#last signal from liberty post

[sinisterexaggerator]

Hard Feelings

Hancock x Fem! Sole Survivor / Reader Insert

(AO3)

Summary: You are the General of the Minutemen. Hancock is your companion when out on missions. It's all fun and games until there are hard feelings at play, the ghoul thinking that one day you just might leave him.

Warnings: NSFW / 18+ for PiV sex, public sex (sort of), MAKEUP sex, switching, praise kink, heavy petting and kissing, fingering, biting, angst, a small domestic dispute, and negative thoughts and feelings associated with oneself (Hancock). In this fic, Hancock displays golden retriever boyfriend energy, and he is more submissive. He also experiences low self-worth, and feelings of inadequacy, which leads to doubt. At some point, he has a panic attack.

Notes: Another fanfic that is completely self-indulgent. I was inspired when I took Hancock to the Starlight Drive-In for the Minutemen mission. We were briefly separated when I (sole) climbed onto the roof of the movie screen. Hancock ran around down below in a panic, thus this idea blossomed; I mention it in this post. I stole Teeth's nickname for Hancock: Hanni. ;D )

Word count: 4.7k+

A gentle peal of thunder rocked the night, just hours from daybreak, the eerie green glow of your pre-war Pip-boy casting its luminescence across the present object of your interest: a sullied movie poster. It was curling at its edges, the faded face of a starlet frozen in time with her mouth agape having snatched your attention, for better or worse, as this potential settlement had yet to be explored—there was no telling what lurked out there among the shadows.

Rita Jean Scarlett was staring into the eyes of not man, but insect, The Barfly calling out to you from a bygone era. It was an Old World tale of weird science gone wrong, filled with hubris and lessons learned all too late. Not too far off from the reality of things, you mused, though meant as fiction, actor Chip Weathers having adorned the costume of the “ghastly” monster for his starring role. 

The creature had bulbous eyes and sticky clawed feet, yet wore a suit and hat. Once considered the stuff of nightmares, now things like this seemed to you like child’s play. You regularly joined in the company of ghouls; robots; synthetic humans, and even super mutants. You faced adversaries on the daily that would make prey animals of yesteryear look like teddy bears—an unnerving thought, but it caused you to smile regardless. 

“What are you grinnin’ about?” a curious voice asked, the creak of worn red leather signaling his closeness; two thin arms encircled you, pitted hands smoothing over skintight, extruded rubber, shiny as the ghoul’s black eyes.

“Just about how things that used to be science fiction are now science fact,” you offered vaguely, casting a glance downward to the sight of yourself being molested, Hancock groping your tit—like any typical man—before it maneuvered lower, gliding over your belly to dip between your thighs.

“Hancock!” you breathed, your pulse quickening, loins already beginning to throb as blemished fingers stroked the line of your vault suit, teasing you at its seam. 

“Hmm?” he hummed, ignoring the tone in which he had been addressed. He asked another question, even as he continued to fondle you sans mercy.  

“Things like me?” 

Hancock was unhurried, enjoying the sleek texture of the glossy fabric against the underside of his thumb. He was positive he was making you wet, wondering how long you might last before you were begging him to fuck you, just like a few hours previous.

However, his query caught you off guard, your mind preoccupied as your palm came to rest over John’s explorative hand, holding it firm, the ghoul taking liberty with your breasts again, cupping one’s shape to give it a squeeze.

“Things that shouldn’t exist? Like that monster up there who thinks he’s human,” he growled silkily, finely wrinkled digits pinching your pebbled nipple through that damnable suit that left nothing to the imagination, John’s prick hardening against the back of your leg.

“You might say that,” you replied without thinking, thoughts clouded with pleasure that would all too suddenly end, so careless was your answer that the ghoul recoiled.

“Really,” John flatly returned, as if for some reason not at all surprised, his warm, gentle touch leaving you longing, confused as to why he was beginning to walk away.

You turned from the ticket booth, staring after your lover as he kicked a loose rock across asphalt; it bounced, ricocheting off an overturned cigarette machine. Hancock pretended to be engrossed in the diner just up ahead, a part of the Starlight Drive-In theater, you both having been warned about raiders before traveling here.

“Hancock.” You followed closely behind; he did not pay you any mind, as if he had not heard you, acting about as mature as a spoiled child who was giving you the dreaded silent treatment.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you claimed, though it was the truth. To be asked that question to begin with seemed like he was fishing for flattery, but who were you to deny the charismatic Mayor of Goodneighbor a harmless stroke to his ego, especially when he meant so much to you.

“Is that where the “might” part comes in?” he snapped, his tone irritated; it was becoming obvious that he had not expected you to agree with him on such matters, the conversation quickly devolving. 

“Is this our first fight? Are we fighting?” you asked, Hancock’s beady eyes narrowing beneath his hairless brow at the flippant way you were brushing off his feelings, or so he thought. 

“Look, if you don’t want to travel with a ghoul, why didn’t you just say so— got better things I could be doing,” he groused, namely chems with his name on them. 

“Is that so? Well, far be it from me to stop you from doing those better things,” you returned, not understanding why he couldn’t just forgive you for something said in passing.

“Always a smart ass,” he complained, as if Hancock himself wasn’t guilty of using his fair share of sarcasm.

Had you not been so heated, you may have remembered just how self-conscious the sociable, charming mayor actually was. His confidence was partially a façade, though he wasn’t one to normally bring down a mood with his own insecurities. Being the introspective sort meant that Hancock wasn’t afraid to get to the heart of things, even at the cost of his own self-esteem. 

John had even allowed you in, being vulnerable by sharing details of his sorrowful past; it was no secret the ending had been bittersweet, if not unhappy. His own appearance had sickened him; he found it hard to believe a gal like you wanted anything to do with him, much less desire to share a bed together, especially since he wasn’t exactly a looker by human standards.

Perhaps you had failed to give him reassurance when it was needed, though temporarily blinded by your temper. Instead of trying to clear things up, you made it worse. 

“You’d be one to know,” you baited.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Hancock shot back, droplets of rain beginning to descend toward the ground.

“You know what? Go over there, check that place out.” You gruffly dismissed him, pointing toward the diner. “I think we both need some time to cool off,” you added, voice sounding less than amicable toward the man whose forehead lurched, as if he had been punched in the gut. 

“Yeah? Fine.” John’s feelings were hurt more by this simple demand than anything you had said thus far, Hancock behaving like a scolded puppy whose owner had treated it unfairly.

You shook your head as you watched him march away, Hancock’s red frock coat glistening thanks to a now steady sprinkle. You sighed, turning toward a slew of rusting, run-down autos, spying a shed somewhere in the distance—you hoped it had a crafting station, as your orders from Preston Garvey were clear.

---

No raiders were present, only mole rats and radroaches. Hancock had kept his distance at your request, though you weren’t so oblivious that you failed to notice the way he routinely hovered only a stone’s throw away. The ghoul was caught basking in your shadow more than once, stealing glimpses, a frown pulling down the edges of his thin-lipped mouth. Yet he would move along the moment you laid your eyes on him, as if embarrassed, not wishing to be the victim of your ire.  

Overall, he seemed to be taking things about as well as you had hoped, though he had technically been the one to start it. You weren’t a mind reader, either, refusing to try and decipher his body language despite the moping, waiting for a time you felt more at ease.

Although, it undeniably tugged at your heartstrings—knowing he was suffering in some capacity—but you kept a clear head, focusing on the task at hand—building a radio relay tower from spare parts in order to reach out to others, reclaiming the theater in the name of the Minutemen with the sole purpose of making the Commonwealth a better place, one settlement at a time.

It was when another accursed mole rat burst forth from its earthy den that you yelped in surprise, drawing your double-action revolver almost a moment too late. With teeth nipping at your toes, you shot the beast, Hancock having dashed to your aid.

You glanced back at him, rattled; he seemed satisfied knowing you weren’t hurt, though his gaze lingered, as if there was something on the tip of his tongue. 

After a moment, he asked, “Can we talk?”

“Not right now.” You shook yourself off, taking a deep breath to assist in the slowing of your pulse. You returned to your workstation, deciding it wasn’t appropriate to address any more personal issues at this juncture—you both had a job to do.

“Sure, got it,” Hancock said grouchily, the ghoul wandering off to continue sifting through various piles of refuse for any usable materials to add to your haul, though inside it felt as if gnarled fingers were cinching tightly around his heart. Anxiety was welling within him, as not being on good terms with you did not sit right; beneath the surface, he was a troubled bundle of nerves, though he did not want to rush you by any means.

If only you knew about the disturbing thoughts that were crawling up John’s brainpan, slithering through the cracks to possess his mental faculties, feeding them fear; unsurety, outwardly expressed by way of a sour attitude. So involved was he with the many voices collecting in his head, that he failed to notice when you had finished installing the relay tower, your instincts guiding you to the Starlight Drive-in’s once magnificent three-story screen.

You took the stairs, moving past a shoddy door to climb to the top. The sun was newly risen, a fine mist hanging over the expansive parking lot, rays of light from your planet’s star casting a beautiful glow along remnants of grass, present in patches, though the area was plagued by the contamination of rads—another item on your to-do list. 

You were enjoying the view when you observed Hancock poking around the last place he’d seen you, determining you were in a better mood and willing to talk. You had planned to call out to him when you saw him run the other way, circling the diner, and then the first place you had gathered—the ticket booth where you had exchanged unpleasantries. 

Confused, you continued your study of his erratic behavior, wondering if there was some unknown enemy skulking about, yet Hancock had no weapon drawn, his gait all at once frantic and without rhyme or reason, the ghoul seeming to have no particular destination in mind. 

“Hancock?” you asked yourself quietly, baffled at how John was going insofar as to peek inside doorless cars, or even under them, kicking into a full-fledge run as he made his way toward your perch. He wasn’t paying heed to anything that wasn’t at ground-level, failing to notice you up high above.

“Han—” you were enthralled, the ghoul almost as fast as a feral, which was a less than comforting thought, watching as John ran a lap around the base of the screen. 

You followed, pushing off the railing to walk the few short steps to the opposite side, catching him turn the corner as he looped back around. It wasn’t until you heard his panicked breathing and the terrified whisper of your name that you completely understood, gut clenching as Hancock came to a disconcerting stop. 

The poor thing looked to be having a meltdown, head darting to the left and right, though the only thing visible to you was the top of his tricorn hat. He began to pace, first one direction, and then another, not keeping to east or west, but zigzagging as if he couldn’t decide where to go, or what to do. 

He called your name again, this time louder, sounding more distressed. You could not tear your eyes away as Hancock fell to his knees, fingers digging into soft dirt as the ghoul appeared to be in the throes of a panic attack.

Was he—

Spurred to action, you turned toward the way you came in, quick to rush down the stairs as swiftly as your legs could carry you. You sprinted around the bend of the building, nearly bumping into an abandoned cooking station off to your right, skirting it in the nick of time; you passed behind the structure, witness to a heartbreaking sight.

“Hey,” you whispered, Hancock having pushed himself back against the wall, knees to chest. The ghoul was tightly hugging his own legs, his marred face buried in the folds of his coat.

You weren’t sure what was happening, or why, only that he seemed deeply upset he could not find you, not expecting your brief absence would have such a negative effect. The ghoul was mumbling words you could not discern as you tiptoed forward, bending down to his level to address his huddled form.

“Hanni?” you asked gently, calling him by a pet name you had given him so long ago, John’s head shooting up, onyx eyes glistening, though you dare not think he had shed tears on your behalf. 

Hancock gazed at you, his expression a mix of sadness, incredulity, and stark relief. You placed a hand on his shoulder, concern marking your features, John not budging from his half-fetal position. 

“I thought—" he began, voice cracking, words quavering with an emotion you could not quite define, “—I thought you’d skipped out on me,” he offered pathetically, the amount of hurt present in his eyes enough to make you feel as if you deserved to die. So devastating was the look plastered across his handsome, ghoulish face that you wanted to cry, moving to cup his ruined cheek in the crux of your palm.

“Why would I do that?” you asked, tone soft but firm, staring at your reflection within gorgeous, dark depths, as if the answer lay hidden somewhere deep inside them.

“Because I don’t deserve you; because you can do better than me,” he answered without hesitation, “because who would want to be stuck with this ugly mug; wouldn’t wish it on my own worst enemy,” he finished flatly, Hancock’s dispirited disposition arising from being rejected—that’s not to say he blamed you.

“Didn’t wanna talk, ignoring me, couldn’t find you—just figured you were through,” he continued, tone solemn, making you feel awful. 

You had deeply sinned to make this man react in such a manner—that was your first thought, Hancock’s gloomy mood permeating your defenses. All the walls you had in place came tumbling down, feeling nearly sick to your stomach as you scooched forward, prompting Hancock to drop his knees, legs finding even ground.

“No,” you berated, “none of that is true.” You shifted, straddling the ghoul, your other hand joining its partner to cradle his jaw opposite. “I won’t leave you,” you pledged, placing a kiss atop his furrowed mouth. “The thought never even crossed my mind.”

Hancock searched your face; he expelled a dejected sigh, breathing out through the hollow cavity that once housed his human nose. “You—you’re the best thing I’ve got. I don’t want to lose you, sunshine. I’d be dead in a ditch somewhere if it weren’t for you, hopped up on chems,” he admitted, hanging his head. “But don’t think I would blame you for hittin’ the road. I’d manage, somehow. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to make do, so just say the word. Don’t feel obligated to stick around.” 

“Is that what you think? That I would abandon you? That I would get sick of you? That I don’t want you here by my side? Hancock—” you emphasized, running your thumb over the curve of his ear, forcing him to look squarely at you with a gentle redirection, “—I mean it when I say I love you,” you lamented, kissing his raised flesh. “Please, don’t doubt me.” 

John lifted his head with your help, the concave divot residing front and center brushing lightly across your cheek. He presented you with a kiss this time, his cock enlivening beneath you, unable to help his arousal at the admission of your heartfelt words. 

“I won’t, not anymore,” he promised, another kiss administered, and then another, returning each touch of his lips with one of your own until they picked up in fervor, Hancock’s sly tongue subtly snaking its way between your teeth. 

“That’s what I like to hear,” you cooed, warm, wet muscles intertwining in an orchestrated dance that rekindled the deep-seated ache of your loins. 

“You listen so well,” you needled playfully; you had the ghoul’s number, knowing just what made him tick.

Hancock moaned a sound of gratitude, your impromptu praise causing his prick to flex, lean, wilted fingers creeping forward to place themselves deliberately along your thighs; they ran up the dips in your hips, and smoothed over the shape of your waist.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Hancock grated between avid swirls. His cock was riding up against your slinky blue vault suit—like liquid latex poured to conform to your body, it fit tight as a glove.

John held no complaints, only that you were still wearing it. Fortunately, you had ideas. 

“Being such a good boy for me,” you teased, your own hands roving, exploring the contours of his slender chest and waist, sweeping back and forth; you hooked his partially corroded throat, carefully capturing Hancock between the crook of your palm, thumb trailing his Adam’s apple in a light caress. 

“Not sure you know what that does to me,” he purred, the ghoul at your mercy as you gyrated your hips, your own sex succinctly aligned as you massaged his erection through faded black slacks.  

“Are you so sure?” you asked, grinning into your kiss, one of Hancock’s hands sneaking along synthetic fibers for three fingers to stroke the underside of your jumper. He pushed up only slightly, cupping your mound; you felt it in your core, a subdued moan breathed straight into the ghoul’s mouth—Hancock was so turned on, it was a wonder he didn’t just nut right then and there.

“You teasin’ me, sunshine?” John panted, groping your breast, digits fingering stitchwork; you bit down on your bottom lip as you reached for the clasp at the front of your collar.

“Get this off me,” you instructed, fumbling with the pull of your zipper.

“Is that a request?” Hancock asked cheekily, though he did not expect an answer.

“An order,” you responded, feigning authority, Hancock doing as he was told, though there was a hint of a smile crawling up the side of his face. 

“Yes, ma’am,” the ghoul chortled wryly, watching as you shed your suit like a second skin. You ushered it past the arc of your shoulders, the slopes of your breasts, to the base of your hips, leaving yourself half naked and assailable; John was unable to help his amorous stare.

“You’re so beautiful,” he declared, moving to knead doughy flesh, mouth finding your throat; Hancock sucked the sweat off your flawless skin, his other hand working its way underneath what was left of your vault suit, two fingers dipping into your already soaked cunt. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, slipping in and out, thumb pushing itself between the folds of your labia to rub your throbbing bud. 

“Yes, let’s,” you returned, swirling your hips, riding Hancock’s thick fingers as you clumsily moved to untie the flag wrapped about his narrow waist. 

“Right here?” he asked, perplexed. Though not one to argue, being out in the open without cover was dangerous; he knew better than anyone the risks of the Wastes. 

“I want you,” you answered, as if that in and of itself was all he needed to hear. You knew there might be consequences, but at that moment, your hormones were the ones in charge, a sharp gasp escaping as John’s fingers curled against the anterior wall of your sex.

“I’m all yours, love, forever,” Hancock vowed, following your example. He hastily unbuckled his pants after releasing your tit with reluctance, pushing apart the flaps to withdraw his glaring hard on; precum was already seeping out the slit at its head. 

“Promise me,” you insisted, lifting up off your thighs—and Hancock’s fingers—to shimmy the rest of your suit down toward your knees. It might be a little awkward, but you were too desperate to care, taking up the ghoul’s girth in the breadth of your palm.

“Cross my heart and hope to—” 

“Don’t you dare,” you protested, shoving your tongue back into John’s mouth, guiding his cock inside you. You sank down onto your haunches, inch by delicious inch, his variegated shaft filling you full up.

Then, the ghoul went rigid. “But sunshine, what about—” 

“Shhh, that’s it,” you whispered, though Hancock hadn’t done anything to warrant a reprimand. It was your own descent that had you crooning, dipping forward to feel that delightful pressure snug against your walls. 

“Not sure you wanna end up like—”

“—I took one a few hours ago, remember?” The darling man was more concerned with your well-being than even you; you could physically feel the tension leaving his body, John relieved to know you had things under control.

“You do love me,” you stated breezily, flicking the tip of your tongue inside the helix of the ghoul’s ear; Hancock shuddered, both his hands returning to your hips, touch featherlight, prompting you to press your palms against the partition behind him to prop yourself up on either side of his head.

“Wouldn’t mind you turnin’ Ghoul,” he replied throatily, thinkin’ spending an eternity with you sounded like the best damn thing a guy could ask for. 

Hancock watched with bated breath as you rose up to enshroud him in your shadow, breasts level with his eyes. He groaned his appreciation, seizing your right nipple between puckered lips, John’s bony hips pushing up against the round of your ass. The ghoul sucked diligently, dull nails clawing gingerly into supple, human flesh, incapable of keeping a straight face.

“What was all that about not doubting each other?” John huskily reminded you, the point of his tongue flitting against your sensitive skin. He returned to suckling, as if a babe latched to nurse, the hand left idle finally slipping down your thigh. Hancock spread your lower lips apart with the underside of two fingers, a third taking its place atop your thrumming clit, engorged with blood. 

“Shut up,” you urged, wanting him to belay speaking for fear the moment might spoil, Hancock grunting in indignation before he bit down lightly on your nip. 

You gasped a broken breath, cunt rising to the head of his cock. You dropped back down; Hancock bottomed out, sequestered in the deepest part of you, snug as anything, the ghoul hypnotized by your pretty writhing. 

“Why don’t you make me.” Hancock intensified the patient revolutions of blotched fingers, dragging you down by compressing your cheeks with his thumb and index; you slumped your shoulders just enough, angling to meet his current height, tossing your arms about John’s neck to humor him with another passionate kiss.

“Done.” You rocked forward, feeling Hancock’s sizeable member immured to its base. Indecent sounds kept each other company, the squish of your conjoined loins combining with the wet, obscene spirals of your whorling tongues. It wouldn’t take much longer to climax, your slick cunt tightening its grip on John’s rock-hard cock. 

The ghoul’s chest heaved between ragged breaths, Hancock practicing his self-control. He didn’t want to cum until you did, sliding his palm up to carefully cradle the small protrusion distending your lower abdomen. 

Feeling the outline of himself inside you was nearly too much to handle, a visible tremor preceding what was to be an early warning.

“I-I can’t hold back, angel.”

“Wait,” you countered, guiding the ghoul’s head toward your breasts, driving his noseless face into your cleavage; Hancock’s tricorn shifted backward as he followed your lead. He vested himself in the cocoon of your limbs,  moaning his approval, grabbing onto a fistful of ass as your back arched in pleasure. 

You opened your eyes to gaze at the sky—it was pale blue and cloudless, for once.

You came hard, the flat of John’s palm supporting your spine as you released your ecstasy to the heavens, the ghoul’s tepid seed discharging in spurts to paint your inner walls white; his ejaculate had been offered as payment for your lovely little song.

The ghoul felt overwhelmed and full of deep affection for you; Hancock’s teeth bore down on beautiful, unblemished skin; he broke capillaries, drawing your blood to the surface, leaving his mark in the form of a dark red welt. 

You gasped at the bite, Hancock ensconcing you tightly in his arms, both of you allowing your orgasms to run their course. His grip was a comfortable vise, brittle nails burrowing into lithe flesh with almost paradoxical tenderness; John was always so careful with you.

From an outsider’s perspective, the embrace of a ghoul meant certain death, with the expectancy you would be rent into unrecognizable pieces. Such a pose as you presented now was questionable, one that evoked alarm from bystanders, settlers who had followed the beacon to their new home, expecting to find the general of the Minutemen, but not like this.

“Ghoul!” someone shouted; you heard the shuffling of leather, the clink of metal.

“No!” you yelled, protecting your lover with the entirety of your body, encapsulating his slight frame. You shielded his vitals with your bare back, hunkering down to speak to these newcomers over the peak of your shoulder. 

“He’s not feral!” you growled, hating that you had to defend him, knowing how John must feel at this moment as he gazed up at you with surprised, wide eyes. You cared not that a horde of people had seen you naked; you only cared for Hancock, determined to preserve him and all his parts.

In reality, the ghoul was seconds from tears, knowing—without a doubt—that you had meant what you said. You were guarding his wretched life with your own without question, willing to die to keep him from harm, just as he gladly would have sacrificed himself to see you live another day. 

A day, he thought, that might have been better off without him, but now he was glad to be alive (in some form or another), swallowing hard against the knot in his throat, eyes never once leaving your impassioned face.

“We’re together; we came here together, and we will leave here together, do I make myself clear?”

A person stepped forward, separating themselves from the crowd. “Yes, General,” they said, having fortunately, or rather unfortunately, recognized you.

With a sigh of relief, those gathered departed. John practically smothered you, so forceful was his hug that it nearly choked the air from your lungs. 

Hancock didn’t know what he’d done to get someone like you, and he was afraid to ask. If there were any powers at be—something, or someone—watching over him, he supposed he’d owe them one, but for now he was more than happy to count his blessings. And the sad thing was, everything, all of it, could be a dream—or one long, hallucinatory chem-trip. If this turned out to be nothing but a fucked up Jet flashback, he’d just as soon never wake up. 

“I’ll follow you to the end of the Wastes,” Hancock blurted, voice strained and rasping, fingers; arms; chest tightening as he spoke against soft tufts of hair. “You and me together, the world ain’t got a prayer.”

Despite what had just transpired, you cradled him against the bow of your neck, oblivious to the inner workings of his mind, only wishing to absorb him, for him to live in the space between your ribs that stored your heart. All you wanted was to keep him safe for all time, knowing that he deserved the world, though the ghoul would most certainly outlive you. 

It was a melancholy thought, if ever one existed, but you did not allow your mind to dwell. “Sweet man,” you murmured, “it doesn’t stand a chance in hell.”

—-

Fallout Masterlist

[werewolfetone]

Emmet's Proclamation, 1803

Proclamation of the Irish Republic, issued by Robert Emmet, July 23rd, 1803, at the outset of the second United Irishmen revolt.

THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT

TO

THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND

You are now called on to shew to the world that you are competent to take your place among nations, that you have a right to claim their recognizance of you, as an independent country, by the only satisfactory proof you can furnish of your capability of maintaining your independence, your wresting it from England with your own hands.

In the development of this system, which has been organized within the last eight months, at the close of internal defeat and without the hope of foreign assistance; which has been conducted with a tranquillity, mistaken for obedience; which neither the failure of a similar attempt in England has retarded, nor the renewal of hostilities has accelerated; in the development of this system you will show to the people of England, that there is a spirit of perseverance in this country, beyond their power to calculate or to repress; you will show to them that as long as they think to hold unjust dominion over Ireland, under no change of circumstances can they count on its obedience; under no aspect of affairs can they judge of its intentions; you will show to them that the question which it now behoves them to take into serious and instant consideration, is not, whether they will resist a separation, which it is our fixed determination to effect, but whether or not, they will drive us beyond separation; whether they will by a sanguinary resistance create a deadly national antipathy between the two countries, or whether they will take the only means still left, of driving such a sentiment from our minds, a prompt, manly, and sagacious acquiescence, in our just and unalterable determination.

If the secrecy with which the present effort has been conducted, shall have led our enemies to suppose that its extent must have been partial, a few days will undeceive them. That confidence, which was once lost, by trusting to external support, and suffering our own means to be gradually undermined, has been again restored. We have been mutually pledged to each other, to look only to our own strength, and that the first introduction of a system of terror, the first attempt to execute an individual in one county, should be the signal of insurrection in all. We have now, without the loss of a man, with our means of communication untouched, brought our plans to the moment when they are ripe for execution, and in the promptitude with which nineteen counties will come forward at once to execute them, it will be found that neither confidence nor communication are wanting to the people of Ireland.

In calling on our countrymen to come forward, we feel ourselves bound, at the same time, to justify our claim to their confidence by a precise declaration of our views. We therefore solemnly declare, that our object is to establish a free and independent republic in Ireland: that the pursuit of this object we will relinquish only with our lives: that we will never, unless at the express call of our country, abandon our post, until the acknowledgment of its independence is obtained from England; and that we will enter into no negotiation (but for exchange of prisoners) with the government of that country while a British army remains in Ireland. Such is the declaration which we call on the people of Ireland to support — And we call first on that part of Ireland which was once paralysed by the want of intelligence, to shew that to that cause only was its inaction to be attributed; on that part of Ireland which was once foremost, by its fortitude in suffering; on that part of Ireland which once offered to take the salvation of the country on itself; on that part of Ireland where the flame of liberty first glowed; we call upon the NORTH to stand up and shake off their Slumber and their oppression.

MEN of LEINSTER, stand to your arms.

To the courage which you have already displayed, is your country indebted for the confidence which it now feels in its own strength, and for the dismay with which our enemies will be overwhelmed when they shall find this effort to be universal. But men of Leinster, you owe more to your country than the having animated it by your past example; you owe more to your own courage, than the having obtained, by it a protection. If six years ago, when you rose without arms, without plan, without co-operation, with more troops against you alone, than are now in the country at large; you were able to remain for six weeks in open defiance of the government, and within a few miles of the capital what will you not now effect, with that capital, and every other part of Ireland ready to support you? But it is not on this head that we have need to address you. No we now speak to you, and through you, to the rest of Ireland, on a subject, dear to us even as the success of our country, — its honour. You are accused by your enemies of having violated that honour; excesses which they themselves had in their fullest extent provoked, but which they have grossly exaggerated, have been attributed to you. The opportunity of vindicating yourselves by actions, is now for the first time before you; and we call upon you to give the lie to such assertions, by carefully avoiding every appearance of plunder, intoxication, or revenge; recollecting that you lost Ireland before, not from want of courage, but from not having that courage rightly directed by discipline. But we trust that your past sufferings, have taught you experience, and that you will respect the declaration which we now make and which we are determined by every means in our power to enforce.

The nation alone possesses the right of punishing individuals, and whosoever shall put another person to death, except in battle, without a fair trial by his country, is guilty of murder. The intention of the provisional government of Ireland, is to claim from the English government, such Irishmen as have been sold or transported, by it for their attachment to freedom; and for this purpose, it will retain as hostages for their safe return, such adherents of that government as shall fall into its hands. It therefore calls upon the people to respect those hostages, and to recollect that in spilling their blood, they would leave their own countrymen in the hands of their enemies.

The intention of the provisional government, is to resign its functions, as soon as the nation shall have chosen its delegates, but in the mean time, it is determined to enforce the regulations hereunto subjoined; — It in consequence takes the property of the country under its protection, and will punish with the utmost rigour any person who shall violate that property, and thereby injure the present resources and the future prosperity of Ireland.

Whoever refuses to march to whatever part of the country he is ordered, is guilty of disobedience to the government, which alone is competent to decide in what place his services are necessary, and which desires him to recollect, that in whatever part of Ireland he is fighting, he is still fighting for its freedom.

Whoever presumes by acts or otherwise to give countenance to the calumny propagated by our enemies, that this is a religious contest, is guilty of the grievous crime of belying the motives of his country. Religious disqualification is but one of the many grievances of which Ireland has to complain. Our intention is to remove not that only, but every other oppression under which we labour. We fight, that all of us may have our country, and that done — each of us shall have his religion.

We are aware of the apprehensions which you have expressed, that in quitting your own counties, you leave your wives and children, in the hands of your enemies; but on this head have no uneasiness. If there are still men base enough to persecute those, who are unable to resist, shew them by your victories that we have the power to punish, and by your obedience, that we have the power to protect, and we pledge ourselves to you, that these men shall be made to feel, that the safety of every thing they hold dear, depends on the conduct they observe to you. Go forth then with confidence, conquer the foreign enemies of your country, and leave to us the care of preserving its internal tranquillity; recollect that not only the victory, but also the honour of your country, is placed in your hands; give up your private resentments, and shew to the world, that the Irish, are not only a brave, but also a generous and forgiving people.

MEN of MUNSTER and CONNAUGHT

You have your instructions, we trust that you will execute them. The example of the rest of your countrymen is now before you; your own strength is unbroken;-five months ago you were eager to act without any other assistance. We now call upon you to shew, what you then declared you only wanted the opportunity of proving, that you possess the same love of liberty and the same courage with which the rest of your countrymen are animated.

We now turn to that portion of our countrymen whose prejudices we had rather overcome by a frank declaration of our intentions, than conquer their persons in the field; and in making this declaration, we do not wish to dwell on events, which, however, they may bring tenfold odium on their authors, must still tend to keep alive in the minds both of the instruments and victims of them, a spirit of animosity which it is our wish to destroy. We will therefore enter into no detail of the atrocities and oppression which Ireland has laboured under during its connexion with England; but we justify our determination to separate from that country on the broad historical statement, that during six hundred years she has been unable to conciliate the affections of the people of Ireland; that during that time, five rebellions were entered into, to shake off the yoke; that she has been obliged to resort to a system of unprecedented torture in her defence; that she has broken every tie of voluntary connexion by taking even the name of independence from Ireland, through the intervention of a parliament notoriously bribed, and not representing the will of the people; that in her vindication of this measure she has herself given the justification of the views of the United Irishmen, by declaring in the words of her ministers,

"That Ireland never had, and never could enjoy under the then circumstances the benefit of British connexion; that it necessarily must happen when one country is connected with another, that the interests of the lesser will be borne down by those of the greater. That England has supported and encouraged the English colonists in their oppression towards the natives of Ireland; that Ireland had been left in a state of ignorance, rudeness and barbarism, worse in its effects, and more degrading in its nature, than that in which it was found six centuries before."

Now to what cause are these things to be attributed? Did the cause of the almighty keep alive a spirit of obstinacy in the minds of the Irish people for six hundred years?

Did the doctrines of the French revolution produce five rebellions? Could the misrepresentations of ambitious and designing men drive from the mind of a whole people, the recollection of defeat, and raise the infant from the cradle, with the same feelings with which his father sunk into the grave? Will this gross avowal which our enemies have made of their own views, remove none of the calumny that has been thrown upon ours? Will none of the credit [which] has been lavished on them, be transferred to the solemn declaration which we now make in the face of god and our country. We war not against property — We war against no religious sect — We war not against past opinions or prejudices — We war against English dominion. We will not however deny, that there are some men, who, not because they have supported the government of our oppressors, but because they have violated the common laws of morality, which exist alike under all or under no government; have put it beyond our power to give to them the protection of a government. We will not hazard the influence we may have with the people, and the power it may give us of preventing the excesses of revolution, by undertaking to place in tranquillity the man who has been guilty of torture, free quarters, rape and murder, by the side of the sufferer or their relations; but in the frankness with which we warn these men of their danger, let those who do not feel that they have passed this boundary of mediation, count on their safety.

We had hoped for the sake of our enemies to have taken them by surprize, and to have committed the cause of our country before they could have time to commit themselves against it, but though we have not altogether been able to succeed, we are yet rejoiced to find that they have not come forward with promptitude on the side of those who have deceived them, and we now call on them before it is yet too late, not to commit themselves further against a people they are unable to resist, and in support of a government, which, by their own declaration has forfeited its claim to their allegiance.

To that government in whose hands, though not the issue, at least the features with which the present contest is to be marked, and placed, we now turn. How is it to be decided? Is open and honourable force alone to be resorted to, or is it your intention to employ those laws which custom has placed in your hands, and to force us to employ the law of retaliation in our defence?

Of the inefficacy of a system of terror, in preventing the people of Ireland from coming forward to assert their freedom, you have already had experience. Of the effect which such a system will have on our minds in case of success, we have already forewarned you — We now address to you another consideration — If in the question which is now to receive a solemn and we trust final decision, if we have been deceived reflection would point out that conduct should be resorted to, which was the best calculated to produce conviction on our minds. What would that conduct be? It would be to shew to us that the difference of strength between the two countries [is such], as to render it unnecessary for you to bring out all your force; to shew to us that you have something in reserve wherewith to crush hereafter, not only a greater exertion on the part of the people, but a greater exertion, rendered still greater by foreign assistance: It would be to shew to us that what we have vainly supported to be a prosperity growing beyond your grasp, is only a partial exuberance requiring but the pressure of your hand to reduce it into form. But for your own sake do not resort to a system, which while it increased the acrimony of our minds would leave us under the melancholy delusion that we had been forced to yield, not to the sound and temperate exertions of superior strength, but to the frantick struggles of weakness, concealing itself under desperation. Consider also that the distinction of rebel and enemy is of a very fluctuating nature; that during the course of your own experience you have already been obliged to lay it aside; that should you be forced to abandon it towards Ireland you cannot hope to do so as tranquilly as you have done towards America, for in the exasperated state to which you have raised the minds of the Irish people; a people whom you profess to have left in a state of barbarism and ignorance, with what confidence can you say to that people "while the advantage of cruelty lay upon our side, we slaughtered you without mercy, but the measure of our own blood is beginning to preponderate, it is no longer our interest that this bloody system should continue, shew us then, that forbearance which we never taught you by precept or example, lay aside your resentments, give quarter to us, and let us mutually forget, that we never gave quarter to you." Cease then we entreat you uselessly to violate humanity by resorting to a system inefficacious as an instrument of terror, inefficacious as a mode of defence, inefficacious as a mode of conviction, ruinous to the future relations of the two countries in case of our success, and destructive of those instruments of defence which you will then find it doubly necessary to have preserved unimpaired. But if your determination be otherwise, hear ours. We will not imitate you in cruelty; we will put no man to death in cold blood, the prisoners which first fall into our hands shall be treated with the respect due to the unfortunate; but if the life of a single Irish solder is taken after the battle is over, the orders thence forth to be issued to the Irish army are neither to give or take quarter. Countrymen if a cruel necessity forces us to retaliate, we will bury our resentments in the field of battle, if we are to fall, we will fall where we fight for our country — Fully impressed with this determination, of the necessity of adhering to which past experience has but too fatally convinced us; fully impressed with the justice of our cause which we now put to issue. We make our last and solemn appeal to the sword and to Heaven; and as the cause of Ireland deserves to prosper, may God give it Victory.

Conformably to the above proclamation, the Provisional Government of Ireland, decree that as follows.

From the date and promulgation hereof, tithes are for ever abolished, and church lands are the property of the nation. From the same date, all transfers of landed property are prohibited, each person, holding what he now possesses, on paying his rent until the national government is established, the national will declared, and the courts of justice organized.

From the same date, all transfer of Bonds, debentures, and all public securities, are in like manner and form forbidden, and declared void, for the same time, and for the same reasons.

The Irish generals commanding districts shall seize such of the partizans of England as may serve for hostages, and shall apprize the English commander opposed to them, that a strict retaliation shall take place if any outrages contrary to the laws of war shall be committed by the troops under his command, or by the partizans of England in the district which he occupies.

That the Irish generals are to treat (except where retaliation makes it necessary) the English troops who may fall into their hands, or such Irish as serve in the regular forces of England, and who shall have acted conformably to the laws of war, as prisoners of war; but all Irish militia, yeoman, or volunteer corps, or bodies of Irish, or individuals, who fourteen days from the promulgation and date hereof, shall be found in arms, shall be considered as rebels, committed for trial, and their properties confiscated.

The generals are to assemble court-martials, who are to be sworn to administer justice; who are not to condemn without sufficient evidence, and before whom all military offenders are to be sent instantly for trial.

No man is to suffer death by their sentence, except for mutiny; the sentences of such others as are judged worthy of death, shall not be put in execution until the provisional government declares its will, nor are court-martials on any pretext to sentence, nor is any officer to suffer the punishment of flogging, or any species of torture, to be inflicted.

The generals are to enforce the strictest discipline, and to send offenders immediately before court-martials, and are enjoined to chase away from the Irish armies all such as shall disgrace themselves by being drunk in presence of the enemy.

The generals are to apprize their respective armies, that all military stores, arms, or ammunition, belonging to the English government, be the property of the captors and the value is to divided equally without respect of rank between them, except that the widows, orphans, parents, or other heirs of such as gloriously fall in the attack, shall be entitled to a double share.

As the English nation has made war on Ireland, all English property in ships or otherwise, is subject to the same rule, and all transfer of them is forbidden and declared void, in like manner as is expressed in No. 2 and 3.

The generals of the different districts are hereby empowered to confer rank up to colonels inclusive, on such as they conceive to merit it from the nation, but are not to make more colonels than one for fifteen hundred men, nor more Lieutenant-Colonels than one for every thousand men.

The generals shall seize on all sums of public money in the custom-houses in their districts, or in the hands of the different collectors, county treasurers, or other revenue officers, whom they shall render responsible for the sums in their hands. The generals shall pass receipts for the amount, and account to the provisional government for the expenditure.

When the people elect their officers up to the colonels, the general is bound to confirm it — no officer can be broke but by sentence of a court-martial.

The generals shall correspond with the provisional government, to whom they shall give details of all their operations, they are to correspond with the neighbouring generals to whom they are to transmit all necessary intelligence, and to co-operate with them.

The generals commanding in each county shall as soon as it is cleared of the enemy, assemble the county committee, who shall be elected conformably to the constitution of United Irishmen, all the requisitions necessary for the army shall be made in writing by the generals to the committee, who are hereby empowered and enjoined to pass their receipts for each article to the owners, to the end that they may receive their full value from the nation.

The county committee is charged with the civil direction of the county, the care of the national property, and the preservation of order and justice in the county; for which purpose the county committees are to appoint a high-sheriff, and one or more sub-sheriffs to execute their orders, a sufficient number of justices of the peace for the county, a high and a sufficient number of petty constables in each barony, who are respectively charged with the duties now performed by these magistrates.

The county of Cork on account of its extent, is to be divided conformably to the boundaries for raising the militia into the counties of north and south Cork, for each of which a county constable, high-sheriff and all magistrates above directed are to be appointed.

The county committee are hereby empowered and enjoined to issue warrants to apprehend such persons as it shall appear, on sufficient evidence perpetrated murder, torture, or other breaches of the acknowledged laws of war and morality on the people, to the end that they may be tried for those offences, so soon as the competent courts of justice are established by the nation.

The county committee shall cause the sheriff or his officers to seize on all the personal and real property of such persons, to put seals on their effects, to appoint proper persons to preserve all such property until the national courts of justice shall have decided on the fate of the proprietors.

The county committee shall act in like manner, with all state and church lands, parochial estates, and all public lands and edifices. The county committee shall in the interim receive all the rents and debts of such persons and estates, and shall give receipts for the same, shall transmit to the provisional government an exact account of their value, extent and amount, and receive the directions of the provisional government thereon.

They shall appoint some proper house in the counties where the sheriff is permanently to reside, and where the county committee shall assemble, they shall cause all the records and papers of the county to be there transferred, arranged, and kept, and the orders of government are there to be transmitted and received.

The county committee is hereby empowered to pay out of these effects, or by assessment, reasonable salaries for themselves, the sheriff, justices and other magistrates whom they shall appoint. They shall keep a written journal of all their proceedings signed each day by the members of the committee, or a sufficient number of them for the inspection of government.

The county committee shall correspond with government on all the subjects with which they are charged, and transmit to the general of the district such information as they may conceive useful to the public.

The county committee shall take care that the state prisoners, however great their offences, shall be treated with humanity, and allow them a sufficient support to the end that all the world may know, that the Irish nation is not actuated by the spirit of revenge, but of justice.

The provisional government wishing to commit as soon as possible the sovereign authority to the people, direct that each county and city shall elect agreeably to the constitution of United Irishmen, representatives to meet in Dublin, to whom the moment they assemble the provisional government will resign its functions; and without presuming to dictate to the people, they beg to suggest, that for the important purpose to which these electors are called, integrity of character should be the first object.

The number of representatives being arbitrary, the provisional government have adopted that of the late house of commons, three hundred, and according to the best return of the population of the cities and counties the following numbers are to be returned from each: – Antrim 13 – Armagh 9 – Belfast town 1 – Carlow 3 – Cavan 7 – Clare 8 – Cork county, north 14 – Cork co. south 14 – Cork city 6 – Donegal 10 – Down 6 – Drogheda 1 – Dublin county 4 – Dublin city 14 – Fermanagh 5 – Galway 10 – Kerry 9 – Kildare 4 – Kilkenny 7 – Kings county 6 – Leitrim 5 – Limerick county 10 – Limerick city 3 – Londonderry 9 – Longford 4 – Louth 4 – Mayo 12 – Meath 9 – Monaghan 9 – Queen’s county 6 – Roscommon 8 – Sligo 6 – Tipperary 13 – Tyrone 14 – Waterford county 6 – Waterford city 2 – Westmeath 5 – Wexford 9 – Wicklow 5

In the cities the same sort of regulations as in the counties shall be adopted; the city committee shall appoint one or more sheriffs as they think proper, and shall take possession of all the public and corporation properties in their jurisdiction in like manner as is directed for counties.

The provisional government strictly exhort and enjoin all magistrates, officers, civil and military, and the whole of the nation, to cause the laws of Morality to be enforced and respected, and to execute as far as in them lies justice with mercy, by whcih [sic] alone liberty can be established, and the blessings of divine providence secured.

[revengemicrowave]

So continues my attempt to not be aaaaapanic by actually posting stuff haha and feed the Lukadrien tag, my true motive

Another older doodle when I was still figuring out Luka's hair, from Zombie!AU I have all the ideas but no time to do the comic for. Ahh, the endless struggle...

Premise (completely spoiled lol) under the cut. tw: body horror, parasites/bugs, usual zombie stuff, talk of mercy killing a bitten

On a particularly warm day in April, a sudden outbreak sweeps through Paris. People turn wildly aggressive, biting and killing others - who then get back up to do the same hours later. The dead are controlled by a parasite that pupates and hatches from the face of it's host into a stunning, shimmering purple moth. It's wings extend over the face, like when Shadowmoth controls the akumas.

When the host makes a kill, the moth detaches to lay eggs in the new body and die, leaving a shambling biter with other larvae (potentially) still to hatch. However, rarely some stay in rooted to the host brain and become more intelligent, more dangerous zombie variants (like the really mushroomy clickers in Last of Us).

Luka gets seperated from Juleka and Rose on a supply run into the city, the Liberty a safe haven on the water with a small community of other boats. Has a chance run in with Adrien's group when Adrien saves him from one of the first of the more dangerous variants. Everyone is strangers in this AU, besides Luka, Juleka and Rose (and Anarka!), and Adrien, Alya, Nino and Marinette. There are other survivors, but small main group. In the group, Kagami carries a bow and insists she doesn't view the infected as human anymore. Marinette is their medic, Nino is the defender and they're trying to find Alya (who is with Chloe, driving eachother insane). I was also considering Weyham or Max or someone, make it more of a mixed group. Luka is a very reluctant zombie slayer, which is what nearly gets him killed when he first meets Adrien. He has an axe because I'm hilarious. Juleka carries a baseball bat with nails and Rose a can of mace and bugspray (which ends up being suprisingly effective). Rose the alchemist surprise-making a flamethrower, please. So, Luka joins Adrien's group and tells them there's a safe place on the Liberty, but they need to get to it and signal from shore without drawing attention. Because of the cluster of survivors on the river, the banks of the Seine are swarming with zombies, but the moths won't go in the water.

A sneak-through a building goes wrong and Luka gets bit. Marinette patches him up despite his protest about using the supplies, because he 'still shouldn't be in pain'. Kagami reminds them what a bite means, but finally softens when he jokingly tells her to look after the kids (they bond as the two most emotionally mature). The group have to say goodbye, and still in denial and shock, Adrien offers to be the one to 'take care of it'.

At first, it's assumed the bite is what turns you, as no moths have hatched and the first people killed turned after 18-24hrs. Adrien has to come to terms with leaving the guy he's falling in love with in a locked room to turn into a monster, or put him out of his misery.

But Luka doesn't turn (come on as if I'd turn favourite bluebell into a zombie and do that to Adrien) and over summer the hoardes thin as the bodies start to rot. They just need to make it to winter.

[al-astakbar]

☆ The Gift -- Thrawn x reader ☆

> title ☆ The Gift ☆part 6/?

> summary ☆ As congratulations for his recent promotion to Grand Admiral, Emperor Palpatine gives Thrawn a gift -- a young woman who has been trained as a pleasure companion.

> pairing ☆  Thrawn x reader ☆ word count [2.1k] ☆ warnings for this part ☆ none > series warnings ☆ dubious consent; sexual slavery; concubine/ sex slave AU; will add more warnings as more parts are posted. thank you so much @starwh0ers for beta of this part :)

> series navigation ☆ part 1 ☆ part 2 ☆ part 3 ☆ part 4 ☆ part 5 ☆ part 6 ☆ part 7

> posted on ao3

author note!! To be very clear, in this story reader is a concubine against her will and is gifted to Thrawn, but there is at no point any noncon between Thrawn and reader. Reader is never noncon with anyone, either referenced or explicitly, and there is never any explicit noncon. However, this is a darker take on Thrawn and he doesn't really have many hangups about putting his gift to use...

The two stormtroopers on either side of the wide double hatch come to attention as Thrawn strides towards them. “Good morning, gentlemen. Carry on,” he says, just as quickly, and you get the impression he greets whoever’s on shift this way every morning. He has to be the politest Imperial you’ve ever met. Most in his position, of his rank, would barely acknowledge anyone under his command outside his own bridge crew and cadre of senior officers. 

Inside, the bridge hums with activity, even while the ship is in stationary orbit. The officer of the watch announces Thrawn’s arrival. The Grand Admiral quickly waves it off; there are more important things on his mind than protocol. 

You walk in Thrawn’s shadow down the main corridor, all too aware of the questioning murmurs following you.

Once you’ve passed through a sort of foyer and mounted three short steps, a younger officer with neat, short cropped hair strides up, shoots a concerned glance at you, the non-Imperial interloper, and greets the Grand Admiral.

“Good morning, Admiral.”

“Good morning, Commodore Faro.”

“Shall I pass the word, sir?” 

Thrawn’s nod is all the signal needed. A junior officer stands by some sort of ship-wide PA system and blows on a shrill pipe. Then she says into the mouthpiece: “All departments make readiness reports for getting underway to the Officer of the deck in the pilothouse.”

Quickly, the reports come in. Supply, Weapons, Engineering, Operations, Combat Systems. A lot of it is familiar to you, but with slight differences that make you turn your head when you hear them. Shouldn’t be surprising. Many rebellion personnel were former Imps after all.

“I’ve word from the Quartermaster. Fuel and rations replenishment completed, sir.” 

“Thank you, Commodore. Munitions?”

“Ordnance chief confirmed complete last night, sir.”

“Very good.” When they are done, Thrawn looks to another officer, who is seated at a console. “Senior Captain Lomar,” he prompts, and the Senior Captain anticipates Thrawn’s order. “Fleet channel ready for you, Admiral.”

“Attention, Seventh Fleet.” He does not settle himself in the command chair, but crosses the command walkway to stand directly in front of the forward viewport, hands clasped behind his back. You hang back, and find yourself transfixed by his presence, unable to look away. “This is Grand Admiral Thrawn. I trust you have enjoyed your time in the capital.”

A round of appreciative, quiet laughter goes around the bridge, which you imagine is echoed on the hundreds of ships he’s addressing. Liberty calls on core planets, and especially Coruscant, were always popular, a chance for Imperial personnel to let loose and enjoy the best the Empire has to offer. 

“Our mission,” he continues, “is simple. To eradicate piracy and insurrection in the Limian Sector of the Outer Rim. To accomplish this, we will bring to bear the full skill and power of this Fleet. You have your orders. Carry them out with focus and professionalism, and we will be successful. 

 … and, good hunting. That is all.” He looks to Lomar, who ends the connection.

Commodore Faro is at his side again, stance wide, hands clasped behind her back. You’ve been on ships before, but had never seen them orchestrated with quite such precision.  “Sir, the ship is manned and ready to get underway. Permission to spin up, sir?”

Again, Thrawn nods and his crew react instantly. 

“Calculations for the jump ready, sir. Hyperdrive is spun up.”

“At your convenience, Commodore.”

She nods to a black-uniformed technician at a console, who slowly and steadily opens a heavy throttle.

You can’t help your quiet gasp as starlines flare out from a point right in the center of the viewport and then give way to the tunnel of hyperspace. The sight of it is beautiful and unexpected, and you’ve never had such a clear view of a jump before. Suddenly, you’re glad you didn’t stay in Thrawn’s quarters to pout and sulk. More than likely you’d have been stuck there all day with nothing to do except peruse his art collection, and you can’t be sure if he would even permit you that. 

** 

If getting to watch Thrawn and the view of the hyperspace jump is the high point of your day so far, meeting Brierly Ronan has to be the lowest. 

He strides onto the bridge late in the morning, and before you even know his name, you hear him chastising the stormtrooper guards before the hatch closes again. 

In a huff, he nearly gets his flowing white cape caught in it. 

Then, he notices you and loudly demands, to no one in particular, “who is this?!” 

Thrawn looks up and comes over. “Good morning, Assistant Director. Is something the matter?”

The Assistant Director draws himself up, puffing his chest out and managing a little flourish with his cape, even though he’s standing still. “Yes! There is. I want to know who this is. She’s standing in my spot.”

Thrawn’s eyes flick to the deck, as if trying to see where exactly the spots are delineated. “She was a gift from the Emperor.” He turns to you, making polite formal introductions. “This is Assistant Director Brierly Ronan. And may I present…”

At the utterance of your name, you feel an unpleasant jolt of shock. Companions like you were never supposed to be named in public. It just wasn’t done. Hearing your own name aloud feels vulgar, as if Thrawn had just announced to everyone how much he had enjoyed fucking you last night, and gone into explicit detail.

First he suggests you go without your veil, now he speaks your name. Perhaps he wants to humiliate you. This could be some game to him, but as you watch him, he does not show any sign of enjoying your discomfort. In fact, he seems oblivious to it.

Brierly Ronan, for his part, sputters and turns an ugly shade of red. “Do you really think this is an appropriate place to parade around your pet?” He spits. “Really, Thrawn, even with your famous disdain for the rules— or do you mean to share her with everyone here?”

A muscle in Thrawn’s jaw tics. He waits a moment in silence, a silence that attracts the attention of nearby crew.

“My pet?” He repeats. His tone is quiet and deadly, a trap inviting Ronan to try to explain himself.

Ronan draws himself up, unable to match Thrawn’s height. “Well, she’s obviously not a bodyguard--”

“Are you sure?” He waits for a response that doesn’t come, then continues. “They go through quite a lot of training, you know. She was in the capital for a year.”

“I know what the training entails!” Hisses Ronan. 

“And why should I not make known our Emperor’s generosity and good will? I will remind you, Assistant Director, that you are here not as a civilian, but due to your position as an officer in the Imperial military department of advanced weapons research.”

You understand the implication a moment after Ronan does -- despite him apparently having a rank as a civilian, while aboard this ship, his military posting puts him under Thrawn’s command. And he is, after all, wearing a uniform. 

Ronan stands a bit straighter, looking furious. 

Thrawn again leaves room, a polite incline of his head, for Ronan to reply. When none comes, Thrawn excuses himself to attend to other matters that require his attention. You are left standing there with Ronan, and when you realize that your silent, faceless stare is unnerving him, you force yourself to show the deference that is expected of you. He gives a derisive snort, as if he doesn’t quite believe whatever act you’re putting on. The urge to persist, and entertain yourself by irritating him, is strong, but you know you shouldn’t-- not just to avoid trouble and punishment, but because out of everyone on the Chimaera, he could be the one who might be willing to get you off of it. 

Yes. The idea strikes you like a bolt and you inhale sharply. Ronan is the one you need to befriend. He obviously doesn’t like Thrawn. Frankly, you’re surprised Thrawn had tolerated such disrespect, especially in public, in front of his crew. But any overture will need to come from Ronan himself; companions are forbidden from initiating conversations with anyone other than their masters. 

You could ignore convention, of course. You eye Ronan again. After his outburst about Thrawn parading you around, you expect that wouldn’t go over well. All you can do is take to hovering near him, and hope that he starts talking to you first.  

To your dismay, he says nothing more. He gives you another disdainful look and then turns away with a flourish of his cloak. He retreats to a corner where some officers are talking in low voices, and they hide grimaces when he intrudes on their space. 

You are left standing alone, unsure of what to do, and rather self-conscious. Your veil helps somewhat.   

Curious eyes follow you-- as professional as Thrawn’s bridge crew may be, you are a strange person encroaching on their space, and an interesting distraction during an uneventful long-haul hyperspace jump. 

You watch the operations quietly, alert, not getting too close. There are about thirty people just in the forward section of the bridge, most busy with tasks at data terminals in the crew pits. When you had followed Thrawn down the main corridor, you had seen banks of comms stations, an array of scanners, a holo pod, and some pairs of large double hatches. Officers’ meeting rooms, maybe. 

The scale of it all is enough to keep you entertained until Thrawn concludes his discussions and comes back over to you. You had been lingering near the starfighter operations alcove, listening for anything interesting, but of course in hyperspace there isn’t much activity. 

Reading the bios last night had not quite conveyed the significance of the Grand Admiral’s rank. Of his extraordinary career.

As you follow him back down the main corridor, you ask how many ships he commands. Impertinent question maybe, but he answers. Nineteen capital ships and twenty-five cruisers. 

He lists off more numbers, staggering numbers of ships and personnel, as if it’s the most commonplace thing in the galaxy. 1900 TIE model fighters, then of course there are all the complements of shuttles and troop transports, plus hundreds of smaller support craft. 

It takes you a few paces to do the math in your head. “But then… altogether the crew must be over a million people…”

“One million, two hundred thousand and forty-two. Each one crucial, in his or her role, to the operational capability of the fleet.” “But I bet you don’t know all their names.” You grin up at him.

He merely raises an eyebrow at you. 

“I apologize for that… scene,” says Thrawn in a low tone once you are in a quieter passageway-- close to his quarters, you think, though the halls are so easy to get lost in. The standard shift is not over, but there are still hours to go for the first leg of the hyperspace jumps. You had overheard from the navigation section on the bridge that this is the first of three. “I did not expect the Assistant Director to react so forcefully. And I can assure you, he does not have claim to any particular ‘spot’ on the bridge.”

“Who is he, exactly?” 

Thrawn’s tone is just the slightest bit dry when he answers. If his sly antagonism of the man had been anything to go by, you’d bet Thrawn doesn’t particularly like him, or at least resents having to deal with him. “A mediator, of sorts. Assigned to the ship to ensure the terms of an agreement are upheld.” 

“Are you sure he wasn’t just jealous?”

Breaking his stride, Thrawn looks over at you, genuinely puzzled. “For what reason?” 

You just pluck at your robe, holding up the fabric, and understanding dawns on his face. 

“Ah, of course. A symbol of status.” He resumes walking. You aren’t sure how to feel about that-- reduced to being a rare prize-- nor do you mention the other reason Ronan might have reacted that way-- you are human, and Thrawn is not. “Regardless, I should have anticipated this. It should have been a private conversation. But in the end it was to our advantage, I think. Those who witnessed it will have gained some understanding of who you are and why you are with me.”

“And the rest of the crew will hear about it by supper,” you add. News travels fast on a ship, even one this big, where gossip will always be a favorite pastime.

He gives you a sideways glance, and you could swear he almost smiles.

☆ link to part 7 ☆

☆join tag list☆ <- this is the easiest way to make sure your request is recorded, however anyone is also welcome to dm me if they want to be added or removed.

@thrawns-babygirl @vibratingskull @thrawns-teef-weef @aethersecho @exoplorationn @elc3004 @littlecrowtime @twilekchiss @saber-slutt @projectdreamwalker @ele-millennial-weirdo @vaarians @shoe-bag @thrawnspetgoose @nomercyforthewarrior @pb-jellybeans @twincesskorisoka @jewelliffer @cecilyjmorgenstern @mandinlore @bobaprint @bluechiss @andrakass2 @nocturneabyss @starwh0ers

[r3dvlvet]

Cold Conviction: a one off about what Lucy Frostblade’s last moments might have been like. Some mention of gore, mention of death. Some creative liberties taken and I have not gone back to check this for spelling or grammar ( forever posting a first draft 🫡)

“Please, Lucy- just listen to me—“

“Do you know what you’re asking me, Kipperlily?”

Tears well in Lucy’s eyes, a hand on her chest tugging at a well loved sweater. There’s pain in her heart, pain for the brief second in which she considered what is being asked of her. The pain of giving up on something she has held so dear for so long.

Ruvina. She couldn’t give up on her goddess, the very thing that connected her to her culture. Harsh as the cold and the wind was, she was a part of Lucy’s heritage, and keeping close to others made them warm against her cold. Why would she need anything else?

There’s a whisper at the back of her mind, the pull of something familiar, as Kipperlily promises something strong, something powerful. Something full of rage. They can face down whatever, they just have to give themselves over to this god. The sensation of warmth, of light, a counterbalance to Ruvina’s own domain.

The warmth becomes a burning heat. A signal that something is wrong.

Some gods speak directly to their followers, others give them visions and feelings to interpret. Ruvina is trying to tell her something, a warning against a darker path.

Lucy looks down at her hands. Hands that have healed, hands that held Kilperlily’s as they promised to watch each other’s backs. How they held hands as Kipperlily argued in favor of keeping the name “The High Five Heroes”. Hands that held her dying friend in the Mountains of Chaos not long ago.

They are now clenched in defiance against stacking odds.

Emboldened, she takes a strong stance against her friends. Her friend.

A tear escapes her eye.

“I won’t be bullied into this.” She declares. “Don’t you hear yourself? You want me to pledge myself to a different god so you can get your revenge?”

Kipperlily’s back is to the woods, a dagger in her hand. Her brow creased so hard Lucy wonders if it might be stuck that way. Beside them, the lake glistens in the dim light from the moon over head. Even in this light, Lucy can see a mix of fear, anger, and sadness in Kipperlily’s eyes. It’s the anger that’s the strongest, replacing the annoyance and frustration that had been so prevalent in the past couple of years.

“You’re making a mistake.” Kipperlily says through gritted teeth, her grip on the dagger intensifying. “We can be heroes! we can do the things we’ve only dreamed about doing! We can be better than them!”

There is venom on the “them”. Kipperlily is blinded by her ambition, a need to surpass someone who seemingly has it all. The tragic backstory, the skills, the friends. It was something Lucy could never fully understand, but she listened to her talk about wanting to be one of the best rogues in the world, how she wanted the chance to save someone - save the world.

Lucy herself never had any quarrels with the Bad Kids, another adventuring party at their school. One of many, but one of the only ones to really take a stand in recent memory. They’d killed Kalvaxus at the end of their Freshman year and by all accounts, that was a pretty rad thing to do. Killed by Riz Gukgak, then slain again by the Maidens who, understandably, wanted to get their revenge.

But Kipperlily was seemingly upset by the fact that Riz had this tragic tale to him, that he “got” to have his father eaten by Kalvaxus and “get” to have that revenge arc. Kipperlily wanted for nothing, and yet she wanted for something that would give her glory.

At first it was petty jealously, but ever since her death, her tune had changed. They all had, in fact. It was gradual, but Lucy was beginning to notice a rage building in all of them. Subtle in some, Mary Ann was still Mary Ann and Oisin still appeared relatively calm, but she could see it in them too. She was starting to feel very lonely.

Lucy’s hands are balled into fists. “Is that all you want? You want to be better than them?”

“Yes!” Kipperlily sounds exasperated. “What’s so hard to understand about that?!”

Anger boils in Lucy.

“Isn’t it enough that we’re together?!?” She snaps. “Is it not enough for you that we get to hang out with our friends? Think about everything we could be doing! All the problems we can solve- we can get better and go back to the Mountains and do what we set out to do in the first place!”

Kipperlily looks down at the dagger in her hand, then back up at Lucy. For a split second, she sees the young halfing girl she met on the first day of school, a book clutched to her chest, a bright smile on her face. She thinks about how in the following months, they’d braid each other’s hair and share secrets no one else knew. She thinks about their promise. A promise to face the world together.

“Don’t you trust me?” Kipperlily asks. Another twinge of pain, this time at the deception. Kipperlily knows how to get what she wants. “I’m doing this for us! When the rage god returns, we can be glorious, Lucy. The two of us- together.”

Ruvina’s warning returns. Warmth, heat, fire - Rage.

Lucy stands her ground. She shakes her head and Kipperlily’s bravado falters.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I can’t turn my back on everything I’ve ever known.” She pauses. All she has to do is say one thing, and she knows what’s coming. But she can’t back down either. “Im sorry you can’t be him.”

Rage flairs in Kipperlily’s eyes. Shes too quick, she’s on her in a matter of seconds, cold steel cutting through Lucy’s body. Lucy closes her eyes, accepting her fate and falling back with arms outstretched.

It’s cold. It’s so cold. Shes doesn’t even feel it as Kipperlily continues to slice at her out of sheer anger.

She doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t want to leave her friends, her family, everything behind, but little choice is given to her.

There’s an embrace, deep and cold, as Ruvina takes her in. But then the feeling is jerked away, warmth and light finding her instead.

No, not warmth and light. Rage, it’s the heat of rage.

A hand reaches out to her, coal black with ribbons of fierce hot magma. She looks up, seeing a stern face looking down at her coldly. In this moment, she realizes the connection to Ruvina.

“I’m sorry, but my answer is no.”

The hand withdrawals. A flash of something on the face - pride. Pride in her conviction, in a sense of personal justice.

The heat fades to warmth, then the loving embrace of a goddess returns, briefly, to cradle her. Shes not sure if she’s at peace, but she’s fine to rest here until such a time comes.

[hottpinkpenguin]

The Way of Winter - Chapter 1

Joel Miller series Reader insert (gender neutral, future chapters will likely read as female) A/n: takes place at the end of episode 6 (spoilers if you haven't seen!). I took a few liberties with the location. Word count: 2,661 | Tags: slow burn | Warnings: none

A gentle snowfall had started, the flakes barely big enough to see. You watched them idly as they landed on your horse Rambo’s dark mane, lasting only moments before his body heat melted them away. The world around you was hushed, the land and the creatures buttoned up in preparation for the storm you all knew was coming. You could see the dark gray clouds rolling up and over the already snow-capped peaks of the Wind River Range in the distance.

Tightening your jacket around your body, you tutted at Rambo, urging him into a gentle trot along the old railbed. He obliged you, his heavy hooves thudding against the frozen ground. You settled into an easy posting motion, timing the rhythm of your body’s rise and fall in the saddle with Rambo’s gait. 

You let your mind wander as you gave Rambo his head. He kept pace easily, the four dogs you’d raised as hunting partners darting in and out of the woods around him like escorts. He knew his way around this land as well as you did.

Your senses pricked up when the dogs caught a scent, their noses lifted into the breeze. The oldest dog, a black German shepherd you simply called Black, broke into a run, chasing the scent straight along the railbed in the direction you were riding. The three others followed suit, their eyes spinning left and right like satellite dishes. Rambo whinnied softly, chuffing and yanking on the bit in his mouth in anticipation. The dogs weren’t signaling an animal - if the scent they’d found was a deer or a mountain lion or even a rabbit, they’d have barreled off into the woods after it at your command, braying and yelping so you could follow them. But they were quiet, tense. They’d found a human scent. 

You pulled the long hunting rifle out of its holster at Rambo’s side, slinging it across the saddle as you kicked him into a canter. He took off with a jolt, his nerves clearly jumpy as the dogs rounded a gentle corner in the railbed ahead and disappeared from sight. You checked that the rifle was loaded and cocked as Rambo carried you down the center of the tracks towards the corner.

You reigned him up as you turned the corner. Black and the three dogs were standing at alert, flanking the tracks, their ears and eyes glued on three dark shapes about a quarter mile ahead. Humans, alright. Two of them, and one horse. You squinted against the gentle flurry of flakes and the dim afternoon light. It was too far to make out the strangers with any detail, although one of them was lying down, the other upright and hovering over the other. The horse was in full tack, standing a few feet away and pawing nervously at the ground. 

You bit your lip, considering your next move. The dogs whined softly next to you, every muscle in their bodies taut like razor wire, waiting for your signal. 

“Off, dogs.” Black and his three siblings relaxed somewhat at your command, although they remained close to Rambo’s sides and their attention decidedly fixed on the strangers ahead. They hadn’t seen you, and you could easily double back without them being any the wiser, cut a wide berth around them to get home. Or you could approach them. It was a risk, you knew. You’d lost your sister and her two sons taking just such a risk. Six years ago, and you’d been alone ever since. Alone, but alive, a chiding inner voice reminded you. 

You shook your head as if you could bat away the thoughts like gnats, urging Rambo forward at a gentle walk. You kept your rifle aimed low and away, but your hand found its familiar purchase on the trigger as you moved towards the two strangers. The closer you got, the clearer their features became. One was small - a woman, probably, and maybe a child. The larger one was lying prone along the embankment on the side of the tracks. 

Finally, the small one noticed you. 

“Hey! Don’t come any closer!”

A young voice. A girl’s voice. A sharp popping sound ripped through the quiet land as she raised a gun in the air, firing off a warning shot. 

The dogs growled next to you and Rambo’s ears flattened backwards at the noise. But, like you, they were far from green when it came to confrontation. You reigned Rambo to a halt, narrowing your eyes at the girl. 

“What’s the problem with your friend there?” you called out, nodding your head in the direction of the unresponsive person.

The girl didn’t answer right away. She shifted her weight nervously from one foot to the other as she took in the sight of you. 

You chutted at Rambo, who moved you a few steps forward, slowly. The girl backed up a half step before calling out at you again.

“I mean it! I’ll shoot! Don’t come a step closer!” 

You sighed heavily, irritated at the budding sense of obligation you felt for this girl’s safety. 

“If he’s dead, you better come with me. These parts aren’t safe, and there’s a storm rolling in.” You tilted your head towards the Wind River Range, now obscured by a heavy snowfall headed for your direction. “Couple of hours from now, you won’t be able to see a foot in front of your face the snow will be coming down so hard.”

The girl hesitated again. You could feel her indecision from where you watched her, some twenty steps away. Her dark, wide-set eyes flicked from you to the dogs to Rambo to some nondescript point in the distance to the man lying on the ground at her feet. When she looked down at the second stranger, you clearly saw terror in her eyes. It reminded you of the way your nephews had looked the day they’d been killed, and the similarity twisted a knife of anguish in your chest. 

You slid out of the saddle, your hunting rifle still in your hands. 

“What’s wrong with him?” you asked her again. You felt a chill run down your spine - the temperature was dropping. 

“He… he got stabbed. I think- I think he passed out.” Her voice was small and riddled with panic. You nodded, keeping your movements slow and deliberate. 

“He’ll need medical attention,” you commented as you slowly approached her. You looked down at the man. His skin still had a flush to it that told you he wasn’t dead. His hands were pressed against his abdomen and stained with blood. Every once in a while, you thought you saw his eyelids flutter as if he were trying to stay awake. 

“Is there a doctor nearby?” 

You raised an eyebrow at the girl, at the note of hope in her voice. 

“Anyone who lives out here has to be their own doctor,” you replied. She looked crestfallen, her gaze darting back and forth between you and her traveling companion. You could see her indecision beginning to thaw, so you took another few steps closer and extended a hand towards her. You were only a handful of paces away.

“Give me that gun,” you urged her, nodding at the small pistol in her right hand. 

“No fucking way,” she snapped back, recoiling from you and aiming the pistol at your chest. Your dogs growled in warning, tightening around your ankles. You saw her dark eyes widen slightly at their four sets of bared teeth.

“You shoot me, and they’ll attack you,” you commented, gesturing with your chin at the shepherds. “You might have time to get one, maybe two shots off before they’ll reach you. And these are hunting dogs. They bring down mountain lions and bison, so I don’t think they’ll struggle with a teenaged girl.” 

It was a cheap move, you knew, to weaponize a young kid’s fear like that. But you needed that gun. She was too jumpy to be trusted with it. 

The girl’s face tightened in a mix of indignation and fear as she took in your words. Her eyes flicked once again to the man lying in the snow, dark blood seeping between his fingers. 

“Let me take a look at him,” you offered, changing tactics when the girl didn’t relent. A vein pulsed in her forehead as she stared at you before nodding once. 

You closed the distance between you and the man quickly as the girl backed away, keeping an arm's distance between you at all times. You ignored her movements as you crouched down next to the man. He was breathing, a soft vapor of breath dancing in and out of his lips in time with the rise and fall of his chest. He was older than you’d initially thought - probably in his fifties - with generous streaks of gray in his dark hair and beard. His face was lined and browned from the sun. He had a thick jacket on, but it was unbuttoned. His undershirt was soaked with blood from his ribcage down. His hands were grafted to his side, but he wasn’t conscious enough to apply the pressure that wound needed. 

You looked up at the girl, noting her own practical clothing and the healthy assortment of supplies on the horse behind her. Whoever these people were, they were packed up for a trip. 

“I’ve got a cabin about eight miles off,” you told her, nodding vaguely in the northwest direction where your home was. “If he can survive the ride, I can probably stitch this wound up.” 

It wasn’t strictly a lie, although you knew you weren’t telling the girl the whole truth. It was unlikely whoever this man was would survive an eight mile ride. And even if he did, you doubted that stitches alone would save his life. He was probably bleeding internally, based on the dark, viscous blood coating his fingers. 

“Or?” The teenaged girl’s question sounded like a challenge.

“Or I leave you here and you figure it out for yourself,” you told her nonchalantly as you stood up and walked back to Rambo. “You better figure it out soon though. We’ve only got an hour or two before that storm rolls in, and I for one plan to be on my way well before then.”

More indecision and hesitation. The girl watched you carefully as you holstered the rifle and wiped the dusting of snow from your shoulders. 

“If we go with you, we’re not talking,” she offered. You chuckled at the odd request. 

“Sure. No talking,” you acquiesced. The girl’s dark eyes narrowed as she nodded. 

“Alright. Can your father stand up?”

“He’s not my father,” the girl replied sharply. You held up your hands in submission.

“Apologies. Can your friend stand?”

You watched as the girl crouched down, shaking the man’s shoulders and talking to him. His head rolled lazily from one side to the other but he didn’t show any sign of waking enough to stand. After a few minutes, she looked up at you with pleading eyes.

You joined her at the man’s side, lifting him so he was sitting upright as you each slung one of his arms around your shoulders. 

“1… 2… 3… lift,” you counted. On lift, you stood, bracing the man’s heavy weight against you. His head lolled against his shoulder, but you could feel the shaky help of his legs bracing his body. He was half-conscious and moaned in pain at the movement to his injury. On his other side, the girl looked over to you for direction. 

“My horse,” you huffed out, straining to keep the man upright. He smelled of days’ old sweat and whiskey and underneath, the sickly stink of blood. 

With great effort, you and the girl plodded in the direction of Rambo. The horse watched your approach with a wary expression, chuffing as you grabbed his bridle and leaned the man against Rambo’s tall haunch. Braced between your horse and the girl, the man managed to raise his head and gaze at you through slitted eyelids. 

“Listen, fella, if you can get up in that saddle yourself, we’d all be the better for it.” Truth be told, you weren’t sure you’d be able to lift his weight alone, and even though his traveling companion was scrappy, you doubted she’d be much help. 

“Joel, please.” The girl laid a hand on his chest and shook him gently. Joel. You made note of the man’s name. 

The man she called Joel managed to stand on his own accord, braced against Rambo’s side. He released a hand from his side, one coming to the pommel of your saddle as he winced. 

“Here.” You knelt down, grabbing his left ankle and lifting it. The man swayed precariously as he balanced on one foot, letting you guide the other into Rambo’s stirrup. The girl caught him with her shoulder under his armpit, grunting under his weight. When one of his feet was in the saddle, you jumped handily onto Rambo’s bare back, settling behind the saddle on his loin and motioning for Joel to join you. He fixed you with a vaguely incredulous look, as if in disbelief that you were asking such a Herculean effort of him. You chuckled darkly against yourself as you gripped the back of his jacket. He heaved himself up, groaning loudly in pain. The girl pushed him from behind, and with a final grunt he settled in the saddle. You reached around him to grab the reins as he slumped forward, breathing heavily at the exertion. You braced his sliding weight between your arms, the effort causing your biceps and shoulders to tense uncomfortably. He was tall, and if he’d sat upright he would have completely obscured your view. Thankfully, with his head falling forward against his chest and his body hunched over the generous pommel, you were able to see clear over him. 

“Your turn.” You jutted your chin towards the girl’s horse. If you’d had more time, you would have switched the double seat saddle on her chestnut mare with Rambo’s. But with the temperature dropping precipitously, you needed every minute you could get. 

The girl mounted handily, reigning her horse in at Rambo’s haunch. 

“Can you gallop?” you asked her. She looked decently comfortable in the saddle, although you couldn’t get a read on her skill level. She shrugged noncommittally. From in front of you, Joel moaned, slumping against your right arm. You grimaced as you fought to keep him centered in the saddle. Rambo shook his head nervously, sensing his rider’s shift.

“We need to make time,” you told the girl, bringing Rambo around to face north along the railbed. She swallowed, her gaze fixed on Joel. “If you can’t keep up, holler.” You didn’t wait for an answer as you dug your heels into Rambo’s side. He responded with a brisk trot. Joel bobbed like a ragdoll in front of you. You noted one of his hands sliding down his thigh and coming to bounce freely at his side. You grabbed it and slid it back to this stomach.

“Keep pressing on that wound,” you called into his left ear, louder than necessary but in an effort to keep him conscious. Joel replied with a watery-thin moan, although he held his hand to the bloody gash on his stomach. 

You looked back over your shoulder, checking to make sure the girl was with you. She was a few paces behind you, bouncing haphazardly in the saddle. Better not gallop, you noted to yourself as you took in her uncoordinated movements. 

After a few more paces, you eased Rambo into a canter. Black and the other dogs took off into their usual pattern in the ditches alongside the railbed. Rambo’s familiar gait lulled you into autopilot as you followed the familiar trails north and west, a snowstorm bearing down on you… 

**chapter 2 here let me know if you'd like to be tagged if you like this series, check out my Joel Miller masterlist for other works

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Megan Messerly at Politico:

INDIANAPOLIS — The Southern Baptist Convention, the nation’s largest and most politically powerful Protestant denomination, voted Wednesday to oppose in vitro fertilization. The move may signal the beginning of a broad turn on the right against IVF, an issue that many evangelicals, anti-abortion advocates and other social conservatives see as the “pro-life” movement’s next frontier — one they hope will eventually lead to restrictions, or outright bans, on IVF at the state and federal levels. The vote comes as Democrats in Washington, hoping to drive a wedge among Republicans, prepare to hold a vote on legislation to protect IVF, while former President Donald Trump struggles with how to message to evangelicals on abortion and other reproductive health issues that they would like to see him take stronger positions on in the post-Roe era. IVF has come under increasing scrutiny since the Supreme Court’s Dobbs decision two years ago. Many on the right have begun to question whether the practice, which often discards fertilized eggs, is at odds with their beliefs on when life begins, even as it is relied upon by millions of Americans to grow their families and is supported by the overwhelming majority of evangelicals.

“It’s going to be a long process. It took us 50 years to take down Roe,” said Brent Leatherwood, president of the Ethics and Religious Liberty Commission, the public policy arm of the SBC. “It may take us a similarly long time frame to get people to a place where they are thinking more deeply about something like this. It’s okay. It takes time. We have to be patient.” The resolution, which was passed by nearly 11,000 so-called messengers to the Southern Baptist Convention’s annual meeting, declares that IVF “most often participates in the destruction of embryonic human life” and calls on Southern Baptists to adopt and “only utilize reproductive technologies” that affirm “the unconditional value and right to life of every human being.” Though the resolution is nonbinding, nearly 13 million Southern Baptists across 45,000 churches may now face pressure from the pulpit or in individual conversations with pastors to eschew IVF.

[...] The Southern Baptists’ Wednesday vote could encourage other evangelical denominations and churches to follow suit in declaring — or at least teaching about — their ethical concerns with IVF. [...] The Alabama high court’s decision forced many evangelicals to for the first time think deeply about the ethical implications of the procedure, which as commonly practiced in the U.S. results in the destruction of excess embryos. Doctors create extra embryos to ensure the best chance of a successful pregnancy. The leftover embryos are frozen, destroyed or donated to medical research. Many evangelicals are now coming around to the fact that their conviction that life begins at conception must be applied to IVF, too. If abortion is murder, the destruction of viable embryos created during the IVF process is as well.

[...] As evangelicals become more educated on the issue, they are largely falling into two camps: those who believe that IVF can be practiced ethically if no embryos are destroyed, and those who like Mohler and Walker believe IVF is inherently unethical because it separates conception from the act of sex between husband and wife. Walker, acknowledging the former view, noted the resolution was “drafted to pass.”

A last-minute amendment sought to make clear that IVF is permissible in some circumstances, but failed.

A sad day for common sense at the SBC Annual Meeting in Indianapolis, as a majority of the messengers shamefully voted to oppose In Vitro Fertilization (IVF).

This vote could signal a broader shift to anti-IVF sentiments among Christian conservatives (especially evangelicals). #SBC24#IVF

See Also:

NBC News: Southern Baptists formally oppose in vitro fertilization

HuffPost: Southern Baptist Convention Votes To Oppose IVF As Not 'God-Honoring'

[moomsies-blog]

Until the Day I Die - MHA Fanfic

Cross Posted - AO3

Word Count - 2970

Summary : Obanai Shinobi just hopes for an easy year as she works at UA High School, counseling young future heroes who seem to just attract trouble. With the looming doom of the League of Villains, along with a mysterious vigilante who haunts Shinobi’s life, nothing’s easy.

She must learn how to navigate memories and pain she had tried so hard to ignore while also making sure no child died while in the school’s care, but the biggest question she had was if she'd be able to do that without a quirk.

Chapter One - Another Day Another Hero

It was a quiet night, light pollution in the city clouding the starry sky, though with how far out the warehouse was one could see a few if they tried really hard. The dilapidated building was abandoned, once used as some hero support tech factory but after a bad villain attack they deemed it unusable.

However, despite how calm it was, despite the gentle sounds of someone cleaning their gun, a man sat sobbing and begging for mercy, “Please! I’ll give you anything! Anything at all, is it money? I have plenty of money!”

Matsumoto Ankoku, leader of a small group of petty criminals that prey on the poorer side of the city. Tying folks in need to debts they couldn’t pay back, leading them to be terrorized by the goons for whatever money they could scrounge up. Which eventually led the people finding a way to contact a certain vigilante to assist them out of desperation. Seeing as they had borrowed money from criminals and they’d rather stay out of jail.

The masked figure didn’t even spare the pathetic man a glance, continuing to clean their gun as if they didn’t have a man tied to a chair, beaten and bloody. Their calm silence only served to unnerve their captive more, succeeding as he screamed out in hopes someone- *anyone* would hear him.

His captor calmly looked up towards him, glaring from behind their mask. They were an odd vigilante, they looked the part with the dark clothes and mysterious persona. The tech they wore was unfamiliar, a dangerous red glow to the enhancements. It wasn’t clear what kind of quirk they supported, with matching arm and leg guards, and a bullet proof vest it was anyone’s guess. In this situation, quirks didn’t matter much unfortunately.

“Oh shut up,” the vigilante grumbled, finally meeting the end of their patience, voice staticky from the voice modulator in their mask, “I don’t want your dirty money, but someone asked me to clean up their mess… and I suppose I’m nothing more than a janitor now huh?”

“What-What do you mean?” He whimpered, shaking as he chuckled softly, attempting to mask his fear “Come on, please, talk to me! I got plenty of shit, I got weapons- real good ones too! You like weapons right?”

The click of their gun signaled their intention and the fact his time was coming near, the vigilante clearly ignoring his offers, “You’ve got that lovely mansion out in the woods, surrounded by guards and pretty expensive dogs. Not to mention… that necklace on your wife’s neck, was that not recently stolen from Yamanashi?”

“Do-Do you want the necklace? My house- take it! Take everything in it!” Because if anyone was going after him must be out for money, right?

“I don’t want any of that shit,” the vigilante tilted their head, a hidden smirk spreading across their face, “I’ve been asked to kill you.”

“Kill me…? But why?!” Matsumoto tugged on his restraints uselessly, “What could you possibly gain from killing me?!”

“Oh, ok maybe not kill per say, but I’m taking a few creative liberties,” they shrugged, “I don’t gain anything, other than a night of lost sleep.”

“Who the hell are you!?”

“No one you’ll need to know, not like it’ll serve you much in the after life. You’re lucky I have an early morning and want to get this over with.” they answered, ignoring the last question.

Their arm raised, aiming.

“Wait- please!” He tried, fruitlessly, a single gunshot silencing his annoying wailing.

His body was left tied to the chair as his murderer walked away, leaving the crime scene to be found by some idiotic teens being places they shouldn’t.

—————————

Shinobi glanced at her watch, annoyed at the jackass in front of her, “Oh just order a normal fucking coffee…” she groaned, knowing she was about to be late to work.

“Mmmm,” the woman didn’t hear her grumbles, tapping a finger on her lips in thought, “How does the brown sugar frappe taste?”

“Ah, really good ma’am, would you like to order it?”

“Oh, can I get a sample?”

“I don’t know ma’am, the line is getting a little long,” the poor girl was just trying to get the line moving, chuckling nervously, but the older woman didn’t seem keen on making a decision any time soon…

“Don’t rush me!” The older woman glared.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I need to keep the line moving…” Junko hummed, glancing away and silently begging someone to handle this instead, “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to look at the menu while I help the other customers.”

“And you don’t think I’m a paying customer too? I want to try something new! Every single time I come in here, you stupid teenagers ruin my drink-”

“Lady if you don’t order your damn drink and move on.” Shinobi interrupted, she needed some coffee, staying up all night doing paperwork was not the way she wanted to start the new school year and it left her with very little patience, “It’s not like you have anywhere to be,”

“Excuse me? Who do you think you are?” The pissy bitch huffed and puffed, gasping when Shinobi just stepped around her.

“Hey, Junko, just the usual please,”

Junko sighed softly, relieved to not have to deal with the ornery customer as the woman quickly went to find whoever was in charge, “You’re later than usual,”

“Had a late night and slept through my alarm,” the woman frowned, both of them ignoring the previous lady screaming at the manager about them.

“Damn, well I’d love to catch up but we’re packed,” Junko smiled, knowing Shinobi wouldn’t cause her any trouble.

“No worries,” she waved, stepping away after getting her coffee, “Gotta run, have a good day,”

“You too!” Junko smiled, getting back to work.

Shinobi wasn’t all too worried about her job, being a counselor for Japan’s top hero academy was honestly an easy gig. At least until Aizawa decides to expel an entire class and she had parents basically up her ass demanding their kids be let back into school. That was the worst year, so much paperwork and then Aizawa just casually re-enrolled the students without telling her a thing- “The stupid bastard…” she grumbled, finally getting to the faculty office and sitting down. She didn’t even have a moment to sip on her coffee before the first of many conversations started.

“Miss Obanai!” The little mouse… bear, dog…? Animal thing she called a boss suddenly appeared, making her flinch, “Welcome back to school for the new year, you missed the exam spectate,”

She could already tell he wasn’t all too happy about her absence, but Shinobi was fully aware he wasn’t truly mad about it. She’d be caught up before school officially started anyways.

“Yeah, I emailed you about previous engagements,” she hummed, setting her desk back up after her time off, “I’m sure it’ll be fine,”

“Of course, but we have a very impressive line up of students this year,” Principal Nedzu smiled, sitting on her desk, “Along with new faculty!”

“Yeah, All Might… what a headache,” she sighed, already feeling one coming just by the thought of the loud hero. She could only handle one loud blonde…

“Now, Miss Obanai, no time to waste! You have plenty of work to catch up on!” He cheered the tired woman on as she groaned.

She actually did enjoy her job, more than she’d like to admit at least. She loved seeing kids achieve their dreams of becoming a hero, helping them through the process, seeing as she couldn’t do it. Being without a quirk was a pain in the ass, and a disappointing thing to hear as a child of two pro heroes.

Any dream of becoming a hero was squashed, and she accepted it, she had to. Working hard throughout school, eventually landing a job at UA as a school counselor. Where she proudly advocated for students and their well-being, not just their physical health but also mental. No hero could help people if they couldn’t help themselves.

Shinobi situated herself, opening her laptop to start looking at the new roster of teens looking to be heroes or support, at least until someone’s phone was shoved in her face, “Look! Ghost attacked again!”

“Who was it this time?” Shinobi huffed, uninterested as the scantily dressed heroine sat on her desk.

Kayama Nemuri, the first person Shinobi could say for certain was her friend, quirk or not Kayama was attached to her hip and vice versa.

“Some low ranking boss in the Yakuza,” Kayama smirked, “All the way in Tokyo too, wow he sure does move, still odd no one’s gotten even close to finding him,”

“He’s a vigilante,” Shinobi shrugged, leaning back and reading the article on the woman’s phone, “He probably knows how to clean up after himself, but he hasn’t killed any civilians. Didn’t he dismantle that old villain organization? What was it called again?”

“The Ceramics? Please anyone could have gotten rid of those idiots, even a baby~” Kayama snickered, “But he does seem to have some sort of twisted sense of Justice, a shame he didn’t go the hero route- bet he’s hot~”

“You just say that ‘cause you’re curious,” Shinobi laughed.

“What can I say? I like a man in a mask,” she joked, glancing at her computer, “You’re already starting work? School doesn’t start for another week!”

“Yeah but I procrastinated. Nedzu wants me to make some speech during orientation,”

“Oooh, public speaking, your one weakness,”

“Shut up,” she snorted, “I can speak in public, but I’m not a motivational speaker, I’m sure that’s why they hired All Might… seems odd though… you’d think he’s too busy with all his hero work to worry about the future generation of heroes,”

“You missed the exam spectate,” Kayama shrugged, “There was a meeting too, introducing him ya know? He’s getting up there in age, I’m sure he’s just trying to make sure there’s someone that can replace him for his retirement.”

“That’s… kinda sad,” Shinobi was no fan of All Might but she would be lying if she said she didn’t admire him for all he’s done for Japan and the world.

He’s the main reason most kids want to become a hero, the reason schools like UA exist. To make honorable heroes to protect and serve the people, even if she doubted anyone could ever make it to All Might’s level.

His quirk alone was a mystery, having avoided answering questions about it was made to look easy. She couldn’t help but sit there thinking about all the theorized quirks that man could have, holding her chin in thought-

“Ah! You’re doing it again!” Kayama teased, poking Shinobi’s cheek.

“Oh, scram Nemuri! Don’t you have work to do?”

“Yeah, yeah, I finished it a few days ago, I’m all ready for my class,” she smiled, waving her hand to dismiss Shinobi’s scoldings, “But you always do that cute little face when you start thinking too hard about something~”

“I’m not cute.” She blushed, turning back to her computer to look busy.

“Sure you’re not~” Kayama winked before sauntering off to annoy the other teachers after not seeing them for so long.

————————

Shinobi sighed softly, sitting in her chair as Principal Nedzu welcomed the students to their new year. All except Class 1-A were there.

‘If that bastard expels his whole class again,’ Shinobi cursed in her mind as she zoned out, crossing her arms as her eyes floated over the heads of all the students.

So many of them are now in their third years, the last year she’d see them, she never admitted it but she always missed the old students. Shinobi worried about them, about how far they’d make it, not all heroes survive for long. So many fail to make it past the sidekick work, finding it easier to quit or they die trying to make it in the higher ranks. She wondered what it felt like to rise above the rest and become a hero everyone adored, was it truly as amazing as they make it look?

She flinched a bit, Yamada nudging her, “You’re up!” He offered a thumbs up, pushing the woman gently out of her seat to give her speech.

She mentally cursed herself for not paying attention, she was meant to go after All Might and she completely zoned him out, “Hello students, both new and returning…” she muttered into the microphone awkwardly.

“My name is Obanai Shinobi, one of the counselors for the time you’ll be here at UA, any questions and concerns you have I will be able to answer… um, oh and for the third years, please come visit me whenever you wish to know anything about the Agency Placing Program…” the woman glanced over to the other teachers, “Good luck, don’t die.”

“What a speech,” Kayama snickered when Shinobi sat back down.

“Don’t tease… I don’t know what to say to kids,”

“Now they think they’re gonna die,” Yamada chuckled, getting up to finish the orientation announcements before lunch.

Shinobi got tired of the loud blonde pretty quickly, sneaking out of the auditorium to look for the missing class. She had a feeling Aizawa was wringing them dry already, he never gave his students a peaceful moment.

She was not expecting All Might however, to be peering around the corner of the building watching. Silent as she stood next to him to see what he was so curious about that he had also snuck out of orientation, she paused at the sight of a green haired kid throwing a ball- ‘Even I could throw it farther than that���’ Shinobi deadpanned, shocked at the lame attempt.

It was quickly proven that Aizawa had used his erasure quirk on the kid, however. The tired teacher’s quirk had always amazed Shinobi, a part of her jealous that she couldn't have a useless ability at the very least. Getting lost in her thoughts again as Aizawa scolded the poor new student, she mindlessly leaned on All Might, her hand on his arm as she continued to watch as the young boy went to throw the ball again.

She didn’t notice how the hero she leaned on got tense, unaware she had been there until she touched him. All Might was shocked to say the least, surprised she had managed to sneak up on him even if that wasn’t her intent. She must have been checking out the new students as well, or well All Might wasn't checking on the new students more so checking on one specific student. Midoriya Izuku, otherwise ‘affectionately’ dubbed Deku by Bakugou Katsuki.

Midoriya wasn’t seemingly exceptional in any way, yet when he threw that ball a second time, Shinobi’s eyes widened. The ball flew from the force of the throw, but it was clear he was injured from it. Whatever quirk Midoriya had was not one he could seem to rely on, any time he used it it left him hurt and damaged.

Surely he had plenty of time before school started to figure out his quirk and handle it, yet he still stood, “Mr. Aizawa… you see? I’m still standing!”

Shinobi sighed softly before pushing herself off All Might, leaving the man glancing at her, “Don’t you have places to be?” She finally acknowledged him.

“Ah well, I’m simply checking on my class is all!”

“Checking on the class?” She rose a brow, “This isn’t your only class,”

“Yes, but the only class that missed orientation!”

“Every class that happened to have Aizawa as a homeroom teacher misses orientation, it's an every year occurrence,” Shinobi informed, “I’m sure they’re fine, none of them are crying yet at least.”

“I suppose so…” he stood there, tense, not sure what to say to the woman.

“You were watching Midoriya,” she pointed out, just staring up at him blankly, “Why?”

“Ah! You’re very perceptive! But I was merely watching Young Midoriya because he was put on the spot!”

“Oh…” she didn’t believe him completely, but it wasn’t anything she had the energy to argue about, “Obanai Shinobi,”

“Huh?”

“My name is Obanai, you weren’t there for my introduction and I missed the meeting earlier this month.”

“Right! It’s a pleasure to meet you Miss Oban-”

“Are you always smiling like that?”

“Of course! I smile to-”

“It’s creepy.”

All Might froze for a split second, he’d never heard that before. He began doubting himself for a second, wondering if it really was creepy and how many people he must have frightened by it, “Is it?”

Shinobi nodded, “It’s not a natural smile, it just seems forced.” she pointed out before she waved, “I have to get back to work, it would be wise not to favor Midoriya. You don’t want the other students to think you give him special treatment.”

“I’m not playing favorites-”

“I’m just warning you, your job is to train the whole class, not just one of them…” Shinobi looked back out at the group of students looking at their scores and ranks.

She could already tell this year was going to be a long one…

[punkymonkeehat]

Danny Phantom Cryptid AU! Should I put the fanfic on AO3 or Fanfiction.net? I'm still a new fanfic writer so idk where the hip places are for posting. Let me know what you think though! :) here's a scene of Sam researching a new anomaly!!

-------------------------------------------------

Sam stretched her arms and back, sighing as she felt the pops of her bones. She was hunched over her laptop for hours researching the anomaly they saw earlier that day. Luckily, she would have no distractions due to the boys tracking down information on it to classify it. It had been a while since she was by herself, and she was grateful for it.

Droning goth music danced from her speakers. She kept it low enough so it wasn't too loud, but just enough to fill her head. Music always helped her focus. Sam reached for the veggie platter she bought that morning when they three friends went grocery shopping to replenish the van. She was able to get some oat milk and veggie burgers, finally having a little healthier of a snack than vegan chocolates and veggie fries. It always surprised her how much junk food she could eat with her diet.

Sam scrolled through the website, pausing for a moment. "Interesting..." She murmered, removing the pen from her ear and scribbling down the information. "A dual minded ghost. I wonder...?" She tapped the pen on her lower lip, scrolling again.

"The Ghost of Liberty Library is said to split in two, with different halves possessing its own unique ghostly energy. When split, the entity has been seen with two opposing ecto-signatures, where the one had a somber pulse, and the other had a more aggressive pulse. When ghost hunters have encountered the dual ghosts, they were coaxed in by a crying half, only to be chased out of the building or have strongly negative interactions with the other half. The Ghosts have never been seen completely alone and have often been seen as one singular entity. When combined, the spiritual energy in the location is too intense to bare, and most ghost hunters refrain from entering the premises."

"Hmmm..." Sam thought. "This might be tricky..." She pulled out her phone, ready to dial an expert in entity type, and stopped after spying a familiar number. She couldn't help but smile and open the text

"Miss you 💓🌹💗"

It was Paulina. She also sent a picture of her and her friend Star at a concert, both with big smiles on their faces and peace signs. Sam messaged back.

"Miss you too. Hope you're having fun! Let me.know when you get home safe 🖤🦇"

After a small pause and a sigh, she went back to work, dialing another number. The phone rang about three times until the person on the other side picked up.

"This is Valerie."

"Valerie, hey! It's Sam."

"Oh hey Sam! It's been a while since I've heard from you guys." The excitement in her voice was bright. "Where are you guys now? How are the others? Danny hasn't pissed any entity off from talking too much yet, right? And has Tuck finally worn that new beret i sent with the last care package?" Sam laughed, smiling big. It had been almost two months since their last conversation. With being in so many dead zones, it was close to impossible to keep a good signal. Luckily, the gas station parking lot they settled in for the night at had wifi and a solid four bars.

"They've been fine, but still the same old Danny and Tuck. Luckily, Danny hasn't caused any more issues than he usually does... although, when we were studying a gathering of small gnomes in Northern Nevada, he accidentally tripped on their king. You can't really come back from something like that." Laughter bellowed out from the phone. "And Tuck loves the new beret. He hasn't taken it off since he got it!"

"Good! I paid a good amount for it!"

"We're currently at a gas station in Eastern Colorado. It's probably the most drab place we've been to so far. I didn't know there were some places without telephone poles... im glad this place has some service and decent wifi." Sam could hear the smile and humor in Valerie's response.

"There's a reason you don't hear too much about the area. Tell me when you see a coyote and a roadrunner."

"You'll be the first to know," Sam said, with a half smile. She lifted her paper to look at her notes. "The reason I called is to ask you about a ghost category. We're currently investigating a case out here and got a blip on the Fenton Finder. It's a new anomaly, which means it's from the portal explosion, so we're planning on cleaning up the damage. The only thing is, though, this ghost is a dual-minded ghost. It's two ghosts that are also one. I haven't seen anything like it before and the sites and books I have haven't given me any more information." Sam switched the phone to her other ear. " I'm not sure how we should address it without some kind of idea of what we're dealing with. Have you run into something like this before?" There was a small pause and a ruffling of papers on the other end. Usually a good sign...

"Hmmmm... I'd be lying if I said I hadn't heard of it. There aren't many cases like it. I haven't seen any in my hunts, though, not even in the ghost zone, but according to one of my papers, it's more than likely an entwined energy issue. Now, that could mean they were bonded in real life, past lives, molded together after the explosion, which may be the most likely option, any meddling of other entities, or even an intentional entwining." Sam shuddered at the idea. Two souls forced to always stay together was a horrifying prospect. "How does it respond to the human world?" Sam finished writing down the information before answering. She told the other in detail what she had learned.

"That sounds... intense. My guess is a couple from the past? Maybe some grief between the two? The aggressive part might be what is protecting the somber part from harm? Being able to separate is unique, though... Let me do some more research and ask around. There has to be another hunter that may know about this. Maybe see if Danny could communicate with his ghostly friends?"

"I'll ask him when he gets back. Thanks, Val! I'll let you know if I find any more information that'll help."

"Anytime, Sam, and back at ya. Tell the others I say hi?"

"Of course."

After their good byes, Sam turned back to the computer. Most sites said the same thing over and over again, repeating the same story with the same sightings. She rolled her eyes. "They keep stealing from each other..." She mumbled, scrolling more. After about a half hour, there was a swift knock on the van's back door before it flew open. Danny and Tucker climbed into the back, hauling in their gear.

"Hey guys, I just called Val, and she says-"

"The guy's a loony!" Danny growled, kicking his shoes off his feet. "An absolute fruit loop."

"We seem to keep finding them. I blame you for being half ghost." Tucker responded, opening the mini fridge they hooked up to their makeshift home. Danny gave him a confused look.

"What's that got to do with anything?" He asked, changing his shirt. He threw the dirty one on the coach and wrestled the clean one on.

"Hello? Weird attracts weird!" Tucker said, rolling his eyes. He opened up a container and snagged a spoon. "Dude, I mean, half your friends are also ghosts."

"You're one to talk..." The dirty shirt flew and landed on Tuckers head. "Mr. 'I'm-obsessed-with-technology-and-can't-function-without-even-a-pager'." Tucker tore the shirt off his head and glared at the other. He put his container down and started towards Danny, putting him in a headlock. Right as he did so, and as the roigh housing began, Sam sighed and hit her head onto the table.

And just like that, all of her peace and quietness was gone.

[deux-jared]

Mental Health in the face of global crisis; guilt as a product of privilege and self aggrandizing depression.

What is the Purpose of Shame?, an 18 minute video by Jack Saint where he rambles about the mental toll of witnessing genocide from the comfort of a safe home. or dealing with a pandemic when your family is still healthy. and how ignoring such emotions leads to inaction, feeding into a cycle of guilt and depression.

this isn’t advice on how you can help, because there’s plenty of that. this is something smaller and more personal, for the people who feel overwhelmed and lost. or the people who have 18 minutes of boredom to fill. i continue under the cut in a similarly self indulgent rambling style.

How do you bring yourself to go to your 9 to 5 in your heated car with a pop tart in hand while there are children being murdered ? But How dare you feel bad for yourself when children are being murdered and the worst thing in your life is a clinical depression half the people around you also deal with ? as we become more globally aware, we find questions of morality and responsibility plaguing us on our suede couches we got second hand from a friend’s friend. one day you see piles of corpses on twitter. the next day you can’t pay for your meds. this isn’t a competition or a comparison; this is a facet of modern life that we seemingly refuse to talk about. there’s no right thing to say. but you should probably be thinking about it.

I don’t talk or reblog about politics or current events much on here. because of many reason that i don’t feel the need to justify on this post. growing up online has been an experience of trying to find some line between virtue signaling and willful ignorance. and sometimes it’s nice to hear someone else say it. say that it’s normal to have a narcissistic response to the tragic reality, even when it’s not at all about us. action is small and silent. action is loud and powerful. action is getting out of bed in the morning and choosing to pray to your god and make breakfast and skip the starbucks coffee. because we’re all human. interconnected hyperlink or whatever the corecore ppl say. none of us are insignificant. none of us are the last step between death and liberty. the web we’re all caught in wasn’t spun by a spider so it’s okay to wiggle while you try to find a way out. no predator will pounce. do what you want to, what you can, what you feel you should do. no one can tell you how to feel.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

July 7, 2023

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

JUL 8, 2023

For more than a week now, I have intended to write a deep dive into the right-wing Moms for Liberty group that held their “Joyful Warriors National Summit” in Philadelphia last week, only to have one thing or another that seemed more important push it off another day. This morning it hit me that maybe that’s the story: that the reactionary right that has taken so much of our oxygen for the past year is losing ground to the country’s new forward movement.

Today the jobs report from the Bureau of Labor Statistics pushed ahead of them by showing that the U.S. economy added 209,000 jobs in June. The rate of job growth is slowing but still strong, although the economy showed that the Black unemployment rate, which had been at an all-time low, climbed from 4.7% to 6%. Since Black workers historically are the first to lose their jobs, this is likely a signal that the job market is cooling, which should continue to slow inflation.

In the Washington Post, Jennifer Rubin called out the media outlets so focused on the idea that Biden would mismanage the economy and that recession was imminent that they have ignored “29 consecutive months of job growth, inflation steadily declining, durable goods having been up for three consecutive months, 35,000 new infrastructure projects, an extended period in which real wages exceeded inflation and outsize gains for lower wage-earners.” As reporters focused on the horse-race aspect of politics and how voters “felt” about issues, she noted, “[w]e have seen far too little coverage of the economic transformation in little towns, rural areas and aging metro centers brought about by new investment in plants, infrastructure projects and green energy related to the Chips Act.”

Also of note is that today is Treasury Secretary Janet Yellen’s first day of talks with top Chinese officials in Beijing, where she will also talk to U.S. business leaders. At stake is the Biden administration’s focus on U.S. national security, which includes both limiting China’s access to U.S. technology that has military applications and bringing supply chains home. China interprets these new limitations as an attempt to hurt its economy. Yellen is in Beijing to emphasize that the U.S. hopes to maintain healthy trade with China but, she told Chinese Premier Li Qiang, “The United States will, in certain circumstances, need to pursue targeted actions to protect its national security.” 

Meanwhile, China’s faltering economy has led to new rules that exclude foreign companies, leading U.S. businesses to reconsider investments there. Chinese leaders have tried to reassure foreign business leaders that they are welcome in China, while Yellen told U.S business leaders: “I have made clear that the United States does not seek a wholesale separation of our economies. We seek to diversify, not to decouple. A decoupling of the world’s two largest economies would be destabilizing for the global economy, and it would be virtually impossible to undertake.”

The success of Biden’s policies both at home and abroad has pushed the Republican Party into an existential crisis, and that’s where Moms for Liberty fits in. Since the years of the Reagan administration, the Movement Conservatives who wanted to destroy the New Deal state recognized that they only way they could win voters to slash taxes for the wealthy and cut back popular social problems was by whipping up social issues to convince voters that Black Americans, or people of color, or feminists, wanted a handout from the government, undermining America by ushering in “socialism.” The forty years from 1981 to 2021 moved wealth upward dramatically and hollowed out the middle class, creating a disaffected population ripe for an authoritarian figure who promised to return that population to upward mobility by taking revenge on those they now saw as their enemies. 

In the past two years, according to a recent working paper by economists David Autor, Arindrajit Dube, and Annie McGrew, Biden’s policies have wiped out a quarter of the inequality built in the previous forty. And at the same time that Biden’s resurrection of the liberal consensus of the years from 1933 to 1980 is illustrating that the economic problems in the country were the fault of Republican policies rather than of marginalized people, the extremism of those angry Republican footsoldiers is revealing that they are not the centrist Americans they have claimed to be.

Moms for Liberty, which bills itself as a group protecting children, organized in 2021 to protest mask mandates in schools, then graduated on to crusade against the teaching of “critical race theory.” That, right there, was a giveaway because that panic was created by then-journalist Christopher Rufo, who has emerged as a leader of the U.S. attack on democracy. 

Rufo embraces the illiberal democracy, or Christian democracy, of Hungarian prime minister Viktor Orbán, saying: “It’s time to clean house in America: remove the attorney general, lay siege to the universities, abolish the teachers’ unions, and overturn the school boards.” Radical right activists like Rufo believe they must capture the central institutions of the U.S. and get rid of the tenets of democracy—individual rights, academic freedom, free markets, separation of church and state, equality before the law—in order to save the country. 

Because those central democratic values are taught in schools, the far right has focused on attacking schools from kindergartens to universities with the argument that they are places of “liberal indoctrination.” As a Moms for Liberty chapter in Indiana put on its first newspaper: “He alone, who OWNS the youth, GAINS the future.” While this quotation is often used by right-wing Christian groups to warn of what they claim liberal groups do, it is attributed to German dictator Adolf Hitler. Using it boomeranged on the Moms for Liberty group not least because it coincided with the popular “Shiny Happy People” documentary about the far-right religious Duggar family that showed the “grooming” and exploitation of children in that brand of evangelicalism.  

Moms for Liberty have pushed for banning books that refer to any aspect of modern democracy they find objectionable, focusing primarily on those with LGBTQ+ content or embrace of minority rights. During the first half of the 2022–2023 school year, PEN America, which advocates for literature, found that 874 unique titles had been challenged, up 28% from the previous six months. The bans were mostly in Texas, Florida, Missouri, Utah, and South Carolina. A study by the Washington Post found that two thirds of book challenges came from individuals who filed 10 or more complaints, with the filers often affiliated with Moms for Liberty or similar groups. And in their quest to make education align with their ideology, the Moms for Liberty have joined forces with far-right extremist groups, including the Proud Boys, the Three Percenters, sovereign citizens groups, and so on, pushing them even further to the right.

Although the Southern Poverty Law Center labeled Moms for Liberty an “extremist group” that spreads “messages of anti-inclusion and hate,” the group appeared to offer to the Republican Party inroads into the all-important “suburban woman” vote, which party leaders interpret as white women (although in fact the 2020 census shows that suburbs are increasingly diverse—in 1990, about 20% of people living in the suburbs were people of color; in 2020 it was 45%).

When Moms for Liberty convened in Philadelphia last week, five candidates for the Republican presidential nomination, including Trump, showed up. Former South Carolina governor Nikki Haley told them: “When they mentioned that this was a terrorist organization, I said, ‘Well then, count me as a mom for liberty because that’s what I am.”

But here’s the crisis for the Republican Party: Leaders who wanted tax cuts and cuts to social programs relied on courting voters with cultural issues, suggesting that their coalition was protecting the United States from radicalism. 

But the Republican embrace of Moms for Liberty illustrates dramatically and to a wide audience how radical the party itself has become, threatening to turn away all but its extremist base. A strong majority of Americans oppose book banning: about two thirds of the general population and even 51% of Republicans oppose it, recognizing that it echoes the rise of authoritarians.

As historian Nicole Hemmer points out today for CNN, Moms for Liberty are indeed a new version of “a broader and longstanding reactionary movement centered on restoring traditional hierarchies of race, gender and sexuality” that in the U.S. included the women of the Ku Klux Klan in the 1920s and segregationists who organized as “Restore Our Alienated Rights” (ROAR) in the 1970s. Hemmer observes: “The book bans, the curricula battles, the efforts to fire teachers and disrupt school board meetings—little here is new.”

In the past, a democratic coalition has come together to reject such extremism. If it does so again, the Republican marriage of elites to street fighters will crumble, leaving room for the country to rebuild the relationship between citizens and the government. When a similar realignment happened in the 1930s under Democratic president Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the Republican Party had little choice but to follow. 

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[mariacallous]

“Baraye,” the anthem of Iran’s “Woman, Life, Liberty” protest movement—a song woven together entirely from a Twitter hashtag trend in which Iranians express their investment in the current protests—continues to unite Iranians in their opposition to the Islamic Republic several weeks after it was first released online.

For Iranians in Iran but also for the millions in the diaspora, this is the song of a generation, perfectly expressing this political moment and all that is at stake.

For dancing in the alleyways Because of the fear you feel when kissing For my sister, your sister, our sisters To change the minds that have rotted away Because of shame, because of being broke Because of yearning for an ordinary life

What makes this moment different from previous periods of protest is that the wall of acquiescence and pretense that maintained the state’s authority in the public realm has been torn down on a scale not seen since the 1979 revolution. In its recounting of all the painful grievances, “Baraye,” which translates in English to “for” or “because of,” signals the end of patience with the status quo and opens vistas onto a new future with a vocal crescendo that culminates in the word “freedom.”

The song reveals the simple, ordinary nature of the things that Iranians are aching for, asking for, and even dying for. It is radical in revealing on a national level the cruelty of a system that denies such basic demands—exposing the devastating conditions Iranians face under the current regime.

If “Baraye” reflects a different, perhaps unprecedented mood on a national level, it also mirrors the organizational structure of this recent protest movement. If it is networked and leaderless, so is the song. The lyrics were written by Iranians at large and merely set to music and vocalized by the young up-and-coming singer Shervin Hajipour. This explains why security forces detained Hajipour a couple of days after he posted it on his Instagram page, where it had already accrued millions of views. The regime has tried for years to push the apparent and already real aspects of people’s lives out of the public sphere.

On social media, Iranians have created a life that more closely mirrors their inner selves—replete with harsh criticism of leading clerics including Iran’s supreme leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei; female solo vocalists who are otherwise banned singing at the top of their lungs; and the exhibition of private lives that are anything but a reflection of the state’s projected pious paradise. Still, the state has sought to maintain a semblance of its ideology and control in actual public spaces and its media.

“Baraye” has broken that violently imposed wall between the state’s enforced reality and people’s real lives. It forced into the open, in the face of authority, all that people have known for long but were not supposed to express openly on such a national dimension.

For the sake of a laughing face For schoolkids, for the future Because of this mandatory paradise For imprisoned intellectuals

Since its release, the song has become the single most covered protest song in Iran’s history. Within a few short weeks after Hajipour composed the music for it, musicians across Iran and beyond its borders have sung it verbatim in their own voices, translated it, and sung it in other languages—and even universalized the lyrics for a more global audience.

There have now been many interpretive dance performances to it all over the world, and it is regularly blared from cars and balconies and open windows across Iranian cities and towns. Malala Yousafzai, the girls’ education activist and Nobel Peace Prize laureate, recently sent a video message of solidarity to Iranian women, with the track playing in the background.

Last week, the Iranian rapper Hichkas released a militant hip-hop track referencing “Baraye” through the more casual rap lingo “vase,” enumerating his reasons, starting with “vase Mahsa” (for Mahsa Jina Amini, whose death at the hands of Iran’s morality police sparked the protests) and ending with “for a good day,” in a nod to his own 2009 Green Movement protest song.

The Recording Academy, which hosts the annual Grammy Awards, announced that in its new merit category for best song for social change, more than 80 percent of the nominations were for “Baraye.”

Indeed, the expressed concerns wrapped up in the short tweets shown in Hajipour’s video, and in the #Mahsa_Amini hashtag itself, are quite universal—the precarious condition of the planet, drastic inequalities, the desire for a peaceful life—which is why the song has become resonant with so many people around the world as well.

For the garbage-picking kid and her dreams Because of this command economy Because of this polluted air … For a feeling of peace For the sun after long nights

At the same time, “Baraye” creates national intimacy by citing very specific events that all Iranians have suffered through together, in a palimpsest of collective traumas. Hajipour sings “For the image of this moment repeating again,” drawn from a tweet with a photo of Hamed Esmaeilion and his young daughter relaxing together on a couch reading newspapers. (His wife and 9-year-old daughter were killed when Iran’s Revolutionary Guards mistakenly shot down a Ukrainian airliner leaving Tehran in January 2020, and Esmaeilion has become the face of the grief affecting all those who lost loved ones in the crash.)

This line resonates with Iranians because so many families have been torn apart by the country’s massive brain drain, caused by a closed and corrupt economy that offers few opportunities.

In other lines, Hajipour sings sarcastically “Because of this mandatory paradise,” referring to the theocratic state’s imposed restrictions, justified in the name of achieving an Islamic utopia.

In yet another, he sings of “houses in rubble,” pointing to collapsing buildings caused by the rampant nepotism and corruption that shield state-connected builders from transparency on safety measures. In another, he sings of the “imprisoned intellectuals,” in a nod not just to the hundreds of journalists, human rights lawyers, and filmmakers but even award-winning university students who have been locked up.

The chorus arising from hundreds of tweets is clear: This is a regime that seems to be against life itself, punishing dancing, kissing, and smiling faces.

The song’s singular overnight success is not a small achievement given the long, rich history of protest songs in Iran. Already at the time of Iran’s Constitutional Revolution in 1906, poets created songs about the spilled blood of the youth who agitated for representative government and, not long after, about the “Morning Bird” breaking the cage of oppression, which many decades later became one of the most intoned protest songs in post-revolutionary Iran.

The trajectory of Iran’s musical history clearly exhibited a century-long struggle for freedom and justice, not yet realized.

Although “Baraye” and other songs of the current protest movement continue this strong tradition, they break with the post-revolutionary legacy on one key point: They no longer call for reforms.

At the time of the last major convulsions in 2009, many activists and musicians of the Green Movement called forth songs from the 1979 revolution to stake a claim to the revolution’s original yet unattained promises. People wore headscarves and wristbands in the green of Imam Hussain and went to their rooftops to shout “Allahu akbar” to invoke God’s help against a corrupt, earthly power.

But this time around, there are no religious signifiers or any demands for reforms. If classical songs are performed, they are not the icon Mohammad Reza Shajarian’s conciliatory song “Language of Fire” in 2009, when Iranians were still agitating for reforms from within, but his militant 1979 song “Night Traveler,” (also known as “Give Me My Gun”) in which he calls “sitting in silence” a sin and asks for his gun so he can join the struggle. One of Shajarian’s masterful female protégés posted the song with the hashtag #Mahsa_Amini and swapped “the brother” out of the verses to sing “The sister is an adolescent, the sister is drowning in blood,” in recognition of the teenage girls who have given their lives in the protests.

The state security system instantly understood the significance of “Baraye” as a protest song. Hajipour was forced to take it off his Instagram account; however, not only has his song already been shared widely by other accounts and on other platforms, but the sentiments behind the lyrics are within the millions of people who wrote them.

The chants of “Death to the Dictator” have reverberated from the streets to the universities, from oil refineries to urban rooftops, and from bazaars to school courtyards. And so have the haunting calls for freedom repeatedly intoned at the end of “Baraye,” pouring forth from every corner of the actual and virtual Iranian public sphere.

That song’s reality can no longer be repressed and hidden by force.

Song lyrics in this article are based in part on Zuzanna Olszewska’s translations.

[libraryofcirclaria]

A Meeting in the Basin

Library of Circlaria

Earlier Blog Posts

John Richards looked down upon the Isle of Opportunity from the vast window of the Airship Cornerstone, which was due to land in 30 minutes. To the Eastern end of the Isle stood the Torch representing Liberty, to the South the Torch of Justice, and to the North the Torch of Equality. John was no nationalist but he had to admit, for a moment, that the scenery with the three Torches flanked by the circle of Retunian flags, with both the flags and flames waving majestically in the wind, gave him a slight feeling of pride. This was his home.

He took his eyes off of this, however, and returned to his room to pack his belongings. He had an extremely important business matter to address, which required the emotionless and objective side of his conscience. He packed his clothes, his papers, and his business items away before taking two objects he made certain the cabin crew would never see. The first was his talisman glove armed with his talisman. He folded the finger section part of this back so that he could hide it up his arm. The second object was a pocket knife, which he hid in a secret interior pocket inside his jacket. The change in the tone of the engines, the clanking of the moor ropes, and the slight shifts in the motion of the cabin signaled that the ship had landed. So after double-checking everything, he left.

He made his way down the series of gangways and off of the ship with no incident, to his relief. No one noticed. The boarding platform was indoors, and was one of many inside a hangar into which airships went in and out of large entry ports on either side of the building. These platforms stood over a network of parking lots and roadways, as such was the norm all over Remikra. John went down the levels to the sidewalk lining a parkway and hailed a taxi cab bound for the Government Circle of the city of Retun. It was the month of May in the year of 1286, but the region was experiencing a relatively cool spell, hence a good reason for the jacket.

Ten years had already passed since he had graduated from the honorable Cabotton University. It had been so long since he had last spoken with his mentor and best friend, Professor Henry Kaldan. Yet John was afraid to speak to him now, out of shame. How would he ever come clean to Kaldan regarding what had happened since, especially regarding this current mission?

The traffic patterns into and out of the Basin District of Retun were, by design, unusual. The interior of the District, to this day, sits on a disc of land that rotates on a man-made lake once every 24 hours, meaning that each roadway going in and out does so through a drawbridge that changes every hour. Nevertheless, it wasn't long, from John's perspective, until they reached his destination. That was how much he was dreading this.

So here he was, in the Government Circle of Retun, the capital of the Federal Estates of Retun, or, as scholars refer to it in the present-day, the Early Republic. His stop was right in front of the Council Building, which was skirted by a roadway encircling the Great Clocktower topped by the famous Octohedron. He walked along the Council Building up Combria Avenue and saw a billboard indicating a performance happening in about a half-hour in Reverence Concert Hall. John had been certain that this was where he would find his "friend."

And sure enough, he was right.

He filed into the entrance hall on the lower level of the Concert Hall, which was where the Retun District National Wind Orchestra was performing. It was a standing room, and already the musicians were on stage tuning for the performance. While they were doing this, John had an instinct to discreetly slip his talisman glove back over his fingers.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark masked figure suddenly vanish behind one of the side pillars.

John took off stealthily after him while only a few audience members briefly glanced over. Within seconds, John was outside. The figure had gained a distance of half a block, but John was closing in on him, bolting at full speed. The figure turned and crossed through the busy traffic of Combria Avenue and went down a side street. John followed him, barely missing several cars, himself.

To John's delight, the street came to a dead end. The figure turned and started throwing Stun Spells. But John was quick as he parried them off with his Shield Spell and shot back with his own Stuns. A discharge flew right at his head. He dodged it but lost his balance and fell on the ground. The figure leapt over him and started back toward Combria Avenue. But John recovered quickly and, using a two-finger spell discharge trick, struck him at both the feet and the head with a pair of Stun Spells, knocking him out. John ran up to the downed figure and, before the figure could run off again, John pulled out his pocket knife and produced the Superblade, holding it to the man's throat.

"This is done, Mandon!" John said with clenched teeth. "I know it's you! Now hand it over!"

Slowly and obediently, the figure reached into his pocket and pulled out the Wizarding Cross, handing it over to John and then pulling off his mask.

"Professor Kaldan!?" exclaimed John, dropping his Superblade.

"Yes. I know," said the Professor calmly. "And well done. Now I have a lot of explaining to do, if you are willing to listen."

***

Ten days later, John sat awake in the bedroom of his house back in Ereautea. He still could barely sleep as he struggled yet to mentally process the turn of events since his return to Middle Remikra.

It's all in the past, John told himself once again. You're recruited now.

[tombeane-blog]

Another Mediterranean Monday - Part II

January, 2023

And then all of sudden.... all our laughter, all our cheer and all our brotherly love turns to chaos, confusion and anger.

(Editor's Note: It is unclear precisely when and why the congenial situation began to turn into a large mound of human excrement.  But began it did.  

Most historians seem to agree that it may have started when one of the American heroes tried to nail down the final price of the trip.... maybe thinking it should be reduced by the cost of the shots of whiskey the local cabbie was inhaling.  Or, the American heroes may have believed the quoted price was in local currency while the drunken, lying, thieving carriage scumbag insisted his quote was in American dollars.  To make things worse, the mixture of English, Pig Latin, Esperanto and hand signals was no longer providing clarity.)

Members of the crowd within shouting distance start loudly gibberating their opinions on the matter.  Most of our previous BFF's now seemingly turn against us.  

Luckily, about this time, the police show up.

To this day, no one knows who said what to who.  

Everyone's best guess was that the police probably wanted to resolve the dispute without offending the citizens of the country that were throwing money around like a bunch of drunken sailors.  

In any case, the carriage driver was - we think - going to be charged with drunken driving and us three amigos were strongly encouraged to wolf down our drinks and hurry on back to our ship.

As we left the bar and start walking down towards the harbor, the last I saw of all this was our carriage driver, the police and a few bar flies - standing by the carriage, all in a knot -  shouting and gesticulating at each other.

We just continue ambling on down the street, wisely bypassing all the bars until we arrive at the harbor - where we encounter a whole different kind of mess.

The dock is large and it is crowded and it is drunk. 

Except for a few communist pinko wussies, the only people not falling down drunk are the officer in charge and his small entourage.  (In the old Navy, the math was simple - sailor+liberty=drunk.)

The wind has picked up and it is cold on cold.  The petty officer on dock duty tells us that because of the choppy water, the large liberty boats from the aircraft carrier will be used to ferry everyone to the smaller ships.

Alongside the dock are street vendors. Some are selling junk items that increase in price the closer it gets to midnight.  The food carts offer some sort of heavily spiced meat-on-a-stick.  It is rumored to be monkey...  It's probably not monkey...  Could be dog...  Probably not dog...  Could it be horse?...   (Please Lord, don't let it be rat.)

We eat a couple and they taste awesome.  It's like when you eat hot dogs - you love 'em but it's best not to know too much about them.

I wander around trying to stay warm and come upon one of my shipmates, a hospital corpsman, passed out and tightly tied down in a steel basket stretcher.  

I sidle over and ask what's going on...

"He does this almost every liberty.  He was drinking Ouzo all night and he finally went completely berserk.  Nearly started a riot.  It took multiple Shore Patrol to subdue him and they finally had to tie him down in the stretcher."

I think, "Well, for now he's in that wonderful peaceful in-between state that all sailors embrace - post liberty, passed out - pre-hangover - pre-pre Captain's Mast."

Over near edge of the dock is a 1st Class Bosun's Mate.  (A bosun's mate does all the real old timey hard physical sailor work on a ship.)

I'll call him Adams.  He's a lifer.  He supervisors all the lower ranked bosun's mates with an iron fist.  Adams is old school navy.  Everyone likes the heck out of Adams except for those poor tortured beaten down souls that work for him.  

Adams spots our tied down corpsman.  Taking note of the ship's patches from all the different types of ships, he raises his hand to the sky and proudly slurs to the crowd at the top of his lungs, "ONLY A *%@#'ing TIN CAN SAILOR CAN GET THAT DRUNK!"

Tensions on the dock rise as sailors from other classes of ships vociferate their differing opinions, not believing what all destroyer swabs fully agree - is an undeniable fact.

Among the yelling and shouting a few naval favorites ring out - "Up Yours!" "Damn Right!"  "*%@#'ing  Aaaa!"  "*%@#  YOU!" "All (insert ship type here)_______s SUCK!" - and so on.

With a big grin on his face at the chaos he's caused - and with a final proud, "*%@#'! Aaaa!",  Adams takes a step back and accidentally drops 5 feet out of sight into the freezing waters of the Mediterranean Ocean. 

Adams is a big guy with twenty years of navy chow crammed into his dress blues.  Also wearing an XXL wool navy peacoat, he probably weighs a ton in the water.  

A bunch of guys still sober enough to move, grab a boat hook, snag Adams by his peacoat and pull him to the edge - slowly hoisting him back onto the dock.

Using expert Navy emergency medical knowhow (no thanks to the comatose corpsman) somebody finds a blanket and wraps it around Adams' shoulders.  Medical attention complete, we all go back to waiting for the liberty boat alongside our shivering hero.  I'm silently thinking, "Proof that only a tin can sailor Can get that drunk!"

Shortly after, a menagerie of alcohol soaked, riled up sailors stumble onto the liberty boat.   Those not sitting are crammed shoulder to shoulder in the center of the boat.

Some drunk carrier bozo still angered up from the dock disagreement must have thought he was surrounded by his mates.  Looking around and seeing the patch on someone's shoulder, he commences to bad mouth destroyers.

Quickly a group of tin can sailors gather around the big mouth and start "readjusting" his wrongthink.  

A bunch of sympathetic sailors jump in front of the "teaching circle" to block the view of any nearby officers or chiefs.  Somebody probably whispers something like, "Hey, maybe don't kill him."  - because they stop the counseling after only 20 or 30 seconds.

I look across to the other side of the boat and there is an officer sitting there.  His head is turned and he's looking way off across the harbor as all this is taking place....

...maybe he sees, maybe he doesn't.

The liberty boat pulls alongside our steel gray floating home.  We disembark the liberty boat and lurch drunkenly up the gangway.  

We sort of semi salute and mutter, "mumble mumble abroad sirs"  We half walk, halve weave and half stumble forward and down through hatches and passageways until we reach our compartment.  Undressed and falling into my bunk, I am already dreading Reveille.  

I glance at my watch to see how much sleep I'm gonna get.  Not much.  It's 2:05 a.m.

Just another Monday in the Med.

[gaysonlyocean]

theyre happy!!!

[sciapod]

Bathtub Photoshoot 💦

Pairing: Henry Cavill x First Person-POV (Female, or at least X wears a bra and has breasts)

Summary: Little private photosesh' with Henners and then some.

Warnings: Dry humping but let's just call it grinding. Edging. 18+ to be safe!! Contains smut. You might be able to find the tiniest bit of angst. And bit of fluff.

Word count: 2.5K

Not beta’ed! I take full responsibility for this fuckup.

Inspired/prompted by this post by @cavillfics

Masterlist

I obviously don't own Henry Cavill, nor do I know him IRL, so it goes without saying that this is a figment of my imagination.

(I took the liberty to edit the photo just a bit and don’t know who to credit for the original edit. Let me know if you know, so I can give credit where it's due.)

Happy reading 💦

---

“Babe, I've got an idea! Can you do something for me, please?”

When I heard you coming through the front door, I rushed to meet you there. You were finally home again and was hanging your jacket on the coat rack when I found you.

“Oh, well,” you reply, “I really want to just lean back, maybe take a shower or something. It’s been a long week, babe. And hello, by the way.”

You step over to me, reach around my waist and pull me against your firm body.

“Mhm, you smell lovely,” you whisper in my hair. I sigh, then wiggle myself free of your embrace.

“Henry, listen,” I look up at you with my best attempt at puppy eyes. You breathe deeply and turn your face, scratching mine with your stubble. It sends shivers through my body.

“Okay,” you hum as your hands roam my body, finding their way to my bare thighs then sneaking up beneath my robe, “tell me.”

I grab your hips and press my core against your thigh as I lean backwards, looking up at you, “I want to take some pictures … of you.”

Your face goes through a range of emotions; surprised, suspicious, smirking, friendly and finally incredibly charismatic: Front-page-style smile.

“That’s the one!” I say with excitement.

“Which one?” you tease, furrowing your brow and looking all suspicious again.

“You know perfectly well, you buffoon!” I say, as I slap your chest playfully.

My entire body lifts when you laugh. You kiss my forehead and twirl some of my hair between a few fingers. Your eyes shift, gazing at various areas of my face. I sigh, then reach for your hands, the one playing with my hair and the other, which I find gently caressing the lace of my panties.

I hold your hands between us and look up at my man.

“You do realize, of course, that you are basically a Greek god carved out of stone.”

“I have been told so, yes.”

“And you do realize that every artist needs a muse, a model, to create from.”

“I have a faint idea of that, yes,” you say, smirking down at me.

“And I happen to be short of a project, and subject, for my portfolio.”

“I see,” your smile broadens, “but what does that have to do with me?”

“Henry!”

My declining patience must have been obvious somewhere in my face or perhaps my exclamation, because you burst out laughing, throwing your head back as you do so. I can’t help but melt a little.

“Tell me what you need me to do, darling,” you say, stroking my hands with your thumbs. I feel warmth spread through my chest. Your face softens and I feel the warmth spread further down.

“Fuck,” I breathe, casting my eyes to the floor. I’m suddenly filled with all kinds of insecurities, imposter syndrome and such, but there’s a reason why you’re my man. You sense it immediately and lift my hands to your lips, kissing them sincerely.

“You’ve got this, babe.”

I sigh, “I know, sweetheart. It's just… Urgh.”

You kiss my forehead.

“Tell me your idea.”

“I…” My voice breaks. You lift my chin up with a single finger, as if it were suddenly light as a feather, forcing me to look into your striking blue eyes.

“I don’t know,” I finally exclaim. “I didn’t have a concrete idea. I just knew that I wanted you to be in the photos.”

You smile, almost apologetically, “Okay, look. I really want to help. But I’m so damn tired. I’ve got an idea, though, of how we may be able to hit two birds with one stone.”

“Okaay?” I say, a slight tinge of hope seeping into my core again.

“I need a bath–”

“–I can’t take a nude picture of you!”

You laugh again, but shake your head, “No, silly. Let me finish.”

My cheeks flush scarlet.

“I need a bath, but instead of taking a shower, I’ll jump in the tub. Once in there, you can have me do whatever you want.”

I squint my eyes, then see a lightbulb flash on.

“YES!” I almost yell, running my hands up your torso and leaning in for a kiss.

“Yes,” I repeat, then press my lips against your sculpted ones. It is as if your lips curl to a smile amidst the kiss.

“Yes,” I say one last time, meeting your eyes, “If you get the water running, I’ll collect my gear.”

Your hands go wandering about on my hips again, dragging my robe up and making my hairs stand on end. You look down at me with a confident smile, saying, “great minds think alike.”

I fight off the urge to kiss you again and instead draw away from you. You catch the waistband of my robe and it slides off as I step away, revealing the new set of lingerie I’m wearing underneath. I stand, looking at you with what I imagine is the expression of a suspicious feline. You, on the other hand, make a low whistle and shake your head in slow motion, clearly surprised and pleased to see what I was hiding beneath. Then you nod toward the living room, signalling I get on with finding my camera.

It takes me a few minutes to find the right lens. When I enter the bathroom, you’re in the process of unbuckling your belt. The tap is running and there’s already a bit of water in the tub.

“Wait,” I say, stopping you just as you’re about to pull your jeans down, “I think I want you in the water dressed.”

You stare for a moment, shrug, say “sure,” then proceed to tug your jeans over your perky bum again.

“Right, erm,” I think for a moment, “No, you know what? Lose the pants, but keep the t-shirt on.”

“Lose the pants,” you repeat and let your jeans fall to the floor. As you stand back up, I realize something.

“We might have a problem,” I say, eyeing the hefty bulge in your boxers.

You follow my gaze, noticing the same problem, then nod in agreement.

“But then again,” you say, “what did you expect, looking like that?” you hint at my open robe and lingerie.

We both shrug, then burst laughing.

“I guess we’ll just have to make it work!” I say, “Now, in the tub with you, buddy.”

You feel the temperature of the water and deciding that it’s decent, turn off the tap, step in and lie down. There’s not a lot of water in there, but I’m assuming it will do. You look up at me with anticipation, “Now what?”

I squint at you, finding the bulge slightly distracting, basically towering above the waterline like another Burj Khalifa. Obviously, you notice my lack of response.

“Hey, babe!” you say, snapping me out of it. I feel my nether region clench.

“Okay, okay!” I shake my head to wake up. You shake yours too, smirking at me.

“We need to do something about that,” I say.

“I can try to hide it?” you suggest.

“How?” I squint. It’s a mastodon of a package you has stored down there, I think to myself.

“Anyway, I need to find a position to photograph you from.”

I begin taking random photos of you from various angles and perspectives, simultaneously adjusting the settings on the camera as I do so. Meanwhile, you roll around to one side, then the other, then back again. The squeaking sounds of your body rubbing against the sides of the tub while you change poses makes the whole situation rather comedic, and I'm convinced you're doing it even worse on purpose. Determined to be somewhat professional, I try to ignore your distractions.

“It’s a good thing we have such good lighting in here,” I say, gazing around the small room, pretending to be focused and ignorant of your attempts at sabotage.

“How do you want me, babe? I feel like… I don’t even know? A fish out of water,” you say, doubting your own wording, “or something like that.”

I sigh, “I know, I get it. I need to think. We’ve also still got that… situation… going on.” I gesture at the, no less apparent, tent between your legs.

“Okay,” you say calmly, “I’ll just lie back and relax, while you think of something.”

“Good.”

As you settle into a comfortable position, I mentally run through the various “golden rules” of photography that I can remember.

Then it’s as if I notice the obvious. The absolute god-like adonis carved in marble in front of me: My initial inspiration. Your white t-shirt, soaked from all the turning and splashing around you did, is sticking to your chest and abs, enhancing the lines of your muscular torso, yet still in a perfectly suggestive fashion; somewhat similar to the drapery you see on these same sculptures. In a fit of impulse, I crawl up to stand on the edges of the tub.

You open your eyes –awoken by my scramblings– fear in your eyes as you reach for me, “be careful, babe!”

“No no, darling! Stay put!” I say, “I’m perfectly safe. It’s dry. My feet are dry. I’m stable, but thank you.” I smile, reassuringly. Suspicious yet accepting, you lower your arms and lie back down. I notice your eyes trail down my exposed body. Lust now clear as daylight in your gaze.

“I think I’ve got the photo soon, babe, then we’re done,” I explain. “Just close your eyes for me.”

You shake your head and smile, then do as I said.

Your head rests on the back of the tub, but your fingers begin fidgeting … around your nether region.

“Are you uncomfortable?” I ask between photos.

“No…” you smirk, eyes still closed, but you shift and rest your hands awkwardly on your stomach instead.

“We can’t have that,” I say, “you’re covering the main part of the photo,” I tease.

You open your eyes, still smirking but not saying a word.

“And you’re revealing, exposing, what we need to hide,” I try to hold back my laugh.

“Okay,” I continue, “what about… what if you hold your t-shirt at the hem and stretch it down to cover your crotch. Place your other hand casually beside it. Yeah, like that! Exactly, babe. Beautiful.”

I take a couple of photos and look at them on the tiny screen.

“Right, hold that pose, but just… kinda relax, if you can. I’ll take a few shots more and then you’re done!”

You close your eyes again and begin taking deep breaths, lessening the tension that must have been building in your shoulders over the last few days. As peace falls upon your face and body, I take the last photos. After quickly reviewing them on the tiny screen, I decide that I’m done. I turn off my camera and place it on the shelf above the tub before crawling down to sit on the edge of the tub, my feet in the water between your legs.

“Okay, it’s a wrap!”

Your eyes flash open and you let go of your t-shirt. The fabric bounces back, revealing your hairy tummy, teasing me. You look up at me with mischief, then give your member a squeeze.

“Get down here,” you say, almost ferocious in your voice.

I feel myself get all giddy with sudden anticipation as you rise like Poseidon from the water. Before I can do anything other than yelp, you pull me down onto you and with a splash and a thud I land against your rock-hard body. I'm instantly soaked.

“Finally,” you mutter, drenching my face and neck with hungry kisses. Your hands tease the collar of my robe before sliding it over my shoulders. Your eyes explore the curves of my upper body, then you adjust me so that I sit straddled upon you. You don’t speak a word, but your eyes and body say everything I need to know.

I feel your girth throbbing against me. You slide my robe all the way off and without taking your eyes off me, you cast it aside. Then your hands slide up my body. You cup my breasts tenderly, admiring the lace and how the new style of bra suits my breasts. You lick your lips as your thumbs begin stroking my hardening nipples. I sigh and begin grinding against the tip of your member.

You sit up and proceed to kiss and bite the flesh of my breasts. Gently holding the lace aside with your fingers, you capture my nipples between your teeth, ever so gently, before circling your tongue around them with exquisite attention. While squeezing my breasts together, you kiss them one after the other, back and forth, before venturing up to my collarbone and neck. All I can do is whimper and moan.

Then you grasp my hair, pulling my head back. Between kisses and bites on my exposed neck, you breathe damp, sultry words onto my skin. Expressions of how I’ve been a tease, how patient you’ve been and how much you want me now. I want to answer, but I can’t do anything but mutter incoherencies; your throbbing cock eagerly pressing against my core and thus stealing all of my vocabulary.

My breath quickens as I grind harder, cursing the fabrics that keep our cores from meeting, merging. Then you push me towards you, allowing our lips to meet in hungry kisses. My bra loosens. You must have managed to open and take it off me with your other hand, before also casting it aside. You grab at my liberated breasts, then sit up and pull your drenched t-shirt over your head. It lands on the bathroom floor with a splash. My hands instinctively seek the wet fur of your stomach and chest, momentarily squeezing your pecs, then wander south again.

Your eyes read pure hunger and you buck your hips. As I fall back down from the jump, my core meets the powerful strength of your pelvis, bucking yet again. I gasp, overcome by a mixture of arousal and humor. You buck again, a laugh escapes me and somehow, after a few times of this, you’ve managed to free your erection from your boxers. I didn’t notice, but at some point you must have turned on the tap again, because I see you turn it back off. I guess this increased level of water also explains the more slow-motion-like sensation I experience as I land back down on your pelvis; a somewhat softer landing than before. In my own defence, I was entranced and my mind was not functioning at 100%, hence the questionable description. Anyway, both our hips are now submerged under water and I simply shake my head at your mischievous ways. You smirk and pull me down to a deep kiss, slapping my ass through the water, making more water splash all over the place. Everything in the room is certainly wet by now.

I grind against your exposed and infinitely hard cock as your fingers slider under the lace. Your hands grab my cheeks with determination, enhancing the force and enabling you to better thrust against my grinding motion. The friction is causing short-circuits in my brain, making me see colours that aren’t there. My first climax is staggeringly near, but just before I get to release, you buck your hips again, making me scoot off your cock. A devious grin is smeared across your chiseled face.

“You had me waiting, sweetheart. Now it’s my turn to tease.”

---

Thanks for reading my shitpost! Please leave a comment of your thoughts, however nonsensical they may be 💜🙏

Tags in the reblog 🖤Let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list.