#it must be expunged

[coelpts]

a fun fact about me.

when i was a squirt i was really into sailor moon. the dic dub, back when that was airing on tee vee. and i share my birthday with sailor jupiter.

what that meant was that i had the unshakable certainty that could condense a star field into a black hole that all four year olds tend to have when they're excited about things that this was Deeply Important to my character arc. somehow, sailor jupiter and i were Connected. so i always imagined myself having lightning powers, yknow?

over the years thats sorta mixed and squished around with other interests as they come. ive got a little bit of holy here, a bit of cosmic there, ice and water come up a lot. but i still think storm power is something id love to control, if i had the discipline for it.

alternatively i can blend all of the above together and make the aurora borealis

[irregularmelody]

With the recent livestream on the Basically, Games! channel (Dr. Reflex hammering for one hour), I've taken upon myself to scour through some of the posted videos. Eventually, I came across the trailer for Classic Remastered.

And this frame appeared.

Obviously, I know who it is. It's Null. He's warning us to not play the game and my mind, forever cruel, unraveled this simple and little thought. On how Null is always, always so persistently trying to get you to not play the game under any circumstances. He tries every single method in order to do so to the point where he hijacks the game's trailer, even if it's momentarily.

However, this is not the first instance he does such a thing. In the description in the download page on Itch.io for Baldi's Basics Classic and Birthday Bash, Null makes his presence known after some lines of zalgo text, signaling that he's hijacking those pages as well. The content? Warning you about the game and encouraging you not to play it. Desperate, wanting you to listen and trust him to the point where he does it outside the game. And you want me to believe that this man hates The Player? Nonsense!

Every time I remember that he cared so goddamn much to the point where it ended up leading to his own demise, I want to rip my heart out. Imagine trying so hard, only to brutally fail in the end? Oh, Null. I'm so sorry.

[annabelle--cane]

when people online discard parts of what I say in order to read into my words as maliciously as possible and then use that incorrect reading to make sensitive and pointed personal attacks

[sbnkalny]

So, how u initiate a return to the part of clown should I buy horses large? small? strange? regular? I bought some glowing mushrooms and i ate 34 soft pretzels and drank the water while I was bathing

[magicdustsworld]

𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀(4)

Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: A guide on how to properly date your tattooed, big, bad boyfriend.

𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒: Established relationship, slice of life

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Profanity, illness, fluff, mentions of blood, no curse AU, no mentions of y/n.

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟒: 𝐍𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇

A/N: ik i haven't posted in a while (in my defence, school is taking up too much of my time to focus on anything else) but I got an off day and this was a quick write up (actually not) jhjhjhs wc - 3.7k. Hope you enjoy <3

Divider credits - @cafekitsune

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟑

It's not usual for Sukuna to fall ill.

However, when he does it’s like all the pathogens known to mankind have taken it upon themselves to infect him.

This time, it isn't so different after all.

Since the break of dawn Sukuna's been awake. Body twisted in an uncomfortable manner under the duvets, the dim flicker of the night lamp proves to be a companion in the otherwise solitary room.

"Fucking hell," He curses under his breath, shifting his position to ease the persistent ache that ripples through his body; his joints, for some reason, seems to have tightened itself to his bones. Slight movement proving to be difficult. While the air conditioner functions properly, a sheen of perspiration aglows his forehead—he swabs the moisture only to meet with another thin layer marring his skin, seconds later. He forces open an eye, trying to contemplate why your figure beside him does seems so fuzzy. No sooner, he can clear the mystery does a wave of shiver runs down his spine. "What the hell is this?"

The question leaves his lips, followed by strange churn of his stomach and on instinct he smacks his hand over his mouth.

The next minutes are blurred. Literally blurred for the brief time as if his body is set on auto-pilot, beckoning him to rise from the bed and walk to the bathroom.

As the expunging liquids leaves his throat and down the toilet does his distinct vision returns. Lips apart, he breaths in copious amount of air while the room seems to spin in a whirl. Once his senses have returned, he reached to flush down the contents only to halt.

Is that... blood?

.

"Temperature 101.6 °F and he threw up in the morning."

Sukuna would rather be anywhere but here.

Sitting in a doctor's cabin with you while the former wouldn't stop with his ridiculous questions. Inadvertently, he rests his scalp against the wall, a searing pain ripping from his chest every once in a while, causing him to jolt as if he's being electrocuted.

"Any other discomfort? Body ache or...?" Shinzo trails off, continuing with the physical examination of his patient.

In response, Sukuna shakes his head negatively. However, you take it upon yourself to be honest, "He does and he coughed through the whole drive."

"Not the whole—"

"Keep your mouth shut." Harshly you rebuke, shooting a scornful glare his way.

His lips curl down, on the verge to retaliate before the notion of it seems indolent. He's already been through a series of blood test and chest X rays since the last thirty minutes, exhausting him beyond relief; no need to add more to the list. Therefore, his mouth forms a thin line.

Shinzo hums, finishing with the check up as he returns to his seat across you. Scribbling down on the prescription, a knock sounds from the door and soon his assistant strides in with a number of reports. While the doctor reads through the files of his current patient, your hypertension manifests itself upon your being when your eyes find your boyfriend.

Awfully muted, his throat must have chipped while he threw up—reason to the unusual bleeding. Shoulders raised in a manner, tints of red stains his skin and the groans that escalates from him whenever he attempts to move just causes you to wince. You chew on your bottom lip, fiddling with the fabric of your jacket as the momentary silence in the room stretches. For too long that this might be the loudest silence, you’ve been in.

"Does he need to be hospitalized?"

"No—"

"I am not talking to you."

Sukuna clicks his tongue, just taking a mental note to give you an earful once all of this shit is over. It's so fucking funny. Oh, for heavens... he is perfectly fine. Well yeah, maybe some coughing fit but he can work through that for the day. No way did you call Kenjaku and call in sick for him. And he allowed that? Allowed you to drag you here as well? Alright, maybe he is sick.

Shinzo sets the files down, "Stage I Pneumonia," He concludes, straightening his posture and continues with the prescription. "No need for hospitalization but I am prescribing an antiviral— Tamiflu. Thirty minutes after breakfast, lunch and dinner for three days. Ibuprofen remains whenever he gets high fever and for the cough..." He pinches the bridge of his nose, ripping the sheet before passing it to you. "There's the Honiitus syrup, he can have 10 ml now. Rest, you know."

You nod, scanning the sheet in your grasp, irises halting on the specific medications. Craning your neck upto him, you ask, "Thank you and anything else?"

"Adequate rest and homemade food and he's good to go."

.

"Don't be difficult now, drink it."

"No."

Sukuna scowls at you and you scowl back. His eyes shifts to the tin medicine cup-cap in your hand filled with the amber coloured liquid which is supposed to heal his sore throat.

Currently, confined inside the four walls of his room, this place is 100 times better than that doctor's cabin and any hospital bed. He is sure just a whole day of sleep will make him back on his feet but you just have to be so... persistent.

"I am not asking, drink it." You extend your hand, bringing the liquid to his lips, only for him to turn his face away.

"And I said no," He spits back, eye twitching as he disregards your terse call. "Get that shit out of my face."

"This is for your own good, Sukuna. Stop acting like a child."

Sukuna only huffs in response, muttering a string of curses under his breath. No way is he letting you win this plus that thing in your hand smells disgusting.

“Absolutely not.”

You heave out loudly, "I don't want to force you."

That draws an almost amused chuckle out of him, he tilts his head—eyes shutting down and mouth clamping with a sound as another wave of nausea overrides him. Once composed, he reopens his eyes, challenge swirling in the crimson hues, "You think you can force me?"

“I don’t think so,” A mirthless smile curves into your own mien, you regard his dare with one of your own. "I know so."

"Sure."

"So are you going to be a good boy and drink it or do I need to make you?"

He scoffs, "Go on and try."

You pause for a second, bringing the cup down, gaze settled on him and for reasons unknown, Sukuna senses trouble. "Remember, you asked for it."

He shuts his eyes, rolling the irises behind the lids. You are just so funny sometimes. To think you can force him? Really? Even in this state, he can easily overpower you without even trying. Pick you up and throw you on the bed without any effort. But just for the jokes and laughs, he will let you get a head start.

In the reverie, he is when your warm palm grazes his jaw.

Here it comes.

Until it doesn't.

There's no hint of strength, no force, nothing as you let your palm trail over his skin. He opens his eyes and good lord's... You are close. Too close for his liking. Not that he is complaining. Of course. You can be closer if you want but wait– he is infected, right?

So you shouldn't be near him.

But it's like some hypnotism that's in play as he gazes into your eyes. With the added bonus of your soothing touch on his jaw, the pad of your thumb running on his lower lip—you pull down the flesh. He can see you more clearly than ever, from the slight furrow of your brows to the twitch of your lips and the light reflecting on your eyes.

It's clear.

So, so clear.

A heat spreads through his cheeks, mingling with the blood flowing in his veins and in seconds, his heart rate amplifies. Was it one of the side effects of Pneumonia? Shinzo obviously didn’t mention this but- fuck! You are here and the proximity only hitches the breath in his throat. Your rhythmic exhalation of air fans his skin and he swallows a lump.

Fuck!

He is truly sick.

You draw him in, "Open your mouth."

Before he can make sense of the situation, his body complies. Lips parting and soon you are pouring the medicine down his throat. He gulps, eyes still trained on you and yours on his.

You sit back on the bed and Sukuna blinks.

Wait– what just happened?

"That wasn't too hard now, was it?" You chuckle, pouring some water on the cup and swirl it.

"You– you tricked me."

"Oh? Did I?" Feigning innocence, you laugh again. "And what if I did? ...Oh, and don't make that face now, it doesn't taste that bad.”

“Taste it yourself then speak.”

“I am not the one who’s sick, you are” You muse, cleaning the cap and fastening the lid. He mutters an incoherent curse under his breath and you stand up. Straightening the duvet, you beckon him to lay down.

Something he does without any protest. However, his eyes flickers to the door for a brief second and now only, he is met with the yellowish eyes of a feline.

He raises an eyebrow, “What do you want?”

Kuro passes him a languid stare, his whiskers tremor once almost like its scowling. Only serving for the former’s vexation, the man waves him off without a thought. A low squeal is erupted from him and he is on the verge of pouncing of him when step in.

Picking up the cat, you bring it up to your face, “See Kuro, your papa is sick. So no trespassing here for a week.”

He blinks and answers you as though he understands what you mean.

You’re pretty sure he will try to barge in the second you leave but hey! What’s the problem to hold a little hope? Setting the cat down, you usher him out. Turning towards your boyfriend, you shoot him a heads up. One which he returns with a dismissive gesture.

“Get some rest in the meantime. I will be in the living room, just call if you need something.”

The lights dim out, curtain pulled over – creating the perfect atmosphere for an hour or more nap. Chirping of birds and the revving engines of cars from outside fades into background as comfort envelopes Sukuna amidst the sheets.

Despite it all, hollowness unfurls into his being.

The notion of silence returning again while he the room cloaks itself in darkness strikes an anonymous melancholy though his chest. A garter wraps around his neck, tightening with each passing second. And just like that the calm veneer crumbles into dust.

He pries an eye open and although the blackened room vanishes everything, its difficult to amiss your retreating figure. The haze increases, mouth sealed shut – he can’t speak. So, he extends an arm.

Wait-

The door closes shut.

.

He is walking through a mirage.

Surely, he has strolled through this area before. Once. Twice. Thrice. This is the fourth instance he is met with the same beige tinted cottages with scarlet thatched roofs.

He walks through the secluded lane across them.

Where is he going? He doesn’t know that. Just he is walking all alone. On his own. Just cause he has to.

Sky obscured with thick clouds, every once in a while does the thunder cracks. Lightening over the whole region. Sound so prominent, so daunting that it shakes the whole neighbourhood. For reasons, Sukuna finds an undulating spark tightening over his frame as every step forward becomes a struggle on its own. Down pouring heavily, the droplets causes his clothes to stick to his skin. Dripping down his ink stained countenance, clouding his vision. Breaths filled with raggedness, he wipes the moisture off- it isn’t removed.

He tries again and again and again.

Doesn’t work.

Nothing works.

How can anything ever work when-

Only a singular step he has taken and its like he is pushed off from a building.

Falling down, he doesn’t know what awaits him.

However, when he returns to his feet, the whole scenery has changed.

Instead of the murky countryside stretching with grasslands till the horizon, he is met with the picturesque view of a beach. Sparkling waves rises with all its glory, flaunting its sheer power before crashing on the sandy soil. Seagulls fly over the water bodies, their voice being a distinct reminder of this serenity. Murmurs of human life accompanied by distant tune from seaside eateries greet him. The gentle wisp of the sea breeze ruffles his hair, wafting sand into his eyes and nostrils; he doesn’t flinch.

When he looks around, everyone vanishes.

From the footprints on the soil to the sea castles to all the tourists. No one’s here.

The seclusion stalls on him only a second later. That’s when he realizes, everything’s truly gone.

The scorching sun blazes in fury, momentarily blinding him. Humidity persists in the air, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The waves crash again and he walks towards it. For some unknown reason-this feels right.

What’s the point of continuing anymore?

The sand prickles under his feet as he staggers towards the water. Sky high waves flicker and dance, crashing onto him and even though the musky salt should cause him to recoil, the intensity should strike some agony – he feels nothing.

Paving his way through the water until the very liquid surrounds him. All of this, just seems so empty.

“Sukuna,”

As if broken out from a trance by the mere call of his name, he turns.

Once again the vast expanse of the world does everything shift.

“You’re holding yourself well,” Jin remarks, wiping some specks of soap water from a plate. “Better than I expected you to.”

Sukuna’s eyes drift to take in the surroundings; standing across the kitchen counter of his apartment. His brother indulges in cleaning some utensils, a forlorn lilt of his lips prompts the former to raise an eyebrow. The room remains quiet only broken by the usual cling of the cutlery. From his periphery, he could see his nephew crouched down before Kuro, the boy ruffles the feline’s hair and now the cat should retaliate. Until it doesn’t.

“Taking care of Kuro as well,” Jin stares down at the duo. “Give yourself some credit y’know.”

Wait- since when did his brother know about the cat? And since when did Yuji turn to silent?

Gazing out the window- his eyes widen.

When did his neighbourhood change so much?

Without any explanation, Sukuna marches out of the apartment.

Greeted by a hoard of stones situated all over the grassland. Each of different shapes, sizes and perhaps… something just might be written on it. He doesn’t wait to read. Why should he doesn’t have his reading glasses with him?

Feet squashing the lifeless grasses, the leaves don’t crunch under his boots. His steps are steady, turning round a corner or more whenever he so pleases. Maybe this is the way out of the labyrinth of stones.

However, he halts before a particular stone.

For reasons unknown, Sukuna feels life slipping out of his fingers.

.

Sukuna wakes up with a jolt.

Eyes wide open, he breaths in through his mouth. Fingers trembling with the surge of adrenaline as his shoulders rise and fall in a cadence. Think coat of sweat mars his whole body, vest clinging to him like a second skin and the duvets covering his form renders him panting fit.

What was that? The beach? His brother? Those stones?

What- what was happening?

The eerie maze where he walked? Ran?

Wait- what occurred?

The ceiling lights blinds him with all the intensity, he shuts his eyelids, grunting out like a wounded animal. Some external voice rings out, too loud, too disturbing that he’s forced to press his palm over his ears. Touches guide his skin from his cheek to shoulders and a burst of repulsion compels him to push the person away.

Who the hell was it to hold him like that?

He’s got a girlfriend for fuck’s sake. Get the hell away from him.

However, instead of leaving him alone they are inching closer. He is met with the same touch again but the noise starts to clear as well.

“…Just a dream, you’re fine...”

Albeit begrudgingly, Sukuna removes his hand from his ears.

“…You’re home, calm down…”

It’s a gamble but he manages to reopen his eyes.

“Are you ok? What happened?”

Sukuna blinks, stupefied for the second.

There you are, standing before him while cupping his face in your little palms. Thumb running circles over the tattoos on his face, irises pooling with sheer concern, your eyes are solely focused on a subject. That subject being him.

He looks around.

Notably, nothing has changed. He is still in his bedroom, sitting on the bed with the comforter pooled around his hips. From the traces of light pouring from the ajar window, he can make out how the light fades to dark as twilight tints the skies in hues of violet and blue.

“Hey,” You tap his cheek, urging him to face you, “Why aren’t you speaking?”

He only responds with long stare.

“Sore throat? Should I bring honiitus again?”

“Don’t even think about it, woman.” He barks, lips curling down in utter disgust as the very prominent taste of the damn syrup lingers in the back of his mouth.

Without making a fuss about his sudden outburst, you place your backhand over his forehead. “Mhm… you don’t seem to have fever.” You nod, “No ibuprofen, then.”

“Fucking finally.”

“Don’t celebrate too early,” You snort, a mirthful smile creeping onto you, “Tamiflu after lunch, remember?”

“Well genius, I didn’t have lunch.”

You snap your fingers, “I know, and there it is,” You point to a tray stacked with a lidded container resting on top of the nightstand.

He stares at it for a second too long, “What’s that?”

“Boiled vegetables and… no–” You flick your index finger in the air, a clear negative sign. “No more tantrums, you’ll shut up and eat.”

“As if,” He scoffs, twisting his body away from the utensil, he faces the wall as if the blank canvas seems more interesting than the food you cooked.

You sigh, sitting down on the limited space provided for you on the bed across him, “Just because I call you baby doesn’t mean you have to act like one.”

“I am not enacting–  no, just– fuck,”  He curses under his breath, fumbling with the words too many times before he reaches a conclusion. “I am not acting like a god damn child.”

“Sure.” His eyes narrows down while he regards you. You stretch your arms, the joints cracking under the evident tension, “I added a few pieces of meat for taste, just so you know.”

He raises an eyebrow, retorts accumulating in his mouth. Just a second away from being unleashed before his gaze lands on a bowl and a pack of damp towels. “What happened with that?”

“What?”

“That.”

You glance at the way he points, taking a moment to contemplate before you answer, “I called Dr. Shinzo again, he said applying cold water towels will help with the fever so…”

Sukuna doesn’t know why, but he stills. “You were doing that all this time?”

“Yeah?”

“Why?”

You tilt your head, “Maybe cause you need it?” He blinks and you find your patience wearing thin. Dismissing the confusion clouding his visage, you reach for the tray and pick it up. The clattering of the utensils due to your unstable balance rings through the whole room. “See, this won’t be that bad. Besides, it’s only for a few days, you can manage, right?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Aw c’mon, now,” You unfasten the lid, dipping the spoon. “I will feed you as compensation. How does that sound?”

He still doesn’t answer but with the way he doesn’t protest your offer, he hopes to let you know his affirmation.

.

Sukuna refuses to let you know that the boiled vegetable soup isn’t as bad as he thought.

.

Two days later

.

Credits to his above average immunity or whatsever but Sukuna is almost back to complete health in just a span of few days.

Finally.

Done he is with all the ibuprofen and every other shit he has to endure.

Never again.

As a ritual, only does the lunchtime ends with the empty hot pot of boiled vegetables being lidded back does Sukuna notice the uncharacteristic clattering of the utensils as you try to hold them in place.

“Give me that.”

Before you can reply, the tray is already being grabbed by your boyfriend as he sets it down on the nightstand.

“That needs to be in the kitchen.”

 Instead of gracing you with a proper answer, you are met with his crimson hues filled with something you can’t quite put a finger on. He urges you to sit with him and you comply. Feeling the need to for some reason.

“What?” You ask. His eyes darts down, following his gaze, confusion clouds your head for he is looking at your hands. “Huh?”

No sooner does the word leave your mouth than he grasps both of your hands on his own. You gasp yet don’t try to pull away.

Sukuna traces his thumb over the ridge of your knuckles to the tips of your nails. Turning them around, he draws every single contour lines on your palm as if he’s etching them onto his memory. It’s not the first time, he is holding your hand but it’s the first time he is noticing all the details. Like how a tiny callous has formed beside the edge of your thumb or how the tiny scar runs down the side of your ring finger.

His grasp tightens over yours, nothing to make it hurt. He would never.

He brings them up, pressing his lips over each and every, societally deemed, imperfection. At last, he turns to your backhand. This time, keeping his gaze stilled on you, he kisses your knuckles.

Perhaps, he’d have kissed you too but he doesn’t want the infection to pass.

Perhaps, you’ll know someday that… he is grateful.

Taglist: @comeonatmebruh @sweetpo1son @malazloje @tadabzzzbee @o-ikawaii

[maowives]

The thing is that, while I'm certain Veronica Roth did not intend this, it's clear that the society of Divergent (at least as textual in the film specifically) lacks a Gender Binary of man and woman and instead has a 5-gender system wherein the genders are Dauntless, Erudite, Abnegation, Amity, and Candor. Which is hilarious.

Like. Everything about how their society is portrayed illustrates a deeply gender-segregated society which is organized around an arbitrary set of social groups ("factions"), where labor is (very significantly) allocated according to these factions, where particular behaviors and interpersonal styles are heavily associated with these factions, and where internal compliance with these norms is strictly regulated by other members of the faction. People who do not "fit into the faction system" ("divergents") are either forcibly made into subalterns and expunged from "legitimate" society ("factionless") or otherwise must obscure this fact for risk of the aforementioned social retribution / policing. New recruits to a faction are aggreassively socialized to that factions norms via a regimented system of rituals and violences, often with sexual/homosocial undertones, and are enlisted to participate in this same socializing violence against each other. Those who perform these social violences successfully are materially rewarded with prestige and positions of control. Further, people are a) considered implicit members of their given birth-faction until a coming-of-age ritual, which marks them as having become full (sexual) agents, at which point b) they are expected to typically remain within their birth faction. Unlike many real, extant gender systems, however, there is an in-built nominally socially-sanctioned mechanism for movement between factions, but this movement is always followed with particularly rigorous re-socialization, and acceptance into the faction is particularly conditional on behavioral compliance, particularly when those factions are externally threatened or need to consolidate their bases.

Furthermore, you see nearly no actual in-text segregation among "male" and "female" lines, in ways that are typically considered hallmarks of gender in our world. There seems to be little concern about sexual or semi-sexual contact between people of the "same gender" (which we must then read here as nonexistent), sleeping/living quarters are never segregated along these lines. Neither are sports or combat training (in Dauntless in particular), nor is labor in really any form allocated by the genders "man" and "woman."

I'm certain all of this is unintentional, but if anything I think this illustration of power and social compliance is a more articulate expression of how gender-class (within a materialist feminist frame) actually functions than most "queer" or "genderfucky" media.

[weemietime]

I've been percolating this for a while. One of the hardest things about being Jewish is how nowadays, even commonly accepted historical facts are now seen as debatable when it comes to Jews. Our very history itself is being actively rewritten in front of our eyes. Bad actors continually vandalize Jewish articles on Wikipedia to co-opt our intracommunal terms and bastardize them against us.

Just look at the difference from 2021 to 2024 in the Zionism article. You can see where they've left shit alone in other places that contradicts this, such as clearly defining Palestinians as Arabs and then clearly defining Arabs as native to Paran/Saudi Arabia. To this day people push the false narrative that Jews are settler colonialists in our own homeland, ignoring that the Ottomans, which most Palestinians are descended from (the Arab migration during the Ottoman Empire, not Turks), were living on stolen land.

They stole it. They (Arabs) built Al-Aqsa over our most precious religious site. And if you say this, people turn around and call you Islamophobic. It'd be like if Americans accused Native Americans of being European and decided that actually, they are the indigenous population, and if you have a problem with that you're Christophobic.

31% of the total Israeli population is Ashkenazi and out of that number there are a good deal more who escaped active pogroms and persecutions in places like Russia and Poland. The Kielce pogrom happened after WW2. The majority of Israeli Jews are Mizrahi at 61%. So the narrative as it is now looks like the following:

- Yemeni Jews are entirely expunged and ethnically cleansed from Yemen. The last remaining Jew is jailed.

- Yemen deports these Jews to Israel.

- The Houthis release a statement saying that Israel must be destroyed.

- Everyone accuses the Yemeni Jews of Israel of being genocidal colonizers in their own homeland which they were expunged from.

There is such an overwhelmingly massive campaign emerging from the Islamic Republic in particular as well as Hamas to rewrite history and erase Jewish indigeneity in Israel altogether even though again, Ashkenazim (who they claim are European, but again, are indigenous to the Levant) are a minority in Israel.

We all just ignore that Arabs cannot even pronounce the word Palestine, yet they want to claim that Palestinians have been Palestinians for thousands of years in Israel.

[darkfluffydragon]

Shoving the Phantasmagoria Duo into the SCP foundation >:3

Item #: SCP-1029 Object Class: Safe Special Containment Procedures: SCP-1029 is to be kept in a reinforced glass display case within a secure containment chamber at Site-221. Access to SCP-1029 requires Level 2 clearance and authorization from at least one Level 3 researcher. The containment chamber is to be monitored at all times via surveillance cameras. Testing involving SCP-1029 must be approved by the Site Director and conducted in a controlled environment. Description: SCP-1029 is a sentient orchid flower resembling a wooden staff. At the apex of the staff is a single eye, which exhibits movements consistent with those of a human eye. The staff measures approximately 1.5 metres in length. SCP-1029 displays several anomalous properties:

Healing: SCP-1029 has the ability to heal any physical wound or injury inflicted upon a living being. The extent of its healing capabilities surpasses conventional medical treatment, demonstrating near-instantaneous regeneration of tissue and loss of limbs. It has yet to be tested whether or not SCP-1029 can bring back a subject who is on the brink of death.

Compulsion: One of SCP-1029 most notable effects is its compulsion to compel truthfulness in individuals who hold it. Subjects holding SCP-1029 report an overwhelming urge to speak only the truth, often confessing thoughts or feelings they would otherwise keep hidden. This effect persists until the staff is released. Attempts to deceive while holding SCP-1029 result in discomfort or pain for the subject. Many resisted the idea of even attempting to lie while under the influence of SCP-1029 due to finding the thought “nauseating” and “disturbing”.

Sentience: SCP-1029 displays signs of sentience, exhibiting awareness of its surroundings and reacting to stimuli in its vicinity. Additionally, SCP-1029 demonstrates a degree of control over its anomalous properties, selectively activating its effects based on the intentions of those interacting with it.

Magic: SCP-1029 showcases additional unexplainable ‘magical’ properties, including the ability to emit a soft, soothing light and to create a shield. It has been observed to manifest minor telekinetic effects, such as moving objects within its vicinity. Testing is still being done to see what else SCP-1029 can do.

However, if SCP-1029 is used to intentionally harm another being, the item exhibits signs of distress. The eye appears to express sorrow or disappointment and SCP-1029 emits a faint sad chiming or bell noise. Continued misuse of SCP-1029 results in heightened emotional distress, with the staff actively resisting attempts to use it for harmful purposes. SCP-1029 has been in existence for an indeterminate amount of time, with historical records dating back several centuries and the ancient ruins by the ████████ Forest that it was found in being theorised to be perhaps even older. Dr. ██████ believes that SCP-1029 is related to [DATA EXPUNGED] Occasionally, certain individuals are able to perceive a faint apparition holding SCP-1029, adorned with a golden crown. This phenomenon occurs sporadically and seemingly at random, with no discernible pattern or trigger. Individuals who experience these sightings report feelings of warmth, safety, and tranquillity. This figure has been named SCP-1029-1 Addendum 1029-1: SCP-1029 exhibits the ability to influence the wielder’s mental state, as during a recent test where the previously aggressive subject was asked to hold SCP-1029 for a prolonged period of time, the subject’s behaviour was recorded to slowly become abnormally passive. SCP-1029 was removed from the subject before the test could further continue, and we are waiting for further instructions. Addendum 1029-1: Other SCPs are more capable of seeing SCP-1029-1 than regular people. Further testing is required to see if subjects undergoing anomalous effects are able to see SCP-1029-1.

Name: Dr.Phantasmagoria (SCP-1067)

Occupation: Senior Researcher (Level 3) Part of the Antimemetics Division

Current Status: Phantas is currently kept within Site-221 after being transferred from the Antimemetics Division by [REDACTED] due to [DATA EXPUNGED]. Phantas's eccentric demeanour and unconventional methods contribute to his effectiveness in handling anomalies. However, his propensity for unorthodox approaches requires additional oversight to ensure compliance with Foundation protocols and containment standards.

Special Considerations: Phantas's status as SCP-1067 introduces unique containment challenges, as his anomalous properties render others susceptible to antimeme and amnestics symptoms. Despite having been deemed safe and having dedicated a long period of time working as a researcher within the SCP Foundation, regular monthly evaluations are essential to mitigate potential security breaches and safeguard sensitive information both for Phantas and those who come in regular contact with him.

Additional Notes: Phantas must undergo regular psychological evaluations to ensure his mental stability and resistance to anomalous influences.

He will never be allowed to receive a higher clearance level.

[delirious-donna]

Resistance and Ire [Part One]

story summary: Levi isn’t hungry, or so that’s what he claims. A vampire must drink to survive, and his sire refuses to let the man give up without trying every trick up his sleeve. When a new ‘donor’ appears, one who is different from all the rest, will Levi be able to keep resisting?

pairing: Levi Ackerman x female reader

warnings: mentions of blood, blood drinking and all the things associated with vampirism, SFW (for now 👀), implied danger, a bit of flirting but y’know… it’s Levi so let him warm up a bit

Masterlist | Part Two

“Is this really necessary?” Levi scoffed into the depths of his teacup. 

Hange frowned. They leaned across the antique desk, bringing their face closer to his own and he arched an eyebrow at the overreaction to what had been a simple question. The light from the lamp glinted off their glasses, hazel eyes attempting to fix him in place but all it achieved was a faint sense of amusement. 

“If you’re trying for intimidation, Hange, then I’m afraid you’ve met your match.” 

“Why do you have to be so difficult?” they enthused, crumpling into a mass of limbs and messily tied hair that he wished nothing more than to sweep aside from the papers they were currently messing up. “It’s been too long, Levi. Far too long.” 

Maybe that was true, not that he was about to admit to it. 

“How long has it been exactly?” 

Hange ground down on their molars, hands balling into fists by their sides. He felt a twinge of sympathy that they had been the one deployed on what he assumed would be a doomed mission. They were not the first and likely would not be the last, but it was hard to maintain that ounce of sympathy when he honestly did not care. 

Levi couldn’t recall the last time he felt much of his emotions. Mostly he was numb to them and that suited him fine. Why couldn’t he be left to rot in the peace of his library? He knew why, and that’s where the first tendrils of inky hatred broke the calm surface of his demeanour. 

“He worries.” 

His pupils shrank before dilating to swallow his irises whole. The pen in his hand gave an ominous groan as the very oxygen from the room was expunged. Hange stepped back.  

“He can go to hell for all I care,” he hissed vehemently. 

“Levi. Be reasonable, you have to eat,” they beseeched, palms spread wide to show they meant no hostility. “How long are you going to continue with this childish behaviour? You’re older than I am by nearly half a century and yet you’re claiming that the donors, who want to serve you, might I add, don’t meet your requirements? Come on.” 

Levi lifted his chin, indignant in his pettiness. It was childish, of course it was, but it was working and that sense of satisfaction felt better than any blood ever could. There was nothing for him to say in retaliation so instead, he let the silence hang until Hange couldn’t stomach it—it didn’t take long. Their feet shuffled on the priceless rug; arms sent skyward before they flopped into the leather wingback chair opposite him, slumped in what he assumed to be defeat. 

“Maybe he was wrong this time,” they offered dejectedly.  

His curiosity piqued, and he quickly steepled his fingers to stop them from fidgeting and giving himself away entirely. Levi had always liked Hange and it was proving harder to resist his thirst for knowledge this time around. It wouldn’t hurt to give in just a little, to show that he wasn’t downright refusing like he had done the last three times someone was sent to tempt him into sating his appetite. 

“Wrong about what?” 

“Hm? Oh. Erwin said he handpicked your newest donor. I think his exact words were along the lines of… ‘Levi will adore her. There is no possible way he could deny himself a taste.’ Or something like that.” Hange deepened their voice at the appropriate part, brow furrowed in mimicry of their shared sire, and he felt the corner of his lips twitch. 

Meddlesome Erwin. He could never keep his nose out of his affairs for long. That hatred began to bubble and boil. How audacious of him to assume he had so little self-restraint. It had been nearly a whole month since his last meal, and whilst the hunger was ever-present, the deliciousness of being stubborn and succeeding at it fed him more than adequately. 

“Nonsense,” he said. 

“—said you’d say that too.” 

Hange was picking at their cuticles, deliberately not looking at him and his teeth flashed as his lips curled back with a snarl. He would show Erwin. One more to add to the rejection pile would not do any harm. Maybe Erwin would finally back off if he resisted this, oh-so-special, human. 

“Send them to me. I will be the one to decide, not Erwin.” 

“Excellent!” The brunette jumped to their feet with a wide, Cheshire Cat smile. “She’s in my car. I’ll be sure to show her in.” 

Fuck. Levi felt played and he had no one to blame but himself. Ire and pride were to be his downfall. His mouth opened to protest except it was already far too late. He snapped his jaw closed and shut his eyes, counting silently in the hopes of regaining a fraction of his composure. 

He was unsure exactly how long he stayed like that, his counting giving way to mediation methods he had mastered decades ago, and time ceased to exist.  

Footsteps echoed along the corridor leading to his library, they were steady and far from nervous unlike most who traipsed these lonesome hallways. A knock reverberated on the heavy mahogany door, and he heard the faintest exhale of breath. 

“Enter.” 

~~~~~~~~

You weren’t sure what to expect, but nothing could prepare you for the whirlwind that had been the last few hours. 

The existence of vampires had come as a shock to the entire world back when they chose to step out of the shadows, to reveal their truths and assure the masses that the nightmares told in literature were nowhere near reality. Some countries took to the adaptation of the world as we knew it more readily than others, mostly countries where folklore and traditions surrounding the dead—or undead in this case—remained steadfast and revered. 

With synthetic blood still a future pipe dream, the demand for consensual blood was at an all-time high. Years of legislation and government interference had seen the rise of blood donor agencies specifically aimed at catering to those that no longer had a beating heart… or did they? Honestly, you weren’t sure you knew for certain. Research on vampires was strictly prohibited so the only public information was what they chose to share, and they were very secretive. 

For those who longed to rub shoulders—or more—with the powerful creatures of the night, these agencies were not the fantasy-fuelled dream they hoped for. They were no more than standard clinical settings where you donated a pint of your blood in exchange for a cookie and a promise that someone out there would be very happy to taste you. Some clinics showed a catalogue of vampires with their preferred blood type listed beneath candid photos, but those were a rarity and extremely expensive to become affiliated with, despite being the ones most commonly advertised. 

What was even more rare, and completely hush-hush, were the vampires that drank directly from the vein. Of course, there was the negative press associated with those who believed themselves to be ‘true’ vampires. Blood drinking that led to death was extremely rare but heavily sensationalised by the media. It meant that those who chose to remain faithful to the old ways were extremely selective, with rigorous measures in place to vet applicants. You knew that more than most having spent the past several months infiltrating such a place. 

It all led to today and you couldn’t shake the feeling of that fateful meeting just a few hours ago. Erwin Smith was an imposing man, one that you would be flustered by in normal circumstances but add in that he was the head of a powerful vampire syndicate and with an unknown age, it only worsened your predicament.  

His piercing blue eyes, neatly parted blond hair and Roman nose were accentuated by the aura that all vampires possessed. It was as if power radiated from them, and it wasn’t hard to see why so many people in positions of authority were outed as immortals during The Awakening. You were certain he could see right into your soul when he shook your hand and inclined his head, and whatever he saw… he liked. It left you feeling on edge, like you had taken the first step towards a destiny that had been written for millennia.  

That Erwin had seen something you couldn’t fathom was the only reason you found yourself climbing out of the black town car and following an excitable Hange towards a dimly lit portion of the stately house. They were far too animated for your liking, and although you had found it all too easy to form a quick bond of friendship with them, there was a glint in their eye that reminded you of a shark—a predator. 

Nerves be damned, you knocked and heard the low commanding request to enter after a heartbeat or two of silence so loud it was deafening. The handle was cool beneath your fingers, not a bead of sweat sullying your palms when you pushed into the room with your eyes cast low. There was a sharp inhale of breath, and you glanced up to see a young man sitting behind a polished desk. 

“Good evening, Miss...?” The man inquired politely, standing when you approached and gesturing for you to take the seat opposite. 

You gave him your name and watched him taste the weight of it, the syllables rolling along his tongue until you thought you might never wish for another person to use it again. Black hair as pure as a midnight sky hung into curtains over his brow, it might have hidden the furrow had it not been so prominent, but you didn’t comment. 

“Pretty,” he mused almost to himself before continuing. “Am I to assume that you know who I am or were you not fed that information?” 

Frowning, you blinked down at your hands in your lap. There had been some hint that he might not be as friendly as you would like, but it was hard not to wither beneath his icy stare. Despite the cold reception, you couldn’t help but find him handsome. At nearly a foot shorter than Erwin, his presence was no less impressive, in fact, he commanded more of your attention without even trying. 

“I believe,” he started quietly, “I asked you a question. 

“I-I was told your name is Levi and that you would be mean to me if I spoke out of turn.”  

You left out the part about being warned against his dismissive attitude and general lack of compassion for anyone other than himself. It didn’t feel right to poke the bear any more than was necessary. 

“Tch.” Levi clicked his tongue against his teeth. His nostrils flared almost imperceptibly, and you watched at the subtle widening of his eyes before a veil of contempt fell across his features. 

“Levi Ackerman, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“Are you certain about that?” You slapped your palm over your traitorous mouth, mentally chastising yourself. 

“I’ve been sent a cheeky one, delightful.” 

“I didn’t mean to… sorry. I’m used to speaking my mind,” you conceded softly. Did he have to have such sharp eyes? The grey hue swirled almost mercurially and since your arrival, they had shifted from pale to dark and back again. It left you wondering why. 

“Speaking your mind in the company of vampires is not always the most wise.” 

“Is that a threat?” 

“Not at all. Simply a fact.” Levi arched an eyebrow. His face was neutral, impassive, or so he hoped. It was hard to remain calm when your very scent wafted invitingly towards him. Your aroma was different from any other he had ever experienced, and he wanted to kick himself for falling further into this perfectly cunning trap. 

It didn't help matters that he also found you incredibly pretty, no easy feat given his history of lovers and the like over the many many years. A good-looking face could only take him so far, but there was more to you than met the eye and he scowled harder when you glanced away. One false move and he would be fully entangled in a spider's web made just for him.

You hummed, musing quietly as to whether you believed him or not. There was no need for threats when there was a seven-figure insurance policy in your father’s name should anything fatal befall you. That would be more than enough to ensure his twilight years were spent in luxury. 

“Do you always conduct interviews such as these before you drink?” 

Levi canted his head. “You haven’t done this,” he waved his hand between the two of you, “before?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“So, you’re not a virgin blood donor then.” 

“I didn’t say that either,” you said churlishly. 

Whether you knew it or not, your blood was heating the longer this back and forth ensued. Levi wanted to bite down hard on his tongue as the scent of bergamot tickled his olfactory senses and he began to salivate uncontrollably. Give it another minute or two and his gums would throb with the want to release the full length of his canines, making it harder to speak without a lisp. Harder, not impossible. 

“You’re testing my patience,” he warned flatly. 

You shifted in your seat and straightened your spine. If it took you screwing your courage to the sticking place, then so be it. He might be possibly the most handsome man you had ever laid eyes on, but you were not without reason for being here. It was important to remember that and not fall into some silly bickering that could see all your carefully cultivated plans blown up in one fell swoop. 

“That wasn’t my intention,” you admitted truthfully, “but you must know that I’ve been thoroughly vetted in every possible way. I’ve even personally met Mr Smith, he—” 

Suddenly, he was in front of you.  

No longer safely on the other side of the desk but right there in front of your chair. His hands gripped the leather arms until you could hear the fabric whimper in protest. The mercurial swirl of his irises painted a storm-laden sky, and you swallowed down the shriek caught fast in your throat. 

“Did. He. Taste. You.” 

What was happening? Where had this unexpected shift come from? His clipped words were raw with potent fury, and only when you shrank back did a momentary sense of panic skitter over his face. The veil of contempt ripped away to reveal… fuck, you didn’t know.  

“What...? Mr Ackerman, please.” You choked out the words, overcome by contrasting desires that made no sense. The most sensible was to run, to flee as fast as you could and hope that there would be protection outside of his opulent library. The other was also to run but towards him, to hurtle yourself into his arms and comfort a man—was he still a man? —you had only just met. 

“Your blood,” he managed to say without snarling whilst his eyes raked over the throbbing pulse in your neck and up to your terrified eyes, “it’s singing to me.” 

Levi had chosen not to believe in it. After centuries of existence and barely any tales of it being documented, he had refused to listen to the stories Erwin spoke of so many moons ago. Tales of blood that sang so sweetly that you could not deny it. Pieces were missing from his memory, other myths attached to the phenomena but it hardly mattered when he was listening to the most alluring music he had ever heard in his life.  

He couldn't pinpoint exactly when it started, it certainly wasn't when you first entered his home or even when you gave him your name without reservation. One moment he was quelling the desire to draw you into his lap and scent the blood directly beneath your skin and the next he shadow-stepped without meaning to.

He was utterly fear-struck. 

The door burst open before you could think to speak, to ask what the hell he meant by your blood singing to him. Hange, followed by a man you hadn’t been introduced to stormed inside and yelling ensued without further ado. Levi was being backed into a corner and you could only blink dumbly as the words slurred together, unfocused and intelligible. 

You were standing, being led to the door but you kept looking back. The hands on your shoulders tightened when you started to resist, Levi met your eyes and shook his head once, solemnly. He threw up his hands in surrender and you wanted to die right there. The door was steps away, nothing but a pounding war drum sounded in your ears and then with startling clarity that pierced through the noise, he spoke. 

“Please, I have to know… did he taste you?” 

Your mouth opened to respond, the answer on the tip of your tongue but before you could voice it, you were in the back of the same black town car you had arrived in, with tears in your eyes and a heavy ache in your heart. 

[blackswallowtailbutterfly]

Conservatives: these priests/pastors/conservative politicians would NEVER do something so sexually deviant as to sexually abuse a child; it's these homosexuals and muslims and immigrants and bleeding heart liberal politicians who do that! People of bad moral character, men who don't know how to be men! *ahem*...*passes/upholds law allowing children to be married to adults with parental consent* *high official age of consent, but let him off because she must have tempted him* *moves pedo priest to new district*

Liberals: these drag queens/trans women/whistle-blowers/BDSM practitioners/liberal politicians would NEVER do something so terrible as to sexually abuse a child; it's those Christian priests and pastors, those small-town mayors, those billionaire CEOs, those hypocritical conservative politicians who do that! People with privilege and standing, people who have repressed their urges and expressed them in a bad way! *ahem*...*something something we can't ban child marriage because cultural relativity* *child sex workers* *lower age of consent for sexual freedom* *expunge criminal records for transwomen*

Like do you see how you're all the fucking same on this issue? That your reasoning is the exact same? Look to your own or shut the fuck up and let feminists handle this.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: FISH

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, non consensual drug use

Read after the cut

---

Two hours after guests and staff alike have made their egress from the house the host himself leaves it, getting into his car with a solitary glance up at your barred lodgings. You cringe from that look, from the purpose that coaxes him out like a stoat into the rain-clothed night.

Hannibal has known perhaps since the first Lover killing the culprit's identity and abode.

He himself is beyond a murderer, a master of games, lording himself above the board of life and only involving himself directly in that play when it serves to amuse him, or else he has no choice but to interfere.

It occurs to you that his current motivation is, in part, both the former and the latter, being that he’d likely sensed a collision with Freddie Lounds or some other disruptive circumstance that would result in his going after Amy again. He’d perhaps even devised such an event; you—predictably affected—had merely struck the spark of it into birth.

Always Hannibal’s intent has been to make some grand demonstration of his influence, a court magician with a vanishing trick: now you see it, now you don’t.

Who else has disappeared through his performance and returned only in death?

You’re convinced by now that he is indeed the Copycat, need only proof in absolutes to entirely believe it. But if he is so then all food consumed within this den has been of human produce, and there is no length of starvation nor manner of purging that will expunge this from your history.

They are part of you now, the whispering dead; you are built of cadavers, and the entrails of stars, and champagne, engorged with the reeking malign of the jackal you’ve become in your imprisonment.

You resign yourself to bed, feeling truly ill, and so do not hear when Hannibal returns in the early hours of the morning. Do not fully wake as he comes into your room, a needle between his fingers, nor when he whispers to you over the click of the metronome.

Nor, too, when through your lips he passes some fatty soup, which in a half doze you attempt to expel.

“You need to eat, my love,” he says. “Let’s try again.”

You dream of Savannah Belmont, her dark eyes turned grey in absence of life, sitting on a kitchen chair beside the muttering waters of a river. The fingers of her right hand play idly between her legs, and the other reaches into the foramen of her open gut, emerging full of water beetles and wriggling fish.

“I’m not hungry,” you say, as she offers them to you.

The dream repeats all night and on into the day until you think you may never escape its smothering hold.

You rise the following afternoon like the personification of the sin of Sloth, unsure what to make of Hannibal’s visitation, or of the hours lost to the shifting hallways of memory.

Grudgingly you go down through the house in search of your jailer, knowing that you must play inquisitor and have the truth of Amy’s fate out of him.

It is in the grand living room with its many decorative animal skulls that you find him, a king of the deceased amidst his plenty.

He sits in an armchair, holding his iPad on one crossed knee as he might the works of Kafka, dignified and invested in the screen. Standing on tiptoe to peep over his shoulder you see a news reporter standing against a backdrop of half bare trees.

The volume is low, only a scattering of words reaching your ears.

“Breaking... the woman thought to have been the most recent victim... found hitchhiking along a forest road just outside...”

"Amy," you say, aloud, and Hannibal part turns his head to you, his face like that of Jesus Christ, all grace and mercy.

"Hello, Little One,” he says. “Please sit with me. There's something I'd like you to see that should comfort you."

You hesitate to approach, your instincts a vortex of craving to run. Yet you must make nice with the monster, or else become his meat.

"Yes, Daddy," you mumble, and perch stiffly on the arm of Hannibal's chair, straightening your back in aversion to even accidental contact with him.

He blinks at your inappropriate use of his furniture, but does not reprimand you aloud. Instead he turns the iPad towards you and taps a forefinger on the screen.

“Police say the victim was kept in an abandoned shack after being struck in the head and abducted the previous night,” says the reporter. “Glass was able to escape through an unlocked door while her assailant was distracted by an unknown individual. After fleeing through a forested area she was able to find the nearest road and flag down a passing driver, who promptly called the police.”

“That was you,” you say, softly. “The ‘unknown individual’.”

Hannibal puts a finger to his lips.

“Keep watching, please.”

“Glass is suffering from concussion and minor memory loss, but is otherwise healthy,” says the reporter, through a grin of chemically whitened teeth. “Police are investigating the area in which she was held hostage for any evidence left by the attacker.”

The screen flashes to video of Amy, her eyes marbled with broken veins, bruising spread across her temple like an abstract watercolour piece. She’s wrapped up in an oversized sweater that only makes her look thinner within it, her every bone like armature against her skin.

Jealousy yanks at you like a vicious hook, and you find yourself appalled by your disease, that seeing a friend unwell inspires in you desire to replicate her sickness.

One of Amy's older brothers, Darrien, stands with an arm around her narrow shoulders, a surprise to you, being that they hadn't liked one another in childhood.

They both stand smiling like hospice patients forced to attend some miserable function against their will.

“I just want to say how grateful I am to be home with my family,” says Amy— she sounds stilted, almost scripted, unlike herself. “I know how lucky I am to be here. I’d like to thank Morgan Vance, who picked me up at 5am and never complained once. If she hadn’t stopped for me I don’t know where I’d be right now.”

“As a family, we’re asking for privacy,” says Darrien, and he rubs Amy’s shoulder, an unimaginable gesture from the boy who’d once shunned his sibling in school hallways. “I get people have a ton of questions, but right now we’d appreciate it if everybody gave us time to process everything.”

The news segment shifts to another topic, the falling of a church roof in Savage, Maryland.

You glance up at Hannibal, tears brimming in the fonts of your eyes. His face is pretty in the afternoon daylight, the age coaxed out of it by the sun.

"You saved her life,” you say.

"Yes."

Like a witch come to some blue blood’s birth he extends his curse to you as a gift, and you know better by now than to decline it.

In a whisper, you say, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome,” says Hannibal, and he puts a light hand upon your trembling knee, his thumb stroking the joint where a knife might cut it out. “I only hope that now you see the genuine intent behind my words, as well as my capabilities."

"How did you do it?” you ask. “How did you even find the Lover?"

Hannibal continues stroking your knee through your skirt, sending a tremble of sensitivity up your thigh.

"I've known his identity for some months now,” he says. “I can't tell you how just yet. But I can divulge that the Lover is following his own investigation, and knows that I've been helping Jack and Will when I can.

“Through this the Lover came to learn of our connection to you. When I called him to suggest Amy as his next interest he informed me that she’d already been considered."

You struggle down from the arm of the chair, taking a few hasty steps back.

"You... you gave her to him,” you stammer. “I knew it."

"And I returned her to you safely,” says Hannibal, patiently. “At my side, you'll receive all that you could ever ask of me, but as my enemy there is much to lose. I don't mean to threaten you, Little One. My interest is only in being truthful with you."

You gather your hands at your mouth, breathing in quick, stinging bursts.

"Why did the Lover want Amy?" you ask.

"He, like Freddie Lounds, had deduced some connection between you and Miss Glass. The Lover believed that abducting her would sow discord in our household, and therefore derail the investigation. I suggested that I agreed with his assessment."

How unemotionally he speaks of his this, as though reading aloud the introduction to some dull novel.

"Then what happened when you went out there the other night?” you ask, sweat staling your neck. “Why did he just let Amy go?"

"I told him that we'd made a mistake,” says Hannibal, “and that Will had grown suspicious. The abduction itself had gone poorly due to Amy putting up more of a fight than was expected of her; from Will's piecing together of the scene and certain evidence noticed there he would have located the shack the Lover was using in some days.

“So I encouraged the killer to allow Amy her freedom and abandon the building entirely. I’m told he burned it some minutes after her escape."

You picture your friend staggering by dark morning through some wood, the stink of smoke all through her hair.

"Won't she give you both up to the police?” you ask. “She must have seen his face, then there was the phone call—"

"Amy will remember very little prior to her liberty,” says Hannibal. “The avenue for her escape itself was staged by the Lover and I to resemble an unexpected interruption. I spent some hours with Amy before this, ensuring that she wouldn't stray from the official version of events. Her concussion is not the cause of her lost memories."

"You hypnotised her,” you say. “With the white lights. The ones from therapy."

You do not mention the day taken from you by similar practice, afraid of that vacuum of memory.

"You’re correct,” says Hannibal. “I did.”

"But her phone records—"

"The Lover removed Amy's cell phone from her person and took care to destroy it. I believe this is procedure with each of his killings."

Appalled, you wonder how you are to smile and be the swaddled baby of the doctor now the first layer of his ghillie suit has been shucked away.

"So you're like, friends with the Lover?” you ask, unable to entirely disguise your disgust.

"We are acquaintances,” says Hannibal, “with a similar goal: that of proving our love to an individual so adamantly set against receiving it."

He polishes the iPad with a thin cloth and puts it away in a silver case, labouring with a quiet delight over the mundane nature of routine.

"When are you going to tell Will who the Lover is?” you ask, bleakly. “You can't just let him kill more and more girls."

“Will is already on the verge of uncovering the killer's identity without my intervention,” says Hannibal. “By enticing the Lover to be reckless he has somewhat revealed himself, and is no longer the enigma he once was. Besides, if I were to unveil the Lover myself I would invite questions I cannot safely answer.”

Naturally he is self-preserving, first and foremost. But above all, to end the killer’s reign too quickly would bore him; from Hannibal’s handling of your own case you understand this.

"Don't you care about those dead girls at all?" you ask, and your captor smiles without warmth.

"Their deaths are part of the Lover’s exhibition. He is a crude artist, certainly, but he is not yet in possession of his muse. It’s satisfying to observe the progression of his work.”

Your balance wavers, threatens to give under the shock of this confession.

"Daddy,” you say, pitiful in your horror. “You’re scaring me."

Hannibal regards you with a kind of disappointment.

"God frequently inspires terror with His might, but those who follow Him with obedience need never fear His hand. I’d hoped that you might learn this through Amy's safe return."

Alarmed, you slip from the couch and kneel before Hannibal, feeling that you must display some false devotion or else be expelled as a heretic by terminal design.

"I'm grateful," you say, clutching at him with fervent hands. "I am, Daddy. I get why you did it. And I'm thankful you did what I asked. Just... please don't do anything like that again. I swear I'll try harder to be good. I'm trying to understand you. Really I am.”

Hannibal gazes down at you for a beat, seeming on the cusp of some internal decision.

"I can see that,” he says, at last. “And you’re young. There’s time yet for you to study under me.”

Will's voice, hoarse with illness, swerves through the room like an abrupt change in the forecast.

"What have I missed?"

You think to leap up and away from Hannibal as though caught in some illicit tryst, but a look from the older man impels you to remain, your cheek resting in his lap.

"She's offering me gratitude for my leniency regarding her outburst at the party," says Hannibal, unruffled by the interruption. "It's fortunate that my guests were unsurprised by Miss Lounds' deliberate attempt to provoke our Little One. They've been wholly charitable and sympathetic."

Will steps into view, his eyebrows almost at his hairline. His face is cadaverous and glazed with the resin of sweat.

The case, his illness: they suck from him his vigour, and though he is accomplice to your deadly keeper you’ve soul enough in you to pity him.

"Honestly, I don't know why you even invited Freddie,” he says. “It was a bad idea."

"In hindsight, I concur,” says Hannibal. “But my intent was to give the impression of having nothing to hide."

Will laughs and shakes his head.

"Freddie’ll see dirt on us both no matter what we do. Now she'll have even more of a reason to look."

"We mustn’t concern ourselves with the idle fodder of gossip columnists. I’ve had a stern word with Miss Lounds discouraging her from provoking our charge at future events. The matter is much resolved.”

Eyeing your sniffling figure, Will says, "Doesn’t look resolved from here.”

"There was another matter. Our Little One also chose to overindulge in champagne.”

Starting, you look up at Will and see him struggle not to laugh again.

Rather than be a hypocrite and side entirely with his friend, he asks, "Did you explicitly tell her she couldn't drink?"

"No," you pipe up from Hannibal's knee. "He didn't."

"I've never claimed to be faultless," says the doctor. "Evidently I haven’t been clear in my stance. But the implication was strong enough that you deliberately hid your drinking from me. You were far from subtle, I assure you."

You turn your face against his leg, hiding it in the fabric so as not to see the developing lust for punitive sex in his eyes.

"I’m sorry."

"Perhaps I'd be more inclined to believe that claim if you made a demonstration of it."

"Well, she knows how to give apologies," says Will, as much to diffuse the dark tension between you as to follow his own sensual curiosities. "I received one once in this exact room that seemed pretty genuine.”

“Hey," you say, rather hurt; you’d rather hoped he’d rise more strongly in your defence.

You’re uncertain whether the two men would be on such cordial terms if Will shared your knowledge of Hannibal. Yet already he suspects at least partly his shadows, and still is willing to flank him in the act of rape.

Still, you know his revulsion for the Lover to be genuine, see it in its wearying of him. There is a line for Will Graham, somewhere, but you do not know how long it will remain before he crosses it.

“Little One,” says Hannibal, gently reminding you of your duty.

As you begin working listlessly at Hannibal’s trouser button that Will says, "Mind if I help?"

For a moment you imagine him on his knees beside you, sharing the heavy phallus with eager tongue and coarse, pale hands, and you loathe the little light that flares between your compressed thighs.

Instead Will comes to stand behind you, smoothing back your hair as you bow your head to Hannibal; the other man bends likewise, arms going out to you as you consume him in a bite without teeth.

Four hands, then, upon you, two in your hair, twins caressing your face and neck with a touch that bears the prospect and willingness to love, should you become, like the dancing myth, a swan by night— you shift beneath that touch as ash, eating of the hated one as though for the taste of him.

You kiss his length, look up into the face that shunts through you a stake of killing fear and see him clearly, then, a legend brought earthwards by the wants he shares with men. See through the tiers of guise and truth that you fear most his humanity, that he can love.

Even in this coaxing to consent in your dismantlement you know it, see through a window of time how gently he would rear you as his own.

You do not want him, or this, and yet you feel yourself seduced by him, if only in a subconscious attempt to lessen the guilt that is sister to you.

His gaze, of lowered lids and pleasured shine, watches you with enjoyment. As your tongue whispers on his cock Hannibal murmurs to you praise and urging, sometimes an utterance of your name; while he is sated, you are safe, and so into your narrow throat you sink him down.

You owe him, you think, in some cosmic fashion, for the gold of two lives spared, yours, and that of Amy Glass. Like all Gods Hannibal demands his offering, and though you are no virgin you give yourself to that altar, raise and drop like the sun upon a mountain.

“That’s it,” says Hannibal. “My talented darling.”

Your mouth is a grail to him, some magic article; you know it from the breathy groans with which he exalts your attempts to satisfy.

“Don’t give her an ego,” says Will, but then he kisses your bent neck, and you feel a pulse between your legs again like the last heartbeat before death’s oblivion.

Hands, hands, mouths.

You take their lips on yours like a rat bite, assuming they’ve already long begun to infect you with their disease.

Then as you suck again, aware of Will’s thin form over you like a bower, enclosing you in the act, with them.

Mouths, mouths, hands, only one pair of which have not given themselves to murder, yet are not wholly clean of sin.

You wear your shame like a bridle as you mouth Hannibal’s cock, feel its restraint and harsh leading as you tongue him to his peak.

Will’s fingers tense slightly at your throat, something of his old meanness in it— threatened, you realise, by your curiosity in Hannibal’s affections for you, which you test now with your submission.

Even if Will ever offers up the steaming muscle of his own heart to you that unpleasantness will remain like gristle on the meat.

You do not wish to be a partner in this business of mystery and sex, and yet there is power in it, power with which you may bend Will to your side before you’re contorted by what you may become.

This you think even as you hold Hannibal between your jaws to swallow his finish, a desperate thought that may deliver you to some dinner plate. But you think of it still, think it even as you get up from your knees and turn to Will, twitching with resentment that he, to whom you’ve grown close, still allows you to be so abused.

Light as a fairy child on tip-toe you cross to him and push your wet mouth to the invitation of his lips, spilling warm seed between them so that he, too, might share in the taste of his man.

Will’s eyes widen, yet he does not withdraw from the affection, merely kisses you back with a silent passion. When you draw apart he swallows, glancing down and away from you, his fingertips on his mouth like a stitch, holding Hannibal in.

*

Later, when the doctor makes brief leave of the living room to prepare dinner, you find yourself looking at Will with the haughtiness of betrayal.

“I’d better address the elephant in the room,” he says, at last. “I should have been in your corner. It’s not easy playing both sides, but I know that night was hard for you. I won’t judge you for making a mistake.”

“I don’t care about that,” you say. “You should have told me the Lover took Amy. Sure, it’s been years since I’ve seen her or anything, but it doesn’t matter. You should have told me as soon as you knew.”

Will looks away into the fire.

“I didn’t want to be the one to hurt you with that news. If she hadn’t survived—”

“So what? I’d rather you hurt me than anybody else.”

You hear Will murmur your name, the beginnings of an explanation.

“I don’t care,” you snap, again. “I don’t want your apologies. I got you back for it, anyway.”

Will turns away quietly, ignoring the barb.

Then he says, “One. There’s another reason I’ve been holding back. Not just about Amy, though she’s part of it. Since the Copycat murder I’ve been thinking a lot about previous killings in the area. How similar they are to what happened to Savannah. Have you ever heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“I don’t know,” you say, with a moody shrug. “Maybe.”

“Over the past few years he’s killed in groups of three, always putting the mutilated victims on display after removing their organs from their still living bodies. Savannah Belmont was also still alive when her stomach was cut out of her. Both killers have surgical knowledge.”

At this you twist towards Will’s armchair, watching nervily as he feeds a new log to the hearth.

“You think they might be the same killer?” you ask. “The Lover and this Ripper guy?”

“I won’t know for sure unless there are at least two other murders,” says Will. “He always follows a pattern.”

“But you can’t just wait for that to happen.”

“I know.”

You yearn to tell him about Hannibal, daren’t breath even a letter of his avowal.

“The organs the Ripper cuts from his victims,” you say. “Do you know what he does with them?”

Will glances up, rapidly alert.

“The way you’re asking me that makes me think you’ve made some kind of guess,” he says. “You want to tell me what it is?”

At first you say nothing, knees brought high under your chin like a child’s.

“Will,” you whisper. “What if he eats them?”

[townhulls]

so like what's up with christian denominations in supernatural huh. s1 sam is explicitly coded as catholic -- the crucifix he dreams at jess' grave, his rosary, his extremely complicated relationship with revenge. in seasons 3-5 you've also got his obsession with repentance and an internal wrongness that must be expunged, akin to a very physical form of confession. but like. supernatural Itself, the TV Show Supernatural, is so extremely millenarian. it's like. seventh day adventist type millenarian. its obsession with the book of revelation, its adherence to religio-fascist ideals of masculinity & the nature of right and wrong -- it's all SO american protestant. plus the americana aesthetic itself that the show essentially exists to embody is also inherently protestant. so like. whats the deal! is this the story of a catholic character trapped in a protestant telling of the rapture, and the damage that does to his psyche? is this about the good all-american image of a protestant boy (dean) trying his best to bring the no-good backwards catholic (sam) into the light? why is sam a jesus figure if jesus is such a blatant non-entity within the world of the show??? how many of the writers do you think have read left behind

[cursed-40k-thoughts]

Lion: something MUST be done about the Black legion! We should-

Corvus: CAW

Lion: -hit them in the warp!

Roboute: and how would we supply such punitive excursion?

Corvus: CAW CAWWWWW

Roboute: We should consolidate our strengths!

Russ: I’m with Lion on this. We should expunge them once and for all.

Corvus: CAWW.

Human attendant, shivering and sweating, internally: they aren’t mentioning it! Why aren’t they mentioning it? No one has said anything about the, the, the what IS that?

See! This! I want this but played completely straight by the author

[contemplatingoutlander]

An Australian lawyer's view of Trump being the front runner for the GOP presidential nomination

As an Australian living in a constitutional democracy and a defence lawyer I’m finding the whole Trump saga extremely disturbing. Disturbing that an individual who has attacked democratic norms and values, sneered at the jurisdiction of the courts and justice system and attempted to destroy any or all of the tenets of democracy, freedom for minorities and common decency is the front runner for the Republican nomination for president and if successful could have all federal convictions and charges brought against him expunged or otherwise dismissed. Had Trump been subject to Australian law he wouldn’t be a contender for any political position, he’d have challenges being appointed a dog catcher because no political party in Australia would have either defended or sanctioned his behaviour and he would have most certainly been expelled from every political party, no matter how conservative or left leaning. The Republican parties blind support of Trump that could land him back in the White House is a real and present danger not just to America but to the free world and risks American alliances carefully developed and nurtured over decades since the Second World War. Careful consideration should be taken when appointing a person to such power over national security, nuclear arms and a judicial system and diplomatic network which he has already demonstrated a willingness to weaponise in his own interest.* --Richard Busuttil, Australia, commenting on a NY Times opinion column

Seen through the eyes of this Australian lawyer, the Republican Party's decision to keep backing the traitorous Trump seems not only incredibly corrupt, but foolhardy and frightening.

Trump's comeback would not be possible if a majority of prominent Republicans had denounced him--and preferably impeached him after his attempted coup.

Clearly, Trump's behavior would not have been tolerated by many people in Australia or by many people in other affluent constitutional democracies. (Even Brazil has moved faster to prosecute Bolsonaro for spreading false information about the Brazilian election system.)

The character of the American people who vote for Trump must also be in question by the people in many constitutional democracies around the world.

If the U.S. reelects Trump, America will no longer be considered a beacon for freedom and democracy, nor the leader (or even a leader) of "the free world."

We as a nation will be in freefall, moving rapidly towards autocracy and neofascism.

And the world outside the U.S. will know it, years before it finally dawns on many Americans that by voting for Trump, they helped to destroy our democratic republic.

______________ *This quote was divided into paragraphs to increase readability.

[thyla]

PSYCH- S6E03 ‣ This Episode Sucks ↳ Ladies and gentlemen, I must ask you to brace yourselves. What I’m about to expunge is not for the faint of heart. It is bold with a zesty, salty finish. What we’re up against here is no mere mortal.

[socialjusticeinamerica]

I’ve told you this before but I’ll repeat it. George “Dubya” Bush began the practice of paying Evangelical pastors to preach against Democrats and in favor of Republicans.

After coming out of rehab for coke addiction “Dubya” became a born again evangelical. As dumb as he is he quickly realized that southern and rural evangelicals were poorly educated and completely uniformed bible thumpers that could easily be bought off and used as a political propaganda props.

“Dubya”, who had deserted the Texas Air National Guard and had many scrapes with the law, had his record expunged by his father who had been director of the CIA. Papa Bush helped Nixon open China to Republikkkan corporations and then as VP assisted Reagan in his war on the American middle class and poor. When “wimpy” dad ran for President, Jr fell in with evil brain bug Karl Rove who put the coke addict in charge of buying evangelical clergy. A fairly easy task because evangelical churches are independent, for profit businesses with no hierarchy to answer to like the mainstream Protestants churches or the Catholics. The effort brought in so many new Republican recruits that it continues to this day.

During the Obama years the Justice Department investigated and revoked the non-profit status of evangelical and Baptist churches that were preaching Republican culture war bullshit. This infuriated them and was largely responsible for the massive backlash against Obama and the Dems. Although this was highly underreported it was a very sore point for the GOP thieves. Even today most Dems think the overreaction by Republicans to Obama was purely racism (and let’s face it they are racist bastards) when in fact it was partly that Barry Obama had cut deeply into their lucrative propaganda/fundraising in the south and rural areas. Although it’s not entirely clear that Obama led this effort to undermine the fascist GOP it shook them to the core. They need the pastors to tell the MAGAts how to vote and who to donate to.

Today the evangelical fake Christians of the old Confederacy are the backbone of the MAGA cult and they have been groomed to accept Trump as a “mercenary” for their bastardization of religion. They are willing to overlook his embodiment of the seven deadly sins because he pushes their agenda, not because he believes in it but because he needs their money and votes. It’s a match made in the bowels of Fox News Hell. They’re aware he’s the biggest sinner in the country but he’s their last best chance to set up a Christo-fascist state. Something that wasn’t even on their radar until the Bush dynasty, Karl Rove, and the RNC came knocking on their doors. They think they’re driving the car but they’re just the limo drivers for the oligarchs and their GOP puppets.

It should be noted that there are some cracks in the armor as many college age evangelicals have been speaking up against the tidal wave of cruelty and evil coming from Trump and the GOP. Somebody must have introduced them to the New Testament and Socialist Jesus. For the most part however the old guard televangelist figureheads have been silencing dissent. The young on both sides, while very vocal, haven’t exactly turned out in the massive numbers we keep hoping for.

Republicans still rely on a coalition of evangelical bible thumpers, far-right Nazis, southern/rural gun nuts, the wealthy, and Deep South Americanized Hispanics. The Dems are still largely a coalition of adult African-Americans, Northeast/West coast progressives, the over educated, urban dwellers, and union members (except for police unions). Thanks for reading and following.