#if not please continue to ask

[gawrkin]

Why did gawain not become king of orkney after Lot died?

That's a simple question with a very complicated answer.

To be really, really, really short and concise**, it boils down to two things:

One: Lot originally didn't die fighting Arthur.

In the earlies stories of Arthuriana, like Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Britanniae, Lot never warred with Arthur. The Sword in the Stone and the Mayday Massacre never happened in these older stories, so Lot has no reason to fight Arthur.

In fact, King Lot lives all the way to the end of Arthur's reign. Here's one example:

Didot Percival

So really, Gawain doesn't succeed Lot because originally, Lot was alive the whole time and Gawain dies at Mordred's rebellion before he can succeed Lot, who dies shortly after.

Lot's early death is actually a relatively recent Plot Point that was introduced in Vulgate/Post-Vulgate.

Its a retcon that only exists as a plot device to give Gawain a motive to be evil for revenge against Pellinore and his family.

There's also a bit Stations of the Canon at play here - Traditionally, Gawain is supposed to be one of Arthur's Greatest Warriors, so inevitably, he must join the Round Table... even when later stories change things so it doesn't make sense anymore.

By Post-Vulgate, Arthur is not only responsible for the death of his father but also seemingly the death of his newborn baby brother, Mordred. Gawain, logically, has no reason to like Arthur, much less join him.

So basically, its later retcons that don't jive with Gawain's positioning as member of Arthur's household. With Lot's early death, Gawain shouldn't be running around adventuring and questing when his homeland needs him to run things.

The medieval writers took for granted that Gawain is able to be present in Arthur's court for particular reasons.

Which leads us to the second reason

Two: Because then Gawain would be unable to adventure anymore

Basically, Gawain is a traditional hero of Arthuriana, and him not being in Camelot anymore would drastically change the cast dynamics and the story. It's like if Superman and Batman retired from the Justice League and didn't show up anymore.

Gawain can't meet Lancelot and join the Grail Quest if he's stuck up in the North, doing boring Kingly duties.

Ultimately, the Medieval writers just simply didn't care about Gawain's realistic feudal duties and obligations. To them, Gawain and the other knights are adventurer-protagonists: they're heroes first, feudal lords second.

That's why you don't see Lancelot managing Joyous Gard - that's boring real life crap the Medieval audiences wouldn't be interested in seeing. So, Lancelot goes around joining tournaments and beating up knights in random directions instead.

Arthurian Literature is essentially Chivalric escapist fantasy. It's about quests and fights, action and excitement.

And YES, it doesn't make any sense that Gawain isn't called "King Gawain"

**(I wrote an entire essay as an answer, only to stop I when realized its too long and overly wordy LOL)

[spaceyaemonds]

pairing: dr. jack abbot x reader

sum.: you meet a few of jack’s coworkers.

warnings: age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is 23), slightish angst?? just incase?? i don’t think it is but just incase, unplanned pregnancy, jack is divorced, not a widower, and it is mentioned that he previously did not want kids. minors DNI.

notes: okay so this is not what i had initially planned for this part, but i could not get what was supposed to be the second half of this to flow how i wanted so i am scrapping some of it and putting into part 6! also, there will definitely still be a lot of teasing and stuff said by the ED staff!!! i just didn’t know how to incorporate everyone here quite yet, but it’ll come! starting with part 6, they will be slightly longer pieces (but all less than 4-5k words) so we can get more into the drama of the story. in the next part, there will be slight angst (that was supposed to be here LOL, i’m sorry!) AND smut! i also have a few more drabbles for this universe that i hope to post this week, but parts 6 (and possibly 7) will be taking priority along with the schedule i posted yesterday. unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc: 1k

prev next

Unfortunately, immediately after getting off the phone with you and getting his keys to Dana, an ambulance pulls up with a trauma, which not only means he is probably not going to be able to see you, but you’re meeting Dana alone.

Which leaves you in your current situation, standing awkwardly in front of said nurse while she looks you over, studying you.

Of all the things she was expecting when Jack Abbot told him a girl was coming to pick up his keys and drop hers off, you are not at all what her brain came up with.

Not that there’s anything wrong with you, except for the fact you look a little young for Jack. But she definitely didn’t imagine you.

“So, you’re borrowing Jack’s truck?” Her tone is friendly when she asks.

She seems nice, but she makes you nervous. Being here makes you nervous. You don’t know what Jack has or hasn’t told his coworkers about you or this situation.

You nod, a small smile on your face despite your discomfort, “Um, yes. I’m buying a new desk and my car is too small to get it home,”

She nods politely, “Are you neighbors?”

She knows the answer, that you are definitely not neighbors, but she’s curious about what you’ll say.

You bite your lip, “Uh, something like that?”

She raises her eyebrow at the way you word your answer as a question, but before she can speak up, Samira says your name.

She’s smiling brightly, “I thought that was you! Are you doing okay?,”

You smile back at her, “I’m good,”

“How’s the baby?”

You freeze, glancing at Dana out of the corner of your eye, praying to god that she doesn’t put it together.

Dana’s brows raise to her hairline, looking between you and Samira, and then briefly glancing at trauma two. No fucking way.

“Um, good- great actually. Just a little grape in there,” You chuckle, gesturing to your abdomen before turning to Dana, digging your keys out of your purse and clipping the key to your apartment off the chain.

“Anyway, um, can you just make sure Jack gets these, please?”

Dana nods, “You sure you don’t wanna try and wait for him?”

You look between her and Samira, a slightly anxious look in your eyes, “Yeah, no. He’s gonna be by later anyway so I’ll just see him then,”

You wince, why the fuck did you say that?

That causes Dana to smirk, “He’ll be over later,”

“Yeah, well I mean, maybe. He’ll have to get his truck back at some point. Probably tonight, but I mean who knows, ya know?”

In the midst of your rambling, you don’t realize Jack has finally wrapped up his case and is standing right behind you.

“What are you going on about?”

You about jump out of your skin, “Oh my god!” Your hand is on your chest as you take a deep breath, dramatically trying to calm yourself down, “You scared me,”

He laughs with a cheeky shrug, mumbling a small sorry as he squeezes your shoulder gently before taking your keys from Dana. He bites back a laugh at the lip gloss attached to your keychain, “You aren’t gonna need that?”

You smile, the anxious feeling finally leaving you, “No, I have a few in my purse.”

Jack briefly catches Dana’s eye as he places his hand on your shoulders and guides you out of the ED, her eyebrows are raised in question, glancing between the two of you. He shakes his head at her and mouths later and continues walking you to where he’s parked, not realizing the storm he’s started up at the nurses station.

“Now, don’t go lifting this desk by yourself or anything like that. It’s not good for you or the baby,”

You glance up at him, “I already places the order for it, they’re just going to put it in the truck when I’m ready and a neighbor said he could get his son and they can bring it up for me,”

He tries not to bristle at the mention of your neighbor that he hasn’t met yet.

“Alright, well I can help you get it put together tonight and make sure your equipment gets all set up.”

His offer makes you smile brightly at him, “Are you sure? I know you’ll be tired after working,”

He shakes his head, “I wouldn’t offer if I couldn’t do it, honey.”

There’s that name again. You love it when he calls you that, it makes you feel warm inside.

He bites back a smirk as he watches you squirm, already knowing you well enough to know your cheeks feel hot.

“Well, if you insist. I’ll have dinner and beer ready when you get to my place,”

“You sure know the way to a man’s heart, honey.”

“Just yours, anyway,” You don’t give him time to respond, leaving quickly and not even realizing the impact your words just had on him.

When he gets back inside, Dana is giving him a side eye, and try as he might, he just can’t ignore it.

“Just say what you need to say,”

Dana hums, “She’s young,”

Jack sighs, running a hand down his face before scratching at his jaw, “Yeah,”

“She pregnant?”

There’s no judgment in her question, she watches silently as he pulls out his wallet to hand her the photo of your ultrasound.

“Yeah, ten weeks.”

She sighs softly, looking at the baby, “Yours?”

Jack just grunts in response. Not sure what to say or how to say it.

Dana puts a hand on his arm, squeezing softly, “I thought you didn’t want kids?”

He closes his eyes, “I didn’t. This wasn’t exactly planned. But I’m taking responsibility for this, for her,”

“Does she want you to take responsibility for her?” Dana’s question is valid, and Jack knows that.

“I told her I wouldn’t abandon her. And I won’t.”

“You’re a good man, Jack,” She gives his arm one final squeeze before pulling her hand away, “She seems nice,”

He smiles, “Yeah, she is. Real fucking smart too. And funny,”

Dana feels her chest squeeze at how Jack looks when he talks about you, unable to recall if he’s ever been this way before.

They sit in silence for a few moments before glancing up at Robby when he makes his way up, devilish glint in his eyes.

Jack sighs, already knowing what’s coming.

“I didn’t realize your babies mom is in her twenties, Jack,”

“You mad I got more game than you or something?”

Robby laughs, “Is that what we’re calling it?”

[artdcnaldson]

NEED art and patrick to find out I'm a virgin and offer to teach me how to kiss and how to fuck and use eachother as examples and guide me and tell me I'm doing a good job and reward me for being such a good student and come back later and quiz me to see if I remember everything they taught me ugh obsessed with them individually and as a unit

This has lived rent free in my mind for literally forever. I can’t stop thinking about it, it haunts my every waking moment.

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: Making out, Handjob lessons, guys being pervs, not a love triangle they just all want to fuck each other

A/N: unedited bc I wrote this while on the clock okay whatever. Enjoyyyy and if u want me to continue this lmk >:)

“I think it’s sweet,” Patrick said, and you could hear the amusement in his voice, practically dripping from every syllable. “The last American virgin. You belong in a museum.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed your empty Taco Bell cup at him— the ice rattled and it leaked a puddle of condensation onto the ground. “You could try not to be a dick about it.”

Art’s dorm room was hot and sticky thanks to a faulty AC, which meant the three of you lounging on the floor by his open window, sucking down soda watered down by melted ice cubes. You were down to a T-shirt and shorts, they were down to their boxers. It wasn’t lost on you that it was an intimate situation to be in— barely dressed, crammed into the shoebox of a dorm. And of course Patrick had dug his fingers in until you admitted your secret— you had made it all the way to college totally unfucked.

Patrick leaned forward, smiling the smarmy smile that tended to wear at your last nerve. “So you’re a virgin, but like,” he leaned in, so close you could feel body heat radiating from him. He dropped his voice, just above a whisper. “How much of a virgin, really? You’ve at least gone to third, right?” You glared, but shook your head.

“Second?” Art supplied, suddenly jumping in with an eager sort of curiosity.

“What? No, I don’t even know what that means,” you admitted. You sighed before you spoke up. “I’ve only ever kissed one guy and one girl, and it was during a game of spin the bottle, like, junior year.”

“How?” Patrick asked.

Your brows furrowed. “How? I spun the bottle, it landed on the person, I leaned in, put my lips against theirs, and that was it.”

Patrick sighed. “Just fucking show me how.” He looked at you expectantly, inching even closer.

With an annoyed sigh, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his— mouth closed, lips firm. When you sat back, Patrick and Art were both grinning.

“What?” You asked with a frown.

“That’s how you kiss on the playground in elementary school,” Art said, unable to contain his laughter. “C’mere.”

You crawled forward, stopping in front of the blond. His hand settled on your jaw, coaxing you forward.

His lips met yours softly, sweetly. It was easy to lose yourself in the feeling of Art’s mouth, in the gentle brushes of his lips against yours and the way he held your face so tenderly.

The feeling of his tongue pressing against the seam of your lips was strange, but you welcomed it, letting him lick into your mouth.

Each pass of his tongue against yours drew you deeper and deeper into it, into him. You moved into his lap without realizing it, kissing him with sweet, timid laps of your tongue.

Art pulled back first, his cheeks soft and pink and so pretty. “See? That’s how you’re supposed to kiss someone. That was really good.”

You laughed softly, and moved off of his lap sheepishly. Patrick leaned forward, brushing your hair back, holding your face in his hand.

“Okay, show me what Art showed you,” he instructed, then leaned in.

Kissing Patrick was different than kissing Art. He was hungrier, more insistent. His tongue pressed into your mouth like he wanted to chart every inch. You did your best to match what he offered, to kiss the way Art had just shown you, sweetly, like you really meant it.

And you did mean it. Patrick’s hands moved along your side, up until they cupped your tits through your shirt. You moaned softly into his mouth— the sound was muffled, met with a moan of his own. He gave an experimental squeeze of your tits and you whined softly. So he did it again, amused by the pretty, sweet noises you mewled out.

Patrick was getting hard, pressing against your thigh. It was a new sensation that you were hyper aware of as you unconsciously ground yourself against him.

You pulled back first, cheeks burning hot after you remembered Art was right beside you. You tucked unkempt hair behind your ear, smiled bashfully. “How was I?”

“Good,” Patrick said.

At the same time Art supplied, “So good.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Okay. Cool.”

Art was squirming, fidgeting, holding a pillow over his lap. Patrick was less covert— opting to openly adjust himself, drawing more attention to the fact that he was hard. You rolled your eyes and stole the nearest cup you could find, sipping at watered down Mountain Dew.

“Do you want me to leave?” You teased, raising an eyebrow. Your teeth dug into the plastic straw as you looked between the two of them.

Art stammered, mortified, but Patrick just smiled dizzyingly over at you. “I can teach you something else. You got to first base, so why don’t you steal second?”

You rolled your eyes, but heat flared behind your cheeks. Jesus Christ, he was such a smug asshole. “I still don’t know what that means,” you said, feeling a little embarrassed.

He grinned and mimed jerking off. Your eyes widened, and you laughed softly. “That would be weird,” you said, half-believing it. “Like, if I did jerk one of you off, that leaves one of you just watching.”

You glanced at Art, who looked just as interested as Patrick did, and your heart stammered nervously. “What if I show you how you do it on Art? Look at him— he’s the perfect little practice dummy.” Patrick reached over, pinching at Art’s cheek until the blond kicked his shin.

“Show me?” You echoed. “Like… you’re going to do it to him, and I do it to you?”

Patrick nodded, leaning into Art’s side, his smarmy smile dissolved into something needier. Art swallowed hard, lips parted slightly as he looked over at Patrick.

Patrick’s lips met his slowly, hungrily. You watched wide eyed as Patrick deepened the kiss, as Art eagerly accepted the other boy’s tongue into his mouth.

Patrick threw the pillow out of Art’s lap and sent it careening into the desk on the opposite side of the room. Your eyes widened at the sight of Art, hard and tenting his boxers. Patrick palmed him in his large hands making the blonde whimper into his mouth and buck up, seeking friction.

You swallowed hard, biting down on the straw as you watched Patrick tug at the elastic of Art’s boxers. Art lifted his hips to allow Patrick to tug them down his thighs, just enough to expose his cock to both of you.

“See,” Patrick gasped, leaning back from their kiss. Art chased his lips fruitlessly, mouth ajar, waiting for more. “He’s so fucking easy. Come feel.”

You moved closer, looking at Art for permission. When he nodded, you reached out, letting your fingertips graze the soft skin of his shaft. He exhaled a shuddery breath, eyes fluttering shut. Patrick’s hand covered yours, guiding you to squeeze around his length.

He was warm under your touch, silky soft, pulsing in your grip. Your heart hammered just at that— at the feel of him in your hand. “Feels nice, huh? Knowing how much he wants you.” You nodded, then slid your fist up, testing the waters. Art moaned softly, throbbed in your grip, aching for more. Patrick smiled like the cat who got the cream. “Hands off, just watch me.”

Patrick spat into his hand and replaced your hand with his own. The second Patrick curled his fingers around Art and started stroking him slowly, the blond was mewling for more. “Fuck,” he moaned, his forehead knocking against Patrick’s, mouth open, panting. “That’s good, feels good.”

You watched Patrick rub his thumb over Art’s tip, eyes widening as Art really whimpered for it, hips thrusting up into Patrick’s fist, chasing more of the pleasure the brunet offered.

“You get it now?” Patrick asked. You nodded quickly, and he tugged down his own boxers. “Fuck, okay— fucking show me.”

Your heart hammered with nerves, but you nodded. You held your hand out and spit into it, mimicking what Patrick had done before you wrapped your hand around his cock.

He felt bigger in your hands, but you didn’t say that. One, you worried it might piss Art off, and two, he didn’t need the ego boost. And he was slick, beading precum at his tip so each pass of your hands felt slicker and slicker.

And you couldn’t help but want to be an asshole. “You’re wet like a girl,” you said with a smirk, gliding your thumb over his tip.

And he was shameless, nodding with a sly grin. “That means I like you.” He panted, moaning softly. “Besides, I bet your fucking panties aren’t dry right now.”

Well, fuck. You tried to ignore the rush of heat in your belly that those words caused, to focus only on the glide of your hand on Patrick’s cock— up and down, copying his pace on Art, copying the ways he’d squeeze and twist his hand.

Art was moaning, rutting up into the tight sheath of Patrick’s fist, the muscles of his abdomen tensing and relaxing in unsteady jerks beneath his soft skin.

“Fuck— switch, switch,” Patrick said quickly. Art whined when Patrick stopped touching him, but it was ignored. “Want you to feel it when he comes.”

He guided your hand back onto Art’s cock and nodded for you to move. “Fuck, your hand’s so soft,” Art groaned. “Faster, faster, fuck—“ He was practically begging. You swallowed, increased the pace, squeezed him a little tighter.

Art was touching Patrick— jerking him off while you brought him closer and closer to finishing. Patrick leaned in, kissed you deeply, pulled Art in too until the three of you were a mess of tongues and lips and spit and hands.

Art came first— coating your hand in warm, slick cum, throbbing in your grip. He was panting into your and Patrick’s mouths, moaning softly as you continued to slowly work him through it. Patrick came next, once Art redoubled his effort, focused on making Patrick add to the mess covering your hands.

Patrick was loud, pornographic, messy. Art brought a cum covered hand between his lips, cleaning it up. Your eyes widened.

“Art, c’mon, you’re scandalizing her,” Patrick said, like you weren’t even there.

“Shut up,” you said, shoving him. He laughed and pulled his boxers back up. Art followed suit, and the three of you were left gross and sweating in the heat. You wiped your hand off on one of their discarded shirts and gave a sheepish smile.

They sat there, expectantly. Waiting for you to make the next call. There was a level of want in you, need, but the thought of asking for them to take care of it was mortifying. “Do you want to watch a movie or something now?”

[tourettesdog]

I am begging people to be normal about completed fics, and in particular one shots.

I am begging people to stop demanding more from authors, and insisting that one shots need to be longer or have sequels.

I don't think yall understand how many fanfic authors are one more "where's the rest of it?" comment away from throwing out any plans they might have had to continue an idea.

Unless an author like specifically says they might write more for an idea, just-- assume something marked as completed is complete, and respect it as it stands, please.

[kuroshitsuji-wiki]

It's Yana Toboso's birthday! (January 24, 1984)

Yana forgot her birthday this year...

... so there's even more reason to congratulate her and celebrate!

Some trivia:

She chose her penname "Yana Toboso" to indicate what kind of manga she wanted to create: Because there are so many mangas whose central themes are dreams, hope, friendship, and love, she wanted to make a manga whose focus is the opposite. "Yana" derives from "iya" (unpleasant, detestable, disagreeable; here: unpleasant/nasty child), and "toboso" is meant to signify importance: a "toboso" is a cavity in the frame of a door used as part of a pivot hinge; as doors wouldn't work without hinges, hinges are important objects. "Yana Toboso," therefore, is meant to mean "the hated/bad child is in the middle" (憎まれっ子がど真ん中にく る). (Character Guide, page 146)

Yana once stated that Ciel resembles her the most out of her characters. (Character Guide, page 147)

*cough* Obviously.

Exhibit A:

(Downstairs with Kuroshitsuji VII, from Volume 17)

(Chapter 76)

Exhibit B: The iconic Pancake Saga from 2018!

Yana's grandmother encouraged her to become a mangaka, and her mother pushed her to submit her work to a publisher when she was 20. Both have since passed away. (sources: akumadeenglish, The Japan Times)

She is a fan of the band L'Arc-en-Ciel (source). HYDE, the vocalist of that band, wrote the opening for Season 5. Yana was obviously very happy about that!

Yana contemplated making "fluffy spin-offs" to Kuroshitsuji, e.g., "a gourmet manga featuring the canteen of the Shinigami dispatch association HQ, or a manga where the Indian butler cooks curry or the black butler makes sweets, or where the servants make small discoveries." However, she dropped those ideas because her "fluffy concepts" kept becoming ominous after a few chapters. (source)

Kuroshitsuji was not meant to be set in 19th-century England from the beginning. Mr. K and the chief editor eventually suggested England as the setting. Yana, who did not know much about England (and could not find many materials early on; source: Downstairs with Kuroshitsuji II in Volume 2), especially not about 19th-century England, and did not believe the manga would be a hit anyway, then cooked up the wonderfully anachronistic Volume 1. Since then, Yana has become more knowledgeable about Victorian England, got a historical advisor (Rico Murakami) who also, sometimes, translates sources for her (source: Downstairs with Kuroshitsuji Special in Volume 15), has been (re-)learning English, and visited England twice. The manga has, thus, become significantly more historically accurate over the years. Still, as it's a fantasy manga, Yana likes to incorporate anachronistic elements for story purposes (e.g. Grim Reaper tech and possessions, Wolfsschlucht) anyway (or simply because she wants to; e.g. the idol groups, I suppose). Anachronisms have, thus, shifted from accidental to deliberate.

Sebastian's mobile phone will be forever iconic, but it has been retconned for over a decade now.

And The Wild Earl lost more than his head was cancelled when all TVs were thrown out of the continuity with the end of the Indian Butler Arc (TVs are last mentioned in Chapter 23).

May we learn many Victorian things alongside Yana in the next years too!

(Downstairs with Kuroshitsuji II, Volume 2)

And may she have a happy, restful birthday so that she doesn't forget it again^^' (And the best of health^^)

[kizzer55555]

Core Gems

So when a ghost becomes injured, they have a last ditch defense where they retreat into their core. And I mean, injured badly where their body is rip apart to the point they can’t hold a solid form anymore. And they basically go into a hibernation state until they are strong enough to form again.

Ellie, Danny, and Dan are all injured in a final battle against the GIW. The organization was destroyed and the ghosts were safe but the halfas ended up being so injured that they reverted to core form and then went to sleep for a bit. When they woke up, they were still weak but at least recovered enough to gain consciousness. And realize…they are in some kind of auction…in the middle of a heist. It appeared that two furries (one in a bat costume and one in a cat costume) were ducking it out. And they…they were a necklace. All three of them had been turned into a necklace with their cores as gems accompanied by sapphires, pearls, and opals. And frankly gorgeous craftsmanship as the metal was crafted around their cores as if to cradle them and the other gems.

Unfortunately, they were too weak to take a form properly, they could still feel the strain on their bodies. But at least they could still communicate through their auras. Then the cat lady punched a hole in the glass container surrounding them and grabbed their necklace.

However, the bat grabbed the other end and it resulted in a sort of tug-a-war. Meanwhile, Danny, Ellie, and Dan were having a back and form commentary on the situation and what they should do. Completely unheard by the other party.

In the corner of their eye, the three halfas finally noticed a third contender. Some kind of clown who was…hold on…holding a gun?! And it was pointed straight at the two fighting furies who had yet to notice him. The ghosts’ protective instincts went into overdrive and they frantically tried to shout, yell, move. Just do something to warn the two but their cries fell on deaf ears. All they succeeded in doing was faintly glow which immediatly caught the attention of the fighting duo. The two turned to look at the strange necklace but right at that moment, the clown fired and a gunshot rang throughout the auction room. Having no other options, Danny and the others poured every ounce of ectoplasm they had to try and phaseshift, making the two furries intangible as the bullets passed right through them, but in their shock, the two jumped away in opposite directions and accidentally ripped the necklace apart. Gems and pearls went flying and the three cores bounced along the ground.

Luckily, the two finally noticed the clown and went to deal with him and his minions who had appeared. Seemingly putting their fight on hold and forming a temporary truce. The three halfas could only watch as the battle finally wound down, ending with the cops barging into the place and arresting the clown and his grunts, the cat managing to escape with half the scattered gems and pearls from the broken necklace along with a few other jewelry pieces (none of their cores though) and the bat leaving through a skylight.

The auction continued and in the end, despite being broken, their necklace seemed to have caught someone’s interest. A man named Bruce Wayne bought up every piece of the shattered jewelry wear. The auctioneers appeared relived that the item managed to sell in the end and gratefully gave it to him.

Bruce had no idea what happened at the auction, but he could have sworn that some of the gems faintly glowed right before he and Selina were shot. If the necklace was some sort of magical item, then he needed to understand exactly what has been brought to Gotham. It was unfortunate that Selena had taken some parts of the necklace but he utilized his vast wealth to make sure all the other parts ended in his possession. Now he would take them back to the mansion for examination.

[myfairkatiecat]

Neal and Mozzie make such good partners in crime because Neal is all charming and silver-tongued, yes, but a lot of people are on their guard for people like that, despite how unfairly good at it he is. But if Mozzie walks in first and just starts being absolutely bonkers and insane, and they’re distracted and annoyed and not thinking, Neal now looks even more trustworthy and down to earth and, well, normal, which makes his natural charm work even better because they would so much rather be interacting with him than the guy who is actively being we obnoxious as possible for the sole reason of creating a distraction and making it too difficult for the marks to remember that sometimes people who sound trustworthy aren’t.

[benevolenterrancy]

Art prompt of Shen Qingqiu holding the aro flag (fits his color scheme)

the real reason this man doesn't realise he's tripping every romance flag in the story

[myokk]

legilimency

pairing: Ominis Gaunt x f!MC

word count: 1,7k

summary: (His parents and Marvolo insist it’s a gift handed down from Slytherin himself, just like the Parseltongue Ominis despises. It is not. It is a curse.)

or: The Gryffindor student has caught on that Ominis can read her thoughts and decides to get her revenge.

(rated M for some language)

tags: I headcanon Ominis is a natural legilimens (I go into what I believe this entails in more detail in my Ominis longfic), fluff, some mature language, but mostly this is silly :)

a/n: It's the one-year anniversary of the day rode the train to the mountains and wrote this up in one sitting. This is the first oneshot I ever wrote, and my first attempts at writing Ominis POV🫶 I hope you enjoy, and if you’re rereading THANK YOU♥️

Ominis Gaunt is a lost case - lost to the whims of one very determined Gryffindor sitting at his side.

They sit in the back of the History of Magic classroom, the only two students not lulled to somnolence by their professor. He: trying his hardest to focus on Professor Binns' droning (easier said than done). She: trying her hardest to distract Ominis while not being entirely sure of being successful or not (easier attempted than understood).

Professor Binns is completely insufferable, of course. Ominis wonders if the ghost is as blind as he is: Binns willfully ignores the fact that all of his students use his class as an excuse to get a nap in (maybe he simply doesn't see them sleeping - only one of many reasons why Ominis has decided he could never be a professor), rambling on and on in the most boring way possible. As if he were trying to be as dull as possible (maybe he does it to avoid interacting with the students which...can't be to blame). In a different life, Ominis could see himself quite liking the subject, but as things stand he despises it.

Especially now.

Ominis fervently wishes that he could fall asleep.

Then, he might avoid hearing her thoughts - they're consuming him and he can't ignore them as much as he would like to.

Normally, he loves this class - not the subject, obviously - but the class itself, for the sheer fact that it is the only time where he gets some peace and quiet. Everyone's minds nice and quiet and shut off for the time being while they sleep. Although he has gotten used to ignoring the thoughts of everyone around him, their various voices mixing and mingling with each other into a dull thrum in the back of his mind, it is nice to have some quiet once in a while.

But right now with everyone asleep except for the Gryffindor at his side, her thoughts are so loud it's like she's screaming at him.

So here he is, wishing he could fall asleep, leave the class, maybe turn off the infernal legilimency that has haunted him his whole life.

(His parents and Marvolo insist it's a gift handed down from Slytherin himself, just like the Parseltongue Ominis despises. It is not. It is a curse.)

He is stuck listening to her.

It doesn't help that she seems to have caught on to him - something he had managed to avoid until now. Nobody else, not even Sebastian or Anne, has ever suspected a thing. But, in all fairness, those two are extremely loud and say every single thought that passes through their minds out loud even when they should remain quiet, and nobody else has had the opportunity to spend enough time with Ominis to begin to suspect anything.

Until her.

He had to go and let that blasted girl worm her way into his life, not leaving him alone ever, always looking for excuses to talk and ask his opinion, and being so intelligent that he wanted to invite her to study with him and talk with him and...

Since it happened a few nights ago, he hasn't stopped cursing himself for that stupid offhand comment he made. They had been studying in silence in the library together, by the history books where nobody else ever ventures (thank you, Professor Binns), and he could have sworn that she asked him if he was finally going to walk her back to her common room (he blames a lack of sleep and wishful thinking for this mishap). His traitorous face had flushed and he had jumped at the chance to escort her - maybe she would let him carry her bag, or... - only to feel his whole body go cold and his stomach drop when her response wasn't what he'd expected.

A pause: then: a confused voice: 'Ominis, I didn't say anything.'

His Gryffindor wasn't stupid like Gryffindors were normally wont to be. He knew her, and he knew that after his monumental mistake, the gears in her brain were turning and he was terrified that somehow she had figured it out.

(His Gryffindor?)

She had been unusually quiet around him since then, although he bitterly noticed that she was still acting normally with everyone else. Still finding every opportunity to punch Sebastian in the shoulder and laugh with Anne, still whispering with Natsai about Merlin knows what, still...

But she had been avoiding Ominis. He couldn't stand it.

Well, avoiding him right until this stupid class, when she had to go and sit right next to him (ignoring the fact that she always sits next to him in History of Magic, that everyone already has and adheres to their unofficial seats), and he can't ignore her.

She's pretending to take studious notes, but he knows better. The scratching of her quill blending with the droning of Professor Binns' voice but not drowning out her thoughts. They float above the other noises, her voice sweet and piercing. Ominis wonders vaguely what she's actually writing, because he's positive it isn't notes.

Professor Binns looks so sexy right now with his medieval hat, talking about...whatever it is he's passionate about. I wonder if he would let me talk to him after class without floating through me like he normally does...

Ominis is determined not to react. She's obviously trying to bait him. But...what if she is attracted to Professor Binns? Is he an attractive man? At the thought, the fist that's resting on top of his desk clenches, but he works to make sure his face remains impassive. Apart from a twitch of his lips, he thinks he's been quite successful.

She: huffing and shifting in her chair, her robes rustling as she crosses her legs. He: keeping his head facing forward, steadfastly ignoring her.

She changes tactics.

Maybe she's just as insufferable as the other Gryffindors, after all.

I wonder what Ominis would say if he knew I woke up moaning today after a dream about him -

He shifts slightly in his seat, hoping that she's so busy taking notes (who's he kidding) that she won't notice his discomfort as his trousers tighten -

...the girls in my dorm have been bothering me nonstop about who I've been mooning over but I don't want them to...

His hand is in such a tight fist it's a wonder he's not breaking any fingers as he tries to remain as still as possible, but his traitorous arousal is making her thoughts harder and harder to ignore. Had he ever been able to ignore her?

...his tongue was deep inside my cunt as I screamed his name...

He feels his face heat up at the thought - where had she learned such vulgar language? - and his whole body stiffens. He's sure that she can feel the tension and warmth radiating off of him in waves but that...she...his insane little lion keeps shouting at him in the silence of the classroom. She's now stopped all pretense of taking notes and is sitting stock still.

...his cock deep inside of me as...wait...what else did I hear Garreth say to Leander that night?...um... She shifts uncomfortably, her knee grazing Ominis's as she moves to squeeze her legs together. It's all he can do to not groan and remain impassive. Oh god...I...what's that feeling? This was just supposed to get back at him for probably - maybe - reading my thoughts and I'm officially insane because how would he even be able to do that?...his ears turning red from embarrassment are so adorable and I can't stand this anymore and...

Ominis tries his hardest not to move his head in her direction. His jaw flexes. Maybe he can drown her out if he starts reciting potions ingredients, or if he focuses on what Professor Binns is saying, but even he knows its futile. He's hanging on to her every word - thought? - and his head slowly turns in her direction as she keeps going.

...does he know how much I think about him? Oh god, what if he dreams of me the same way I...

He slams the open book in front of him shut, the loud noise causing Sebastian to jerk awake and babble incoherently for a moment before slumping back over his desk, drooling and snoring lightly. Nobody else in the class seems to notice except her of course. Blissfully, she has stopped talking - thinking - and he can finally -

It's no use. He needs to get out of there. She has invaded his mind and...What if she starts up again with her filthy thoughts that are bleeding into his own and -

Did he hear me? I didn't actually think...oh god, can he hear me now? What have I done?

Ominis very slowly brings his hand over to where he knows hers is. The quill falls out of her hand and he hears a sharp intake of breath at their contact. His fingers trace her knuckles and then he slowly trails them up her arm. His fingertips are so sensitive that he could swear that he feels every thread that he passes, her skin warm and alive underneath the fabric. Then to her neck, her throat bobs and he feels her erratic heartbeat. Finally, he reaches her face. She remains very, very still as his fingers brush over her features for the first time.

He has never touched someone like this before.

Her skin is like velvet, soft everywhere he touches. Now that he knows what it feels like he's not sure he can go back to before. His fingers trace the curve of her eyebrows - he finds that her nose is straight before it flares up a tiny bit at the tip - his fingers ghost over her impossibly soft lips. He drags his thumb across her bottom lip as her tongue darts out to wet them. It's impossibly intimate and the world has melted away and it's just the two of them in that moment.

He leans forward.

"Ominis, I..." she whispers, stricken.

His hand moves to tuck some of her loose hair away from her face - does she always wear it like this? - and his lips brush against her ear. He inhales deeply, her sweet smell invading his senses. She shivers under his touch and he breathes, "I heard everything."

[nhura]

Life is too short.

[ my art ] [ twitter ]

(detail + ratio rambling under the cut >_>)

This is one of those "I need a break between my ten other illustrations, let me do a lil sketchy sketch :D" that got too ambitious etc. etc. I never want to see the color red again" moments. BUT!

I really, really like to explore Ratio's viscerality and what's happening between his brain and his nerves, like... all of this thorough control and discipline and he still has to breathe and react to himself and his surroundings, you know? His accomplishments are insane for "his age"* but he's going to run out of "age" at some point! His ambitions are so far reaching that he's not worried about getting doctorate degree Number Nine! Rather, his efforts are pointed outwards, into the universe, for the universe. As you know.

Speaking of his degrees, I had a half thought a while ago that we've seen him with two types of laurel pins.

One is him in his suuuuuper cute mother goose avatar (three leaves) and the other is the hat he's wearing everywhere else (eight leaves).

The thought was, "Aww, what if they're like commemorative pins counting the number of his degrees or whatever :)". Literally only because there's eight in the current one. This is kind of silly because then you'd HAVE to have an obscene number of degrees even for a normal person for your leaf pin to start looking like a laurel in the first place so scratch that BUT it's cute to think that it's still academic regalia. Something something I work in higher ed myself and it's like... it's like that.

The university goldsmith appreciates the job security.

I REMEMBER WHY I BROUGHT THAT UP. FOLLOWING the fantasy where more leaves = more knowledge!, in summary, even though Ratio seems to be a little beyond trying to get a prize every time he learns something now. But he does want to Keep Going. He can only Keep Going.

So I drew him in a bathtub full of an uncountable amount of gold leaves looking at the camera with an indescribable expression born from a hunger that will never be satiated lol DETAIL SHOT!

*Referenced only vaguely in a comment in the context of astonishment, but it could have easily have been "woah he's accomplished so much for his age (young)" as it could be "woah he looks good for his age (older)". There is no canon age and even then, reconciling standardized system time versus planetary time versus "does his particular breed of lizard human have the same lifespan as tumblr user nhura?" is a losing game for everyone involved! Here's what I think: I think he started going grey in his early twenties, whatever that means in spacefantasygame, and that that's very cute on him.

Do YOU think Ratio would be tempted by immortality???? Or would he MIND HIS BUSINESS

[clarenmac]

Did you say 👀 👀 landoscar body worship??? Cause if so I am SAT

well! ask and you shall receive...

decided to not keep it locked up in the gdoc.

for context: i took a nap after miami gp, saw these photos of lando, and wrote this. it's not necessarily set around miami, but make of it what you will.

✨find under the cut✨

landoscar body worship

2.1k words

mature(?)

an exercise and exploration into love, devotion, and surrender (whilst in the face of messy, fraught and ambiguous feelings).

(a warning/heads up... brief mentions of touching and (almost) kissing feet. but it's more about the emotional and physical surrender of touching someone—allowing someone to touch—a place of complete vulnerability. as opposed to just like... a foot thing. lmao)

***

It’s the strip of exposed skin between the band of his joggers and his shirt. Right where the fabric has ridden up, soft and slack from the stretch of his arms above his head. It slips across him easily. Leaves him bare, like an invitation.

It’s there, that strip, where Oscar can’t stop looking. 

Lando makes a sound. Not quite a groan, not quite a sigh. Just something small. Hurt.

Something sensitive. 

It’s his back, Oscar thinks. Tight and sore. Muscles bunched at the base of his spine, knots braided high across his shoulders.

He watches Lando’s fingers curl into the pillow above his head, white-knuckled. Watches the stretch go deeper, the arch in his back pull sharper, exposing more skin—dark, warm, soft. A line that Oscar could trace with one finger.

Lando’s face is twisted to the side, trying to bury himself in the sheets. Almost mouthing at them. He’s drawn tight there too—his face—pain etched into all his fine lines. 

Nothing to do with his back at all. 

Oscar stands at the foot of the bed, useless. He listens to Lando’s neck crack, the sharp crunch of it loud in the still of the room, and flinches.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Careful. 

Lando doesn’t react. Like Oscar’s not there at all. But he is—Lando invited him in. Asked for it, and said nothing. Just reached out in the hallway—closed the gap with a hooked finger in the sleeve of Oscar’s shirt. Just enough to pull. Just enough to close the metre between their rooms, that impossible distance, lined in ugly carpet and harsh fluorescent light.

A distance Oscar couldn’t cross without that tug.

But he followed. Crossed it. 

Of course he did.

Oscar’s the one that reaches for him now; reaches for the only part of Lando he can touch without disrupting the fragile shape of him: his ankle. He closes his fingers gently around the bone, his thumb brushing across the skin there. 

Lando doesn’t react. Not really. But there’s a flicker—his eyelids twitch, a subtle shift beneath them. Then the faint crease between his brows. Small, but sharp. A line that wasn’t there before—one Oscar wants to touch. To smooth.

Wonders how he can, when he’s the reason for it. For all of them. 

Maybe. 

He isn’t sure if that’s right. Because he can’t read Lando when he’s like this—withdrawn, wound tight. Like he wants to push Oscar away. Can’t stand him. But—

He reached for him. Pulled him in close. 

The way he keeps reaching for him, over and over, like Oscar’s the only thing that’s helping.

Oscar can’t make sense of it. But he wants it. Realises he’s sort of desperate for it—to not be pushed away. To be allowed in.

He puts a knee on the end of the bed, leans forward, but doesn’t climb on. He balances his weight on Lando—on that gentle-gentle hand still resting at his ankle. Squeezes tighter, just for a second, before brushing it up along his calf. He pushes Lando’s joggers with it, inching them higher and exposing more of that skin. 

Soft. Hair coarse. Something dangerous.

Lando says nothing.

Says everything, when he parts his legs.

Only slightly—barely—but Oscar feels the space he creates. The space he makes. Just for him.

Only for him.

Oscar breathes. Watches his face. He wants to crawl over him, press him down into the bed—cover him so completely, so tightly, that he can’t drift away inside his own head.

He doesn’t. 

He will, but not yet.

Instead, he lifts Lando’s leg to his chest. Pulls gently at his shin until it folds him in, like he’s trying to hug him there.

Lando lets it happen. Eyes closed and loose for it.

When Oscar closes his hand around Lando’s socked foot, Lando twitches. Surprised. Sensitive. 

Oscar presses his thumb into the arch—right where he knows Lando will be tight.

He gets the reaction he was hoping for. And shit. He just wanted a reaction—fucking anything—‘cause when Lando grunts, when his eyelids flutter, Oscar feels something start to untangle in the space between his ribs. Something tight finally letting go.

He wants to do the same for Lando.

So he does it again. Pushes. Digs in. Thinks he could stay just like this—get up on the bed and put Lando’s feet in his lap. Just to keep him grunting. Keep him breathing. Keep him here.

He pulls off Lando’s sock, then the other, smiling when he sees the curl of Lando’s toes. Has to shake his head at that—something embarrassing licking hot and high near his neck. Probably something dangerously wrong with him, but maybe there always has been.

And when Lando sighs—when he presses his feet into Oscar’s hands, something loosening in his face—Oscar thinks maybe there’s something dangerously wrong with both of them.

Hopes.

(Knows.)

Oscar closes his eyes, bringing Lando’s leg up near his shoulder, right by his face. He breathes. Tries not to shudder as he presses his nose to Lando’s calf, his ankle. Inhales deep. His mouth grazes over skin—barely, lightly—and he can’t see it, but he hears it: that sound at the back of Lando’s throat.

Oscar holds his leg like it’s delicate. Like if he’s not gentle enough, the moment will crack and disappear.

But Lando’s not delicate. Not gentle. He doesn’t need Oscar to treat him like this. He doesn’t need to be coddled, cradled like glass.

But Oscar wants to.

He wants to take Lando in his hands and shatter him—carefully, deliberately. Just so he can help put him back together.

If that’s what Lando needs.

When Oscar closes his mouth over the side of Lando’s ankle, it’s dangerously close to his heel. Almost at the sole of his foot.

He hears the way Lando breathes for it—feels the tremor that follows.

Oscar knows what it means, touching him here. Like this. Knows it isn’t about the obvious strangeness, isn’t about the easy joke—feet, mate? seriously?—isn’t about being a fucking freak, or whatever the fuck Lando’s going to say later.

It’s about touching him where he’s vulnerable.

It’s about being allowed to.

Oscar lets himself move further up the bed, kneeling now in the space between Lando’s parted thighs. He runs his lips along the skin of his leg—up the shin, the calf—until he meets the bunched material of his joggers near his knee.

He kisses him there. Right in that soft, dangerous spot below the kneecap. And when a hand curls around his wrist, Oscar flinches—so hard that his grip on Lando’s leg turns impossibly tight.

Lando doesn’t flinch in return. Doesn’t even move. Just holds Oscar steady.

Oscar blinks, lands on the shape of Lando’s hand around his wrist, and swallows. It always stills him—how Lando’s fingers overlap when they curl around him like that.

He glances up, still half-hiding in the space behind Lando’s knee, and the breath that leaves him is sharp when he realises—sees—

Lando’s eyes are open. Hazy. Half-lidded.

But open.

And looking directly at him.

Oscar doesn’t say anything. Lando doesn’t either. But Oscar feels the weight of it—what he’s doing—shouting between them, loud and heavy.

Lando’s thumb presses firmly to his pulse, and Oscar wonders if he can feel it. Feel how it’s steady. Calm. Certain.

Hopes he can.

Hopes Lando knows what this means to him—that he’s not afraid to be here. That he wants to be.

Oscar kisses him again, squeezes his calf, and Lando sighs.

“Oscar.”

Oscar blinks. He hadn’t expected to hear his own name. To hear anything at all. Didn’t expect to hear it… like that.

“Yeah?” he says. Asks. He doesn’t know what he’s asking, only that now Lando’s speaking, he doesn’t want it to stop.

Even if all Lando says is his name (over and over and—) that would be enough.

Lando doesn’t respond. Just blinks at him, slow and drowsy, like he’s working something out. He tugs at Oscar’s wrist, the way he tugged at his sleeve in the hallway, and Oscar hears it again for what it is.

An invitation.

He runs a hand down Lando’s thigh, gentle, until he can hold him to his hip. Keeps him close. Doesn’t want to let this part of him go. 

He plants his other hand beside Lando’s head, and leans in. Slowly. Finds that holy, granted space between Lando’s legs, and lets himself sink into it. 

Like kneeling.

Like absolution. 

It’s the way Lando touches his waist. His neck. The way he reaches for him, sighing when Oscar’s weight settles on his chest and pushes him into the bed. The way Oscar can see his lashes, the red-rimmed edges of his eyes—vaguely devastating from this close.

Oscar revels in the heat of him.

He doesn’t react when he feels the heavy, half-hard press of Lando’s cock, almost against his own. He’s hard too, or nearly—just a dull, low thrum. Easy to ignore.

Because this isn’t about sex. Not in the way Oscar’s known it.

It’s something else. Something just as exposing. Maybe more.

Still—

It never won’t get to him. The knowledge—the reality—that Lando wants him too. Keeps wanting him. Despite everything.

Lando’s eyes track across Oscar’s face, that little frown still tucked between his brows. He settles on Oscar’s mouth, where Oscar knows his lips are cracked. Dry. He licks at them—an unconscious habit, usually reserved for Lando.

He can feel Lando’s hand at his throat. Not squeezing—just holding. A thumb brushing the tense line of a tendon too tight.

Lando sighs and Oscar kisses his jaw. Closes his mouth over Lando’s throat, just to feel him swallow—mirroring the way Lando holds him. Like they’re keeping each other there. Anchored. Alive. 

I’ve got you. 

There’s so much Oscar wants to say. All the fucking time, really. Not just here. But he just—can’t. Can’t because he’s never going to get it right. Never going to look at Lando’s face and find a perfect, tidy way to explain it all. Wouldn’t be enough. And—shit. It’s not even that. Lando doesn’t need a speech, Oscar’s pretty sure he wouldn’t want one, but it doesn’t change the way Oscar feels. 

What he wants Lando to understand.

He licks at Lando’s pulse. Bites him there. Hides in that space. Pushes at his shirt, where it’s ridden high up his middle. Keeps pushing until it’s bunched under his arms, tight across his chest.

Oscar drags himself down—graceless, probably. Awkward. But finesse isn’t the point. He just has to touch. To hold. To breathe Lando in, so that maybe Lando will understand.

Lando lets him. Easy. Fingers tangled in Oscar’s hair and pulls.

It’s not sex—but still, Oscar moans. Can’t help it. A thank you.

“Oscar,” Lando says again. 

Oscar hears what’s beneath it. 

You don’t have to. 

“Let me,” Oscar says out loud. 

Lando’s grip in his hair tightens.

Oscar settles, lowers himself to Lando’s chest. Doesn’t hesitate, just breathes. Presses his mouth to Lando’s sternum and feels the bone there. Kisses him there—again and again—until salt tastes like spit, until spit tastes like nothing at all. Just Lando.

He feels the rise and fall of Lando’s chest against his face. Breathing deep. Heavy. Letting himself feel it. Take it.

“You’re good,” Oscar hears himself say. Doesn't really know why he says it.

Repeats it. “You’re good.”

Something moves through Lando’s chest—wracks through it—and Oscar feels it.

He doesn’t want to undo Lando. Doesn’t want to hurt him. That’s the whole point.

He doesn’t want this to bruise.

Oscar lifts his head, rests his chin on Lando’s torso. Lando’s head had been thrown back, eyes shut—but he blinks up fast when he feels Oscar pause.

They look at each other. Again. Just like before. And Oscar sees the way Lando’s cracking. Spilling out all over the edges.

“Lando…” he says softly. Tries not to frown. Starts to say more, but—

“Don’t stop,” Lando cuts in. Firm. Clear.

Oscar drops his forehead to Lando’s skin. Wet and hot. Clutches a fistful of his shirt, closes his eyes, and sighs. 

And kisses him again.

His collarbone. His shoulder. His chest. His ribs. Almost at his armpit. The shape of him.

He could live here, Oscar realises. Make a home in this space Lando’s offered him. In the space Lando wants—needs—him to be.

A space that feels like surrender.

Like devotion.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it.

Being with Lando Norris—loving him—is devotion. Surrender, in its highest, most brutal form.

And when Lando’s legs part wider, thumbs brushing reverently at Oscar’s temples, Oscar thinks—

Surrender comes in many forms. Starting with a mirror. 

[perryelornitorrinco]

I realized that no one has ever asked a Rulie doodle request if I remember well, and felt quite bad for the poor guy. Look at him, he's begging you to make him do something silly on a drawing

[wordpress-blaze-56308386]

Do We Have a Ceasefire? Or Will Other Nations Hand Iran a Nuke?

Philip C. Johnson - June 23, 2025

As of June 23, 2025, the Middle East is still a tinderbox, despite President Trump’s evening announcement of a “complete ceasefire” between Israel and Iran. Ceasefires in this part of the world are like cheap New Year’s resolutions; often broken by breakfast. With Iran’s nuclear program bruised, 400kg of enriched uranium on the loose, and whispers of Pakistan eyeing a nuclear handoff, let’s cut through the fog with a cynical squint.

U.S. Strikes: Fordow Obliterated? On June 21, U.S. B-2 stealth bombers unleashed 30,000-pound bunker-busters on Iran’s Fordow, Natanz, and Isfahan nuclear sites, per Reuters. Trump boasted they were “obliterated.” Maxar imagery shows six craters at Fordow’s entrance, debris scattered like a warzone yard sale. Pentagon’s Gen. Dan Caine claims “extremely severe damage.” IAEA’s Rafael Grossi expects “very significant damage” but can’t confirm underground impacts; no radiation leaks have been detected.

Iran, true to form, peddles their own version of reality. State-run IRNA admits Fordow was hit but claims it was evacuated with minimal damage. MP Mohammad Manan Raisi calls it surface scratches, fixable. Iran’s atomic agency brags 400kg of enriched uranium (a heart-stopping amount) was moved pre-strike. X’s @osc_london notes Iran prepped Fordow’s tunnels prior to the U.S. strike, suggesting a tip-off. So, obliterated? Nope. Crippled? Likely. Staged for the news cycle? Obviously.

Iran’s Retaliation: Qatar and Israel Earlier today, the conflict continued with Iran launching missile attacks targeting Israeli cities. And, in a direct response to the U.S.’s strikes on Iran’s nuclear facilities, Iran fired 15 missiles at Qatar’s Al Udeid Air Base, a U.S. hub, per Reuters. Thankfully, there were no U.S. casualties. X’s @sentdefender calls Iran’s retaliation theater with Iran stretching its thinning arsenal for optics. And it certainly seems as if all of this was choreographed so that Iran’s leadership could retain a shred of dignity without forcing President Trump to respond, escalating the conflict. 

Ceasefire: Will It Hold? Trump’s “complete ceasefire” announcement tonight aims to cool tensions after Iran’s Qatar and Israel strikes. Israel and Iran reportedly agreed, but history screams skepticism. Ceasefires in this neighborhood often collapse under ego and ambition. Iran’s 400kg of unchaperoned enriched uranium looms like a rogue missile, ready to reignite chaos. I, like most others, are praying for peace. But time will tell. 

Pakistan Nukes for Iran? Gossip, Not Gospel No evidence backs claims of anyone slipping Iran a nuke, but Pakistan’s name keeps popping up. PM Shehbaz Sharif, after talks with Iran’s President Pezeshkian, slammed U.S. strikes as “illegal” on June 22, per PBS, despite nominating Trump for a Nobel Peace Prize. X’s @MarioNawfal says this shows diplomatic cuddling, but not nuclear deals. Mahyar Tousi on Tousi TV links Pakistan’s Iran sympathy to anti-Western gripes but doubts they’d court global suicide. Tim Pool’s June 22 podcast notes Pakistan’s nukes are U.S.-monitored. Iran’s proxies, Hezbollah and Hamas, are battered, and Pakistan is not suicidal.

Global Games Russia and China decry the U.S. strikes as illegal. Turkey bashes Israel but winks at Iran. Saudi Arabia and UAE quietly cheer the U.S. and Israel for doing their dirty work. And Europe pleads for calm, per the BBC. Nobody’s openly offering Iran nukes. Not yet.

At the End of the Day… Fordow’s limping, not dead. Iran is posturing but low on ammo. Pakistan’s sympathetic, not insane. Trump’s ceasefire is a gamble - his base hates endless wars, but Iran’s 400kg uranium wildcard could blow it all up. Nobody wants a nuclear Iran, except Iran, who’s playing a high-stakes game. The world watches, popcorn ready, as the Middle East prepares for its next episode in a drama series nobody really wants to watch. But we’ve already watch season one, so, we’re sort of committed. 

Source: Do We Have a Ceasefire? Or Will Other Nations Hand Iran a Nuke?

[tsarjozinzbazin]

guys I just realized I didnt post these here only in the server

(og fitzconte wedding picture by the beautiful @evilfaggotyuri <3)

[bewitched-hours]

Part 4 for the yandere aliens Elliot and Chance x Reader

@rhaine16 please accept this as my official apology for the third part- Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 (Warning: Smut)

Reader is still She/They and I swear this is gonna be the last part-

You awoke with a slight groan, sitting up in bed and rubbing your eyes.

You could feel a warming sting in your stomach as you looked over to the clock-

It's already noon...

Luckily it was an off day for the boys but waking up at noon?

You sighed, looking back to see your darling husbands curled up at your sides. It was oddly adorable to see.

But then you felt something at your legs...

Carefully, you lifted the covers only to be met with shock...

... You laid eggs... Like a goddamn chicken...

You remembered reading about this but it was strange having it happen to you...

You were about to freak out but felt Chance grabbing at your hand as he woke up. "Sweetheart, why're you awake...?" He asked in a groggy tone, sitting up to give you a kiss.

"First of all, it's noon... Second, I laid eggs in my sleep..." You tried to stay quiet for Elliot's sake at this point but Chance quickly removed the covers to see a pair of eggs sitting between your legs and you could've sworn you saw tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he rushed up shake Elliot awake.

Elliot got a bit startled, rubbing his eyes as he sat up to stare down Chance for such a rude awakening. "Chance what the fu-" He wanted to question it but Chance quickly grabbed his face and pointed it towards your eggs.

That made his eyes sparkle again as both him and Chance began to hug you with tears forming in their eyes. That made you feel a lot better.

"We'll be dads! Oh, thank you, [Reader]! We promise you this family is going to be the happiest ever!" You could tell Chance was pretty emotional for once... A stark contrast to how they acted just the night before.

And holding them in such a state... You finally noticed the joyful tears streaming down your cheeks as well.

You had two lovely husbands and now even two wonderful eggs that you were most proud of...

Maybe the motherly hormones... But you felt like you could tackle any situation moving forward with them by your side.

"You're seriously the best thing that's happened to us!" Elliot cried a little into your shoulder and you couldn't help but sniffle too.

"I'd say you two are the best thing to happen to me..." You chuckled a little, giving them both a kiss on the head as you moved your hands through their messy heads of hair.

The oncoming weeks were an absolutely hormonal hell.

Chance and Elliot were able to get time off work to take care of you as you recovered from the eggs slowly. It seemed similar to how pregnancy would feel back on earth...

Morning sickness, regular vomiting, highly sensitive body, etc etc...

But your husbands made sure at least one of them was always by your side and caring for the eggs with you.

You were... Surprisingly protective of them the first week and would barely even let Elliot or Chance near them despite their pleading.

But this was to be expected. This race is very protective over its children during the egg stage. It was common for new mothers to be overly attached and develop an unhealthy sense of protectiveness without a partner to calm the waters.

But you had two lovely husbands to do that for you and ease you into normalcy again. They were just happy to be fathers and followed every request you made to make sure you were happy.

After all, you did give them the miracle of a family which they're eternally grateful for.

Let's just hope they don't want more anytime soon... The twins will probably be a nightmare after hatching...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[guzhufuren]

the foot fetish, the furry stuff, the d/s inclinations, the oral fixation, the breeding kink. there are many things i don't need to know about members of ateez but unfortunately know despite my will

[charcoaldustonmyfingers]

Unfriendly reminder for some of you:

I would like to firmly reiterate that my sibling comics are inspired by my real life family and friends. Do not view them sexually. To do so is in no uncertain terms disgusting, and quite frankly makes me feel violated on behalf of both myself and the family members who I originally drew these for.

If you are a fan of t*cest of any sort, unfollow me.

Respect this boundary. I will begin the process of blocking those of you lingering in my notes.