharf, the waters choppy. Johnny sits on the deck in a foldout chair, fastening a new head onto his ax, fixing the metal wedge over the eye to hold it in place. The blade is cleaner than the one that’d just cracked, sharp from being run over the whetstone. He pulls his scarf back over his nose when it slips down his face.

His cabin in the Highlands hadn’t been a viable choice for longer than a few months, not after the cold had finally begun to set in. Too far up north. He’d made his way down south over the course of weeks, bringing with him only as much as he could carry. A bittersweet goodbye to the summer home of his youth, a hand laid flat against the door before turning on his heel and starting the long trek south.

It’s not any warmer farther down south, particularly around the coast where the wind gets bitterly cold, sinking into the bone. He’d found the boat on a whim, the only structure still relatively intact and, most importantly, isolated.

Making his home on an old boat might not win him any awards for brightest idea, but the downside to traveling further into the country, away from the untenable glacial weather up north, is that it coincides with the areas where the bombs were dropped, leaving limited options for shelter.

Months pass. Years pass. 

His ankle healed funny all those years ago from prolonged bouts of starvation before desperation kicked in and from traveling miles on foot. He’d driven a portion of the way down north until the roads had outlived their usefulness—asphalt cracked, chunks of bedrock spiking up out of the ground. The rest he’d managed with his crutches and a single backpack, leaving the car to rot some three hundred or so miles up the country.

It's some strange occurrence, Johnny thinks at age thirty-something (he’s lost count), that his lot be murky, for death to miscount. He witnesses an apocalypse and comes out the other side. Happenstance. Coincidence, that he’s discharged from the military not a month before the first bomb hits London and leaves a crater that never fills, that never heals. A pockmark in the earth. 

His lips twist bitterly. The price of a long life is a barbed and slick soul. 

​​Immortality sometimes occurs to him, or godship, but neither option rests well with him and Johnny wonders if this is how gods are born: not of sea foam but of inevitability, of miscalculation, of death's err, of smallness, of acorns he carried as a child through pastures behind his summer house.

He sniffs. Cuts that memory off at the quick.

Johnny gives himself a couple more minutes to fiddle around with the ax before looping it into the gear loops on his backpack and buckling it in.

[MISSING STUFF HERE]

Much of the city has returned to nature, rubble encased in snow and ice; the stores have long been looted or reduced to ash from the blast. 

[needle-noggins]

A Guide to eezybree's Trigun Fanfiction

Hi all! For @trigunfanfic appreciation week, I would like to do a little self-promo. I've only been writing fanfic for about a year (if you don't count my POTC fic from middle school) but it has changed my life and I'm really proud of what I've done so far. If you'd like to read some of my stuff, here's a quick guide!

Bluebells | E | Vashmeryl | 43k, in progress | post-canon Trimax, canon-compliant | Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally-driven, Character-driven. My long fic about Vash and Meryl figuring out life after Trimax. It's mostly Meryl POV, with an emphasis on her PTSD and trauma, but Vash is even more messed up. He's lost and grieving both Wolfwood and his brother, and Meryl's hangups about his nature as a plant certainly don't help their feelings of loneliness even as they're living together. It doesn't help that the ghost of Wolfwood won't leave the damn room. They work it out together while still acknowledging the things that haunt them - Vash's grief and Meryl's fear - and put on a brave face for the TV special on his life. This fic has converted a few people to see Vashmeryl, has made people laugh and cry, and has inspired a little bit of art. This fic is my baby, and I'm so so damn proud of it. ALSO: The smut is skippable!

Funeral Rites | T | Vashwood | 3k | Trimax canon-compliant Vol. 10 Burial fic. My first fic and still beloved. Vash buries Wolfwood and gets weird about it, would you expect any less? This baby is so chock-full of love and grief.

Freaks of Nurture | M | Gen/Vashwood | 2.8k | any canon. Vash gets vivisected and he hallucinates that the surgeon is Knives. Wolfwood gets triggered to hell trying to save him. This is my best and weirdest prose, and I had the most fun writing this. Dead doves abound here.

Silent Night | T | Gen | 4k | Pre-canon sci-fi epistolary-style story of Rem on the SEEDS expedition, leading up to the birth of the twins. My heaviest sci-fi with Rem's grief over her late partner Alex and regret over Tesla running throughout. I adore this fic. It was also inspired by Lenipez's Becoming Eden series, and in turn inspired another Rem-centric fic by mydetheturk!

Fresh Cut | E | Millionsummers | 5.7k | DEADEST DOVE. DESSICATED. My uhhh... body horror smut and essay on what compels me about the messed-up relationship between Legato and Knives. I wrote most of this on a plane (in public). This one is very kinky and weird and somehow hot, if you're into getting visions of your lover cannibalizing you when he comes.

Cigarettes & Saints | E | Mashwood | 3.8K | post-canon Trimax, set somewhere within/after Bluebells. Vash and Meryl visit a grave outside Hopeland and they... get weird with it. One of the tags is Outdoor Sex, and it does a lot of the heavy lifting. Wolfwood's ghost pays them a visit in Vash's butt. This sounds incredibly silly but it's very sweet and sad and there isn't a single dry eye by the end of the fic.

Growing Black Irises | T | Stryfewood | 1k | set somewhere in Bluebells again. Here's how post-canon trimax stryfewood can still win, but oh no it's painful and somehow sweet. So much yearning and regret over things never said or done.

Lightning Rod | M | Elendira POV | 1K | Trigun Stampede | Body Horror week fic; there's a dead dove in here. Inspired by Beelzebby666's Elendira/Tesla, I wanted to explore Elendira's thoughts and feelings about growing up and being experimented on, lauded as Knives' new Tesla. Compels me.

Learn to count on you (as my own fingers) | G | Vashmeryl | 800 words | Any canon. Meryl helps Vash clean his prosthetic, and it's very sweet.

Meet in the Middle (Like Pistols at Dawn) | G | Vashmeryl | 672 words | Domestic Fluff and Sillies. For the indirect kiss prompt for Vashmeryl week. I just really love writing them be goofy and sweet.

Ship to Wreck | T | Stryfewood | 1.6k | Pirate AU! Two small scenes of my pirate AU that is actually a bit more elaborate than the fic lets on. It's a fun time.

Raising Hell | T | Trigun OCs | 1.7k | If you ever had more questions about my silly trigun OC Fanny Paine, well, here's half her backstory. This was fun to write and got me out of a funk! I may write more again. I love Fanny.

[outofangband]

two posts about Himring related folklore for @nelyoslegalteam

I’m making a post about folklore in Angband soon too!

my tag for posts related to the position of ex thralls in Beleriand is 'but ever the noldor feared' and post angband! there are more related posts there!

The folklore of Himring is complex and the line between rumor, truth, and campfire tale is blurred.

The people of Himring are a diverse population, mostly Noldor of Fëanor’s host but some of Nolofinwë’s too, who wanted to be closer to the front lines or who were actually stationed there, a small population of Northern Sindar, and of course a small population of Angband survivors making up mostly Sindar and Avarin elves who were captured before the Noldor returned to Beleriand (I’ve talked about this on many posts but I’m always glad to say more! It’s one of my favorite subjects!)

The stories come from within the March and throughout the rest of Beleriand.

Tales of the desolate landscape itself were sparse before Maedhros built his fortress though people had been known to disappear around those hill near the river wells but whether they were taken by the cold or elements or the enemy was unknown.

The residents of Himring have a wealth of stories.

There are those that are woven simply for amusement, or to pass the time or sharpen the mind on long nights of watch where all you see is an endless expanse of winter. It’s easy to become confused then.

They tell of strange lights in the snow, of fires that appear to burn through the storms but vanish when travelers veer too close, of monstrous shadows that only their frightened horses can see.

There are the inevitable tales and rumors of Angband and those who have seen it. Some are shared among survivors, to comfort, confirm and console. Stories and tales from the fortress inevitably make their way into communities with any survivors, then spread by those on the outside.

Some fall into the timeless game of comparing wounds, out of anger or a bitter sport. The nastier tales that win these little games sometimes leave their private circles.

Many are spread by others with varying intentions. Of course there is simple curiosity and misinformation but there are those who repeat the vicious accusations often leveled at escaped thralls and often, towards Maedhros himself. I went into that in the last ask you sent I think.

And then of course there is Tol Himling, the remnants of the fortress of Himring on a tiny island. Few visit it unless by great need in stormy seas. It does not appear on all maps of the ocean. It is said to be haunted for those who seek shelter in its ruins rarely find peace. They dream of a hell of iron far below the waves and of blinding lights and stark cliffs they have never seen.

Second, an idea I've mentioned here but have wanted to make a longer post about it too

Inspired by @welcomingdisaster ‘s fantastic world building prompt list here! Prompt: native bird

One of my favorite topics to write about is the societal place of ex thralls in Beleriand and the culture of belief around Angband.

Among some in Beleriand and later, throughout Middle Earth, barn owls are believed to be the spirits of other predatory animals. This is because they are pale, fallow colors and because, unlike other owls, they do not hoot. The sound of the barn owl is a breathy shrieking sound that has often been described as something unearthly. The most common name for barn owl in Sindarin roughly translates to ghost hunter. 

Although these birds are not believed to be ill omens nor pose any danger to elvenkind by most, they have developed an association with other beings who exist in the margins between life and death, who flee or were driven from their homes, and who have returned to a state of hunter or hunted. In First Age Beleriand, they were sometimes associated with former thralls of Angband, usually those nameless ones who never came home or who were exiled by their own kin and who survive as wild beasts. 

These elves, though not all believed them to be such anymore, existed somewhere between reality and legend in Beleriand and beyond. 

Nonetheless, stories of pale wraith like figures who stole from, attacked or even ate their own kind, who moved with an uncanny silence even beyond the ability of the Eldar…these stories melded perfectly with the vision of barn owls and their eerie calls.

These perhaps later morphed with the stories told by the men who followed Morgoth about the Eldar as a whole. (Obligatory Morwen mention here too).

In the frozen abodes of Himring, watchers on the ramparts pause as the shadow of a ghost hunter passes silently by the winter moon. Some turn away or mutter a prayer. Some watch still closer.

[blueboyluca]

Lately I've been feeling a huge need for emotionally intelligent, empathetic and thoughtful content about dog training and care. I feel very fragile at the moment and this sort of thing, while also kind of painful in a way, has been helping me be forgiving to myself and understanding to the dogs in my life. I can't get my thoughts straight to write out anything in detail, but I can share the resources themselves.

This episode was soothing. Christina is a beautiful and gentle speaker and her insights are incredibly valuable. I appreciate her desire to stay out of the limelight, but I do wish I had regular access to her thoughts so it's a bit of a shame she doesn't do social media or anything like that.

Choice quote: "Oftentimes I want to raise my hand and be like, can we evaluate this carceral mindset? And I get looks and I think, cool, not the time, not the place. This is not the space, like, shift gears, let it go, try something else."

This post was a really useful reflection tool. I don't identify as a crossover trainer, since I never trained dogs before, but I still relate because I was raised in a punishment first society regardless of dogs. Even as someone who came to dog training committed to R+ from the outset, it still takes rewiring and relearning and reconfiguring to not default to punishment.

Choice quote: "We humans believe that anger is an appropriate response to being wronged. I agree. There is a lot in this world to be enraged about. The problem is directing that rage at dogs and other beings we control. We are encouraged to believe that dogs are morally wronging us, and that appropriate responses are anger and punishment."

I found so much value in this two-part podcast from Animal Training Academy with Michele Pouliot. She had so much wisdom about how to effectively help people and change minds. And sometimes that means being frustrated.

Choice quote: "When we start working with a dog that's never had positive reinforcement training before, you're right, what's the first thing we do? We build a reinforcement history so that dog trusts us, enjoys being around us, and as soon as we have that relationship we can ask more of them... just because a person called you and made the appointment doesn't mean you have a relationship yet... It's the same as training the dog, you have to build the history."

I'd love to find some more media like these. I've been downloading a bunch of new dog books again, but so far none of them are quite scratching the itch I've got. I wish I could read something like The Secret History of Kindness again, that was one of those rare books that had a profound impact on me.