#private prison contracts

[buckysleftbicep]

beneath the crown (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: knight!bucky barnes x princess!fem!reader (set in medieval times)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, forbidden relationship, lots of tension, loads of pining

summary: in a kingdom ruled by duty, you’re a princess promised to a prince you don’t love. sir james buchanan barnes is the knight sworn to protect you. but one touch turns into a secret affair, dangerous, all consuming and impossible to stop. and now, you’d risk everything just to be his.

word count: 2.5k

a/n: yay! chapter 1 is finally here! i genuinely hope it doesn't flop on me! thank you so, so much for reading my loves and please leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed it, i would really appreciate it! love ya and stay safe darlings!

series masterlist

The castle has never felt so cold. Tall arched ceilings echoed every whisper of conversation and footsteps, the marble floors that royalty generations before you had walked on were polished to a mirror’s shine beneath the flickering chandeliers.

Golden sconces lined the stone walls, casting pale light over the crimson tapestries and ornate banners bearing the crest of your house in silver, bold and unbending. Servants moved quietly through the corridors, heads bowed, eyes averted, as if the walls watched and guards stood stoically at every turn, their armour gleaming in the light like polished bone.

But none of it felt like home, at least not anymore. You sat stiffly in the great hall, hands clenched tightly in your lap, the silk of your gown whispering with every breath you took, you were dressed like a bride already—draped in ivory and gold, dressed to the nines, every day of your life, since you were born.

Your hair, coiled into elegant twists by your handmaidens, your throat encircled by a delicate sapphire necklace, gifted by your grandmother to you, that seemed to feel more like a shackle than a gift. 

Though you were the only princess ever born to the king and queen, hailed as the light of the realm on the day you were first presented to the people of your kingdom, you never truly felt that way. You hardly saw beyond the gilded, golden bars of your palace prison, never saw what life truly had to offer besides the one you were born into. Adored, perhaps, but always constrained.

Sometimes, you envied the townspeople in their simple lives, free to choose, to love, to marry whoever they wished, to breathe without permission. 

Across the length, your father, the king stood proudly beside the visiting envoy, the herald of the man she would marry. The great prince of House Hydra who had not even bothered to come himself, sending nothing but his regards.

The man who would inherit your hand, your title, your body, the man who would rule over you, the man you were expected to serve. He was chosen not for love or even friendship, but for land, allegiance and gold. 

A political transaction. 

That was all you had become, raised, fed and taught to become nothing but a bargaining chip, a living seal on a loyal contract. Your heart thuds with rage as you remember how swift the announcement was.

There was no warning or private conversation with your father, none of that, simply a scroll, read aloud by his majesty at the high table, his voice ringing off the walls with pride.

“The princess (y/n) (l/n) shall be wed to Prince Rumlow of House Hydra, a noble union which will ensure peace and prosperity across all kingdoms”. 

Peace, prosperity, what of yours?

Completely disregarded.

You blinked slowly, swallowing hard against the tightness in your throat, your mother had said absolutely nothing, shooting you a glance that urged you to accept the decree, to do your duty as princess.

You didn’t blame her, you couldn’t, she too had wed your father under the very same circumstances. She had simply bowed her head as the court erupted in polite applause and some of the duchesses congratulating you as if being offered to some man on a platter was an occasion to be celebrated. 

“Are you well, Princess?” The voice came low beside you, gravel-smooth and unmistakably his, you turned your head, already knowing who stood at your shoulder. 

Sir James Barnes, Bucky, your sworn knight, your silent shadow stood just behind you, ever watchful. He was a towering figure of black leather and polished silver plate, his broad shoulders framed by the dark cloak clasped at his collar.

The hilt of his sword gleamed with deadly promise at his hip, well-worn from use, the etching of the royal sigil barely disguising the notches of war along its edge. He looked carved from steel and smoke, unyielding, stoic and impossible to ignore. 

His hair was slicked back from his face, his features sharp and angular, a soldier’s face, honed by battle and shadowed by the weight of things unsaid.

A strong jaw dusted with the beginnings of a beard, cheekbones carved you suspected were carved by Aphrodite herself, high and severe, and a mouth that almost never smiled, but when it did, gods help you. 

But it was Bucky’s eyes that captured you most, steel blue, clear and cold and somehow endlessly deep, they never left your face, not in four years, not since the day he was assigned your guard, plucked from the battlefields of the border wars, his name carried by whispers of brutality and brilliance.

They had said he was ruthless, relentless, a weapon barely unleashed. And yet when he looked at you, there was a softness, fire, a hunger so carefully buried, it almost felt like a secret you were never meant to witness. 

Bucky had bowed before you in the great hall that day, kneeling in tarnished armour, blood of the kingdom’s enemies still drying on his gauntlets as he swore his oath before the court. He was to guard the kingdom’s most prized possession, to protect the crown’s only heir. 

You remembered how his eyes had narrowed when you snapped at him for following you a tad too closely, the way he hadn’t apologised when you ordered him to leave your chambers when you were dressed in nothing but one of your sheer nightgowns, he only lowered his gaze respectfully, jaw tight and unmoved.

Overtime, however, something shifted, a grudging understanding, then a fragile trust and now, perhaps something else. 

“I’m not well” you replied softly, eyes scanning the court for any nosy handmaiden, “but i’m surviving”. 

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his gloved hands flexing at his side. “If you gave the word-”

You looked up at him sharply, “what?”

“If you told me to,” he said, voice low, so only you could hear, “I’d help you escape all of this”. 

Your breath caught, he had meant it, every word. There was no jest in his tone, no playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, Bucky's gaze held yours with unshakable intensity, carved from iron and shadow and in it, something deeper stirred. Not just the rigid armour of loyalty he wore so well, but a burning heat beneath it, a quiet consuming ache. 

It pulsed in the space between the both of you, the kind of yearning that cannot be named, only felt, it was ancient, wild and utterly ruinous. It had stretched between the both of you for months, like a bowstring drawn too tight, trembling with restraint, begging to snap. It was the lingering glances across the room, the brush of your fingers against his that should have been accidental but never were.

You and Bucky had never crossed the line between knight and princess—not truly that is. But you had danced along its edge, toeing it in the shadows where nobody could see, a breath too close, a touch held too long, words unsaid, heavy with meaning.

All of this taut and forbidden. 

“I can’t” you whispered, “you know I can’t”. 

“You already do” Bucky replies. 

“Not the way I want to”. 

The confession crashed over you like a wave, sending your pulse skyrocketing, you turned your face forward again, willing yourself to stay still, to hide the tremble in your hands. 

Not the way I want to. 

You lost count of the nights you spent, laying awake, staring at your ceiling, thinking of the rough timbre of his voice, of the stolen glances you had both shared across the council chambers, his training yards and moonlit corridors.

The nights you had spent imagining pressing your lips to his, tasting the fire you saw behind those cerulean blues, that barely showed any emotion, except when it comes to you. 

Too many. 

Bucky was your knight, sworn by blood and steel, bound by an oath beneath the banners of war. You were the crown princess, first of your name, heir to a throne gilded in tradition and chained by countless expectations, rules.

The space between you and him was carved by laws, wide, deep and merciless, it was a chasm filled with duty, danger and the ever-looming spectre of consequence. 

To betray that sacred divide meant death, not just for Bucky but for anyone who dared conspire with him, after all, the crown does not forgive disobedience. It punished treason with fire and blade, seen when your father made examples of lesser men for far smaller sins.

And Bucky was no ordinary man, he was a symbol, the battle-worn soldier pulled from blood soaked soil, knighted before a crowd of nobles. He is the kingdom’s quiet weapon. 

And yet, your heart raced everytime he looked at you like that. 

Not like a knight beholding his charge, but a man staring down temptation. Like he knew exactly how soft your skin would feel under his calloused hands, like he had memorised the shape of your mouth when you whispered his name in the dark.

Like he was always mere seconds away from shattering every vow he had ever sworn. 

“Come” you said softly, standing, the heavy chair behind you scraping lightly against the marble, “I wish to walk the gardens”. 

Bucky nodded silently, and fell in step behind you as you swept out of the hall, your chin high, posture regal, but you knew, beneath all of that, you were shaking. 

The castle gardens were quiet this time of the night, cloaked in moonlight and the hum of crickets. Roses bloomed in wild tangles along the stone pathways, their scent thick in the cool air. Lanterns flickered gently in the breeze, casting golden shadows over the hedges and statues. 

You walked until you were far from the windows, far from the eyes of the court. Bucky followed without question, ever the silent sentinel. When you finally stopped, it was beneath the wide, open branches of the weeping willow, the one your mother whom you recall used to read to you under it, now it had become the one place you always came when the walls of the castle felt too tight. 

“Do you think I am weak?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. 

“What?”

“For accepting this, for just bowing my head and smiling through my own damnation” you say, a bitter ache swelling in your chest, shame twisting with helpless fury as the words slipped from your lips like a confession. Your voice trembled, not with weakness, but with the weight of a thousand silenced protests, all the defiance you had swallowed in the name of duty.

Bucky stepped closer, like a storm barely held at bay, broad shoulders tense, his cerulean irises burning with a fury reserved only for those he could not protect. “You aren’t, there is no weakness in survival Princess, there is no shame in doing what you must”. 

“I feel like I am being sold,” you said, breath catching, “packaged like meat to some man who I have never met”. 

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You’re not his. You’re not anyone’s.”

But mine, he almost said. The words burned on his tongue, scorching with truth, but he swallowed them down. He couldn’t risk it. Not when both your lives hung in the balance.

You stepped closer, voice soft but steady. “No,” you whispered. “But I wish I were yours.”

The words escaped your lips before you could even stop them, your heart pounded like a drum against your ribs, defying reason, downing out duty. Bucky’s chest hitched, chest rising as if he had been struck, the raw hunger in his eyes, sharpening, no longer hidden, no longer restrained.

“You don’t mean that,” Bucky replied tightly, his voice strained, torn between hope and torment, almost as if your words had cracked something open in him that he had fought too long to bury. 

“I do” you whispered, “I’ve meant it for months James”. you replied softly, his name lingering on your lips.

Bucky’s hand rose, hesitated in the air, then slow and gentle, he touched your face, callused fingers grazing your cheek. His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone with aching tenderness, as though you were something sacred he would only ever dare to worship from afar. The fire in his eyes flickered with conflict, a desire that warred with discipline and love for you that was tempered by fear.

“I’ve known it since the night you carried me from the fire in the east wing, since you bled for me, since you stayed by my side”. you said, leaning in, your lips just a breath from Bucky’s.

His breath shook, “if I kiss you, I won’t stop”,

Your eyes searched his, “then don’t”.

His lips crashed against yours, all hunger and desperate, breathless need, it was far from gentle, it wasn’t careful, it was the unraveling of restraint, the collapse of every unspoken word between them.

His hands framed your face, thumbs trembling against your cheeks, you could feel the cold press of his armour against your chest but it did nothing to dull the searing heat radiating from his body—from his mouth, his touch, the way he kissed you, like he had been starved. The raw ache behind every movement sang through your body, full of all the things you and Bucky were never allowed to utter.

But before the kiss could deepen, the sound of footsteps echoed across the path. “Your Highness?”

You and Bucky broke apart instantly, breath heaving, eyes wide. 

Your handmaiden, Yelena, rounded the hedge, “The King requests your presence in the throne room immediately Princess”. 

You straightened, your heart thudding, face burning. “Very well, thank you Yelena”. 

“I am sorry Princess, I know this alliance is not what you wish for” she replied softly, her gaze moving towards Bucky, she knew, she always knew of your feelings for your knight. You offered her a tight smile, the ache behind your ribs sharpening, “nor is it what I would choose,” you murmured, eyes flickering towards Bucky just once, your voice low but steady, “but I was never offered choices was I?” 

Yelena’s expression softened with quiet understanding, but she said nothing more, she didn’t need to. 

Bucky’s gaze changed, it was something darker, protective, possessive. 

“Whatever it is, you won’t face it alone” he says. 

You nod, turn and walk with him at your side, your fingers still tingling from his touch. 

The throne room was filled with lords and ladies, their fine jewels glittering under the light, your father stood before them, hands raised for silence. 

“The date is set” he announced, voice booming across the chamber, “my precious daughter, the crown princess shall be wed to Prince Rumlow in three weeks time, all preparations shall begin at once”. 

A round of applause filled the hall and your stomach dropped like a stone. 

You turned just enough to catch Bucky’s expression where he stood in the shadow of a column, his jaw was locked, his cerulean eyes were dark, like storm clouds threatening rain. His hands were clenched into fists at his side, as if he was restraining himself from crossing the space between them. There was a storm brewing behind those eyes, not just fury, but anguish. 

He looked like a man ready to go to war. 

a/n: and that's chapter 1! gosh i hope you loved it, please leave a comment or reblog this if you did, it would mean the world to me!

[vague-humanoid]

Nearly all of the deaths in U.S. immigration detention facilities over a five-year period were preventable, but no officials have faced serious accountability, a new report found.

Of the 52 people who died in detention under the custody of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) from January 2017 to December 2021, 49 of the deaths, or 95%, were preventable or possibly preventable if appropriate medical care had been provided. The new report, “Deadly Failures: Preventable Deaths in U.S. Immigration Detention,” reviewed more than 14,500 pages of documents published by the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), Physicians for Human Rights, and American Oversight on June 25.

None of the private prison corporations—which currently hold more than 90% of the detainees under ICE custody—have faced meaningful consequences as million-dollar contracts have been doled out to the same facilities where preventable deaths have occurred, the report showed.

“It is a system that’s rotten to the core,” said Eunice Hyunhye Cho, senior attorney at ACLU’s National Prison Project and lead co-author of the report. “From bottom to top, you see some very minimal slaps on the wrists and blaming of the lowest level employees, but there’s really no true accountability regarding the disaster of the medical care system in ICE’s detention facilities,” she said.

After deaths in detention, ICE failed to conduct rigorous investigations—failing to interview key witnesses, omitting key inculpatory facts, and allowing evidence to be destroyed, the report stated. ICE also withheld information from the relatives of the deceased. To obtain the medical record of a loved one, a family has to take ICE to court and litigate for years to receive often incomplete files.

“It is a system of impunity and lack of transparency as ICE and private corporations are working hand in hand in perpetuating dangerous and deadly conditions,” Cho said.

Amid medical neglect, cruelty, and abuse, more than 38,000 immigrants are held each day in an ICE network of some 190 detention facilities across the country, as of June 16. That number will only increase as Congress approved a record annual budget for ICE to detain 41,500 people daily at a cost of $3.4 billion this year. Most of the detention budget will go to the private prison companies—The Geo Group and CoreCivic being the largest—where most preventable deaths occur.

“The answer that we see over and over again to the failures that produce deaths is to give the detention system more money,” said Andrew Free, an attorney involved in more than 30 cases of deaths in ICE custody and contributor to the report. “That’s been the response at all levels of the system. It’s not just one facility. It’s not just one contractor. It’s not just one fiscal year,” he said.

@dirhwangdaseul @startorrent02

[visenyaism]

genuine question why are charter schools to blame for decreased literacy in your opinion? Because of the remote learning aspect or smth else also?? I went to one & honestly did better with it than traditional hs but I had very high reading comprehension already, had no busses in my area & no parent that could drive me to school so it was a pretty specific situation where that environment worked out better for me

Well I’m glad it worked out for you but institutionally charter schools are so detrimental to public education. Let me explain why:

The principle behind charter schools, that increased competition will force public schools to be better, frames education as a product rather than a public utility. If education quality is determined by the free market, the winners and losers are children, which is just a morally unacceptable outcome to me.

Shouldn’t ignore that the school choice movement started as a way to advocate for the perpetuity of segregation. On average charters are more racially segregated than publics.

The way in which public schools receive funding varies state to state, but most states do some amount of funding per pupil. What that means is that when students switch from public schools to charter schools they take that per people funding with them if you’re leaving an underperforming public school that’s underperforming because it’s underfunded you are making the problem worse. Not everyone can leave.

Charter schools can legally kick students out if they want to. This means if students stop performing well, or if disabled or english-language learner students need extra support, they can just be removed. A lot of “charters have higher test scores” is just charters only admitted high-performing and low-need students, which puts even more of a strain on public schools.

They are really unregulated. Many “charter-friendly” states have minimal accountability measures for charter schools in a way that leads to many running the gamut between negligence to committing literal fraud instead of providing free and appropriate public education. Charter networks are multibillion dollar businesses this system gets exploited by private equity all the time.

That lack of regulation or accountability also shows up in disciplinary outcomes. The school to prison pipeline is already unforgivably bad in a public environment, but unregulated charter schools often implement draconian “zero tolerance” policies that result in black and brown students getting treated like they’re in a police state. Public schools can’t suspend or expel you or call the cops on you for how you wear your hair. They can’t escalate to dramatic consequences as quickly or do a 3 strikes demerit system. There are no legal guardrails against this in charters.

Often exist to circumnavigate teachers’ union contracts and other labor laws. This means teachers at charters are often overworked, underpaid, micromanaged, and have EXTREMELY high turnover. The additional strain on teachers and overrepresentation of first-teachers who burn out in the system and get replaced makes for bad educational environments in a lot of places.

All of these are even more of a problem because of the way that charter networks like KIPP were marketed as a way to fix public schools in black and brown areas, and have just kneecapped public schools while providing students with subpar educational outcomes instead.

[probablyasocialecologist]

For years now, both Democratic and Republican administrations have used a little-known section of the Guantánamo Bay Naval base to detain migrants, primarily from the Caribbean. And due to the secrecy of the facility, known as the Guantánamo Migrant Operations Center (MOC), conditions at the facility are generally unknown. In the fall, Drop Site News published previously unreported details of the treatment of migrants at the MOC, the bureaucratic process of how migrants are detained, and the private prison companies profiting from the detention center. In August 2024, the Biden administration granted a private prison company a $163.4 million contract to run the facility. "For decades, the Guantanamo migrant detention center has been the hallmark of the most inhumane, racist, and brutal U.S. policies against people seeking refuge," said Jesse Franzblau, senior policy analyst with the National Immigrant Justice Center. "The Biden administration could have shut down the facility but tragically renewed and entered into new contracts to keep it up and running." Drop Site News revealed that the MOC can detain single adults, families, and unaccompanied children. Because the MOC is inside of a military base, migrants awaiting processing are transported in black out vans “with hand restraints and black out goggles to obscure their vision,” according to the documents obtained by Drop Site. Migrants also have limited communication with the outside world, with their few phone calls monitored for “restricted information,” including information about the navy base, the documents showed.

30 January 2025

[s0s1mple]

hii, yesyes i read your niki fic with arranged marriage trope! but i think they were royals in that? maybe this time normal people? or mafia? whatever you want it to be!

Absolutely! So a modern setting, got it!

————

Payment - Nishimura Riki

TW: general yandere themes, humans as payment, extortion, financial threats, death threats

Masterlist

————

Your family was in debt. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Your dad was supposed to take care of your family, was supposed to have given you a secure life, was supposed to have made that business he borrowed money for work.

Your elder sister was a commodity. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Your dad was supposed to fight tooth and nail so your sister didn’t have to belong to some jackass mafia member. Your sister wasn’t supposed to be crying as she packed her things in preparation for the final hand off. Your sister wasn’t supposed to be comforting your dad because really, he wanted to fight for her. But he had to think of you, your mother, and your baby brother. It was the last thing he could do to protect everyone from his mistake, and your sister had even bitten the bullet to help as well.

That was why you all were walking into a restaurant far too nice to be so empty, walking back into the back room, all of you carrying the belongings you hoped your sister would be able to keep. Guards stood like statues at the doorway to the private dining area, only giving a passing glance at your drawn faces before knowing exactly why you were there. In you went to see six people before you.

The head of the mafia branch your family had failed to pay off sat there at the table, a steaming cup of tea before him. Next to him was a much younger male, about your age, with probably the most bored yet predatory gaze you’d ever seen. Guards stood in each corner of the room too, guns at their belts. You felt like a child all over again as you instinctively settled behind your father, using his shoulders and back as a shield. Your sister, though, stood tall and as proud as she could.

You hated the realization you might never see such a brave person in your life again.

Silently, you all set down your boxes. The younger male’s eyes flickered to the wedding veil- your grandmother’s veil- poking out of one of them. He scoffed, eyes flickering up to your sister’s. He was the first to break the silence. “What, you think there’s gonna be some big wedding? This is just a contract. You’re not important.” His tone wasn’t malicious, but it was certainly derogatory.

“Riki.” His father spoke up, voice tired and firm. Riki shot him an icy glare.

“What? You’re the one requiring I have a spouse to take over, aren’t you? Just lift the tradition and I won’t have to have someone I don’t even love hanging off my arm.”

“Don’t be ungrateful.” The notion of the person actively choosing to ruin your family’s lives over money he had coffers full of trying to instill some sort of fucked up moral in his son was laughable. It was bizarre. Riki seemed to think the same, judging by his incredulous laugh. He tapped his nails on the table, sharp eyes turning right back to your sister’s form.

“Don’t look at me like I’m the one hurting you. Both of us are prisoners if I have to marry someone like you.” He said dryly, lips curling in apparent disdain.

You felt anger slam into you. Here was your sister, giving herself up willingly to help save your family from financial annihilation and potential death, and he was acting like this was a worse situation for him. You glared at him over your father’s shoulder, your father having angled his elbow into your stomach to silence the retort you had on your tongue. It was a silent, warning gesture.

This is bad enough, don’t make it worse.

So you stayed quiet, but it was as if Riki sensed your ire. His dark gaze snapped suddenly to yours through his bangs, and you felt like screaming at him and cowering away all at once.

His tapping stopped.

Then his head tilted, following his gaze to more firmly face you. All of a sudden, the rage was flooding out of you and giving way to a sort of dread that clawed at your insides. “Who’re you?” His voice wasn’t disdainful anymore. Just curious. And curious was terrifying.

Your father angled his body to hide you better. “Nobody. Let’s sign the contract.” Your sister nodded, stepping forward to take the seat in front of the two males. She was as elegant as ever, as if she was unbothered by everything. It made your heart clench.

“No. Answer me. Who are you?” Riki’s hand came up in a dismissive gesture, stopping your sister in her tracks. His eyes didn’t leave you.

“My other child. Can we- can we just sign the deal?” You could hear the worry in your father’s voice. You looked away from Riki, hoping it would curb his interest, but you could feel his stare like a brand. There was a long pause only broken by the sound of the chair scraping as it was pulled out. Before your sister could take a seat, though, he spoke up again.

“I want that one.” It was said so casually, with a sort of entitlement that left little else to discussion. The entire room felt like it froze. Your throat went dry and you looked up tentatively. Riki’s lips curled into a half-smile as he got your attention again. You didn’t know how, but that too-genuine looking smile of his was more terrifying than anything you’d ever seen.

“We- No- we already came to an agreement-!” Your mother was the one who spoke up, silent up until now.

“Is the contract signed or not?” Riki challenged, waving the piece of paper about like some sort of trophy. His smile stretched just a little wider, head tilting, like there was something amusing in seeing my family stutter and protest.

“You can’t just-“

“I’m not signing shit if it’s her who signs the contract.” Riki said, palm cradling his jaw. He shot a look utterly devoid of care at your sister. Before, there was a disdain and disgust. All of a sudden, though, it was just apathy. Then his eyes were back on you again, and just as suddenly his gaze was filled with emotions you couldn’t quite place. Intrigue, entitlement, hunger… his brow arched as the silence continued. His father eyed him carefully, judging his expression.

“You made a deal for one of your offspring and didn’t specify who. You want this paid? Do what my son says.” The leader said, tone detached and formal. Your sister was immediately irate.

“No. Deal’s off.” She hissed. She slammed the chair back into place and whipped around to gather us all up to leave. “We’ll find a way to make the money back, dad. We’re not playing their games.”

“This isn’t about money, you know.” Riki drawled suddenly. “This was about finding a convenient way for me to fulfill the requirements to become a proper heir.” It was dismissive. You were just a means to an end. Your face twitched in anger.

“Then find another family-“

“You refuse this and money won’t be the payment anymore. I want you.” Riki slowly stood, a lean and towering figure. He slid the contract forward, smiling that too-pleased smile the instant your gaze landed on him again. “Either sign it or the new payment is blood.”

His father watched, brow arched. Seemingly, this behavior was new to even him. But he didn’t intervene, just quietly taking a sip of his tea. There was a pregnant pause, the air tense. The guards seemed alert now, like their fingers were ready to pull the trigger the instant they were told. You swallowed thickly as your sister and father began pleading for them not to do this, your mother clutching your arm and quietly sobbing.

You made a decision. Trying to be as confident as your sister, you pulled your arm from your mother’s grasp and took an abrupt seat at the table.

“Don’t-!”

You scrawled your name in heavy-handed ink, the pen nib ground into the paper harshly. Then you shoved the paper back at Riki. Riki stared at the paper, then at you, eyes like hot brands as his face shifted from one of intrigued amusement to open glee. Like a child getting the toy they wanted. His eyes crinkled and he slid the paper over to his father. Then he was walking around the table towards you with easy, relaxed steps. Your sister stalked forward to try and act as a shield, but the click of a gun had her stopping in place. You tried to steel yourself as he came to a stop in front of you.

He grabbed the lip of one of the boxes your sister had set on the table. “What’s your favorite cake?” He asked suddenly. You were silent for a long moment, bewildered.

“What?” You finally whispered.

“Your favorite flavor of cake. What is it? I like chocolate, personally.” He hummed. Riki grabbed the same veil he’d been callously disregarding earlier. You wanted to rip it from his hands and place it right back in the ancient cupboard your grandfather had carved for your grandmother where it belonged. He held it up to your face, tilting his head as he observed you. “We’ll need to do some cake tasting for the wedding… I’m thinking a black and white themed event? Keep things elegant.” It was like he was already there, his gaze thoughtful as he ran through preparations. The change in attitude was so abrupt, so out of the blue, as he mumbled about catering in the vague direction of his father.

“What the hell are you talking about? You don’t want a wedding and neither do I! The contract is signed, so let’s just do what it says and ignore each other for the rest of our lives.” You finally speak up, voice hurried and obviously tinged with rage. He just smiles that pleased, borderline happy smile again, laugh lines appearing like they were mocking you.

“You speak!” He cheers softly. “Your voice is so nice…”

“Would you stop acting like that?”

“Like what?” He tilts his head almost innocently, like he can’t hear the sobs of your family behind you. “Like I’m happy for the wedding? Because I am. I’m getting to marry you, aren’t I?”

You splutter, bewildered and incredulous, that creeping dread back in full force. “You don’t even fucking know me!”

“But I will. Besides, you really think I’d ask for you so specifically if there wasn’t a reason?” All of a sudden he was stepping forward, encroaching into your space, staring down at you. You felt like he should be looking at you like a roach, like you were beneath him, but his gaze was eerily warm. “Ever heard of the phrase ‘ichigo, ichie?’” Again, his question felt sudden. Your nose wrinkled.

“No.” You tentatively responded, voice still heated.

“It means a ‘once-in-a-lifetime encounter.’” He hums. Riki reaches down, and you balk as he grabs your hand. His touch his gentle despite his calloused palms and long fingers, far too gentle for the type of person you know he is. Almost like handling fine china. Your palm is pressed to his chest, right over his heart. Personally, you don’t feel anything through the thick fabric of his clothes. Personally, you attribute that to his lack of heart.

“Let go of-“

“Can you feel it? My heart started pounding when I saw you.” His voice is murmured now, reverent in an unnerving way, a tone of voice nobody should ever have for someone they’ve just met. It’s the sort of emotion that you personally feel warrants an immediate trip to the psyche ward. The fact that it’s aimed right at you sends a shiver down your spine. “Everything’s boring these days… but you? You’re not.”

“You’re delusional.”

“You’re pretty.” The simple response has you firmly shoving at his chest to move him away, has a gun clocking, and Riki’s immediate reaction isn’t to reprimand you but to tug you along and pull you right into his arms. His cheek pressed to your hair, he sighs almost dreamily. “You can go, you know. You’re not needed anymore.” For a moment you’re confused until you realize he’s addressing your family. You shove at his stomach this time, but he’s like a boulder. Immovable.

Your family protests, of course. Then they yell and fight as the guards grab them harshly, pulling them from the room, and you call out after them, screaming that you love them. Before you know it, you’re crying into the chest you’re pressed against. Riki coos, fingers clutching at your cheeks as he pulls back to look at you.

“God, you’re even pretty when you cry…”

“Fuck you.” You choke out, glaring blearily at him. He just presses a kiss to your forehead, giggling lightly like you’re joking or playing around. He looks like the happiest man alive all of a sudden, like a mask has slipped away as soon as your family left, and more tears slip down your cheeks as you realize his expression mimics the expression you always dreamed your future lover would have when looking at you.

But this feels perverse. Feels dark. Insidious. Far too interested, far too appraising, far too loving for the situation.

“That comes later, babe. How about we just sort your wedding dress for now, huh?” His fingers pinch lightly at your cheeks. “Ah, I’m just so glad you’re mine. I’ll never let you go, you know. I’d rather rip my heart out.” A small pause, and then he speaks again with a toothy smile.

“Or someone else’s.”

[bunnydotorg]

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[mostlysignssomeportents]

An adversarial iMessage client for Android

Adversarial interoperability is one of the most reliable ways to protect tech users from predatory corporations: that's when a technologist reverse-engineers an existing product to reconfigure or mod it (interoperability) in ways its users like, but which its manufacturer objects to (adversarial):

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/10/adversarial-interoperability

"Adversarial interop" is a mouthful, so at EFF, we coined the term "competitive compatibility," or comcom, which is a lot easier to say and to spell.

Scratch any tech success and you'll find a comcom story. After all, when a company turns its screws on its users, it's good business to offer an aftermarket mod that loosens them again. HP's $10,000/gallon inkjet ink is like a bat-signal for third-party ink companies. When Mercedes announces that it's going to sell you access to your car's accelerator pedal as a subscription service, that's like an engraved invitation to clever independent mechanics who'll charge you a single fee to permanently unlock that "feature":

https://www.techdirt.com/2023/12/05/carmakers-push-forward-with-plans-to-make-basic-features-subscription-services-despite-widespread-backlash/

Comcom saved giant tech companies like Apple. Microsoft tried to kill the Mac by rolling out a truly cursèd version of MS Office for MacOS. Mac users (5% of the market) who tried to send Word, Excel or Powerpoint files to Windows users (95% of the market) were stymied: their files wouldn't open, or they'd go corrupt. Tech managers like me started throwing the graphic designer's Mac and replacing it with a Windows box with a big graphics card and Windows versions of Adobe's tools.

Comcom saved Apple's bacon. Apple reverse-engineered MS's flagship software suite and made a comcom version, iWork, whose Pages, Numbers and Keynote could flawlessly read and write MS's Word, Excel and Powerpoint files:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/06/adversarial-interoperability-reviving-elegant-weapon-more-civilized-age-slay

It's tempting to think of iWork as benefiting Apple users, and certainly the people who installed and used it benefited from it. But Windows users also benefited from iWork. The existence of iWork meant that Windows users could seamlessly collaborate on and share files with their Mac colleagues. IWork didn't just add a new feature to the Mac ("read and write files that originated with Windows users") – it also added a feature to Windows: "collaborate with Mac users."

Every pirate wants to be an admiral. Though comcom rescued Apple from a monopolist's sneaky attempt to drive it out of business, Apple – now a three trillion dollar company – has repeatedly attacked comcom when it was applied to Apple's products. When Apple did comcom, that was progress. When someone does comcom to Apple, that's piracy.

Apple has many tools at its disposal that Microsoft lacked in the early 2000s. Radical new interpretations of existing copyright, contract, patent and trademark law allows Apple – and other tech giants – to threaten rivals who engage in comcom with both criminal and civil penalties. That's right, you can go to prison for comcom these days. No wonder Jay Freeman calls this "felony contempt of business model":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/09/lead-me-not-into-temptation/#chamberlain

Take iMessage, Apple's end-to-end encrypted (E2EE) instant messaging tool. Apple customers can use iMessage to send each other private messages that can't be read or altered by third parties – not cops, not crooks, not even Apple. That's important, because when private messaging systems get hacked, bad things happen:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2014_celebrity_nude_photo_leak

But Apple has steadfastly refused to offer an iMessage app for non-Apple systems. If you're an Apple customer holding a sensitive discussion with an Android user, Apple refuses to offer you a tool to maintain your privacy. Those messages are sent "in the clear," over the 38-year-old SMS protocol, which is trivial to spy on and disrupt.

Apple sacrifices its users' security and integrity in the hopes that they will put pressure on their friends to move into Apple's walled garden. As CEO Tim Cook told a reporter: if you want to have secure communications with your mother, buy her an iPhone:

https://finance.yahoo.com/news/tim-cook-says-buy-mom-210347694.html

Last September, a 16-year old high school student calling himself JJTech published a technical teardown of iMessage, showing how any device could send and receive encrypted messages with iMessage users, even without an Apple ID:

https://jjtech.dev/reverse-engineering/imessage-explained/

JJTech even published code to do this, in an open source library called Pypush:

https://github.com/JJTech0130/pypush

In the weeks since, Beeper has been working to productize JJTech's code, and this week, they announced Beeper Mini, an Android-based iMessage client that is end-to-end encrypted:

https://beeper.notion.site/How-Beeper-Mini-Works-966cb11019f8444f90baa314d2f43a54

Beeper is known for a multiprotocol chat client built on Matrix, allowing you to manage several kinds of chat from a single app. These multiprotocol chats have been around forever. Indeed, iMessage started out as one – when it was called "iChat," it supported Google Talk and Jabber, another multiprotocol tool. Other tools like Pidgin have kept the flame alive for decades, and have millions of devoted users:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/07/tower-babel-how-public-interest-internet-trying-save-messaging-and-banish-big

But iMessage support has remained elusive. Last month, Nothing launched Sunchoice, a disastrous attempt to bring iMessage to Android, which used Macs in a data-center to intercept and forward messages to Android users, breaking E2EE and introducing massive surveillance risks:

https://www.theverge.com/2023/11/21/23970740/sunbird-imessage-app-shut-down-privacy-nothing-chats-phone-2

Beeper Mini does not have these defects. The system encrypts and decrypts messages on the Android device itself, and directly communicates with Apple's servers. It gathers some telemetry for debugging, and this can be turned off in preferences. It sends a single SMS to Apple's servers during setup, which changes your device's bubble from green to blue, so that Apple users now correctly see your device as a secure endpoint for iMessage communications.

Beeper Mini is now available in Google Play:

https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.beeper.ima&hl=en_US

Now, this is a high-stakes business. Apple has a long history of threatening companies like Beeper over conduct like this. And Google has a long history deferring to those threats – as it did with OG App, a superior third-party Instagram app that it summarily yanked after Meta complained:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/05/battery-vampire/#drained

But while iMessage for Android is good for Android users, it's also very good for Apple customers, who can now get the privacy and security guarantees of iMessage for all their contacts, not just the ones who bought the same kind of phone as they did. The stakes for communications breaches have never been higher, and antitrust scrutiny on Big Tech companies has never been so intense.

Apple recently announced that it would add RCS support to iOS devices (RCS is a secure successor to SMS):

https://9to5mac.com/2023/11/16/apple-rcs-coming-to-iphone/

Early word from developers suggests that this support will have all kinds of boobytraps. That's par for the course with Apple, who love to announce splashy reversals of their worst policies – like their opposition to right to repair – while finding sneaky ways to go on abusing its customers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/22/vin-locking/#thought-differently

The ball is in Apple's court, and, to a lesser extent, in Google's. As part of the mobile duopoly, Google has joined with Apple in facilitating the removal of comcom tools from its app store. But Google has also spent millions on an ad campaign shaming Apple for exposing its users to privacy risks when talking to Android users:

https://www.theverge.com/2023/9/21/23883609/google-rcs-message-apple-iphone-ipager-ad

While we all wait for the other shoe to drop, Android users can get set up on Beeper Mini, and technologists can kick the tires on its code libraries and privacy guarantees.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/07/blue-bubbles-for-all/#never-underestimate-the-determination-of-a-kid-who-is-time-rich-and-cash-poor

[little-diable]

May thy knife – Feyd-Rautha (smut)

This is y'alls fault, all your comments made me write this. So, here we go, psychotic reader is back, but with a somewhat loving relationship. It felt only right to twist this famous scene – I'm sure this has been done before but I haven't read a fic that takes on this twist just yet, so I'm in no means copying any fic out there. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: What if the reader, who is married to Feyd-Rautha, didn't know that Paul, her brother, was still alive? What if it was her fighting against him instead of Feyd – all for revenge, to make her brother feel the same pain he had forced her to feel with his faked death?

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, oral (m), willingly rough loss of virginity, choking, dom!Feyd, degrading, spitting, fighting, passing out, blood licking, knife licking, reader is a psycho fitting Feyd, yet there's some form of love between the two, and no, I ain't killing us so we survive the fight

Pairing: Feyd-Rautha x fem!Atreides!reader (4.2k words)

The hatred she emanated was felt by all people surrounding her, people who didn’t dare meet her icy gaze – not even the emperor dared to turn towards (y/n). It was a wise decision, for the sake of all their lives, knowing that she could rob their soul and their last breath even without any weapons on her. 

It had only been a few minutes since they had been taken prisoner, and while (y/n) could have easily fought her way out of the tight grasp, she hadn’t been able to move. Frozen to her spot as she had never been before, unable to move as her eyes followed the frame of the Muad’Dib. Paul Atreides. Her brother. The man she had believed to be dead for endless weeks. The prophet who hadn’t spotted her in the small crowd. 

Not even Feyd-Rautha’s closeness had managed to rile her up at that moment, the man she had been forced to marry, the man she hadn’t allowed to touch her, not even on their wedding night. It hadn’t taken him long to accept that she’d cut off his hands should he touch her, speaking lies to the Baron to answer private questions that had left (y/n)’s insides churning. Feyd had protected her even when she went against a simple contract, lured closer by the darkness she carried deep within herself. 

She had made too many sacrifices for her brother and their mother’s lies, tossed away for a strategic marriage she hadn’t been prepared for. All to mourn her brother who was still alive and breathing, guiding those who saw the prophet in him.

“You’re quiet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this, wife.” Feyd’s breath teased her neck, he stood with his armoured front pressed against her back, hands resting on her waist. It was a dangerous game, a game she didn’t buy into, too focused on her racing mind. Feyd gave (y/n) another moment to push him away, just like she had always done – but she didn’t, she kept herself pressed against him as if he was an anchor saving her from drowning. “What are you planning?”

“How I will kill the Muad’Dib.” Not one ounce of love thumped through her veins, an emotion she had once held onto, at least for her older brother; a love that had frozen in her system the second she had heard his voice ring in her ears minutes ago. Feyd’s raspy chuckles left her skin tingling, adding fuel to the fire simmering deep inside of her. 

For a moment, (y/n) allowed herself to focus on her husband’s touch, how he held onto her, tight enough to send a clear message to wandering eyes. He may have not claimed her behind closed doors, addicted to their game of back-and-forth, but to all those eyes, she was his as he was hers, a ruthless husband to a cunning wife. 

“You know, I am always excited for a fight.” She wanted to reply, wanted to tease him for fighting against drugged prisoners who never stood a chance against him, but the second his cold lips met her throat, her words were lost on her sharp tongue. Her heart roared in her chest, not used to being kissed by Feyd, not after their first and only kiss in front of their wedding guests. 

“You won’t fight. This is between my brother and me.” (Y/n) turned in Feyd’s grasp, letting her eyes wander over her husband’s features. He was handsome, she had always been drawn to him, and yet something had always held her back – the fear of being tied down by a man who perfectly matched her ruthless ways, a man who would rather kill himself than back down from a fight, just like (y/n). They were too similar, a scary realisation she had been forced to face many moons ago. 

“I will let you fight, wife, but for that, I get to claim you tonight.” The mischief twinkling in his bright pupils pushed anger through her, anger clashing against lust. Her mind didn’t get to interfere as (y/n) shifted her weight onto her toes to press a kiss to his lips. She pulled away before Feyd could deepen the kiss, heart roaring in her chest as if it was communicating with his. 

“You’ll have to lick my brother’s blood off me before you get to touch me.” Her words were meant as a warning, a warning Feyd clearly found enjoyment in. And with his raspy laugh echoing through the room, she found herself thrown back into her darkening mindset, preparing for a fight against her brother. 

……

“How can you be so sure the Great Houses are here for me?” Paul’s voice filled the room. She didn’t see much of his frame, standing behind Feyd to shield herself from her brother’s and her mother’s eyes. She hated the way her fingers trembled, urged on by her anger, by her sadness, emotions flushing through her like poison set to kill her. “They may be curious to hear my side of the story, don’t you think? I am Paul Atreides, son of Leto Atreides, Duke of Arrakis.”

She wanted to shoot forward, wanted to throw herself against her brother’s frame to force him to his knees. But the hand Feyd pressed against her stomach to hold her back was enough to stay glued to her spot. The time wasn’t right just yet. 

“Gurney, send a warning to all ships. If the Great Houses attack, our atomics will obliterate all spice fields.” Paul’s words left most of the people surrounding (y/n) tensing, words that were about to force a laugh out of her. She could feel and see her mother’s influence on Paul, forming him into the son she had always dreamt him to be. 

“You’re out of your mind.” The Emperor’s slightly trembling voice drew a smirk to both (y/n) and Feyd’s lips, they got a taste of the chaos soon unfolding in front of them, drawing a sick sense of satisfaction and anticipation through the couple. 

“He’s bluffing.” She couldn’t stop a soft laugh from leaving her at her husband’s words, urged on by the need to stand even closer. Her body was guiding her without giving her mind a chance to protest as her hand found Feyd’s. She was still covered by his tall frame, and yet she felt him freezing for just a second as she interlaced their hands. 

“Consider what you’re about to do, Paul Atreides.” Within seconds, the voice filled their ears, forcing the Reverend Mother to lose her balance. No longer could (y/n) focus on the exchange between Paul and the Emperor, no longer could she focus on Feyd whose hand she had dropped once again. (Y/n) knew that the time was finally right, it was now or never, a fight that would end with either her’s or her brother’s life on the line.

“Stand or choose your champion.” Those were the words that ripped (y/n) out of her trance, pushing past her husband. She didn’t see how Feyd’s fingers twitched, having to stop himself from reaching for her, to stop (y/n) from fighting a battle he had been destined for. 

“I’m here, Paul.” (Y/n) spoke the words with venom dripping from her voice, watching her brother’s bright pupils widen. From the corner of her eye, she could watch her mother shoot to her feet, and yet (y/n) didn’t dare let her gaze wander, enjoying the realisation that began to widen on her brother’s panicked features. “I need a blade.” 

“Accept mine.” She didn’t rip her eyes from her brother’s to look at the Emperor, seizing the chance to read Paul well enough to tell her that he fought an inner battle. Paul whispered her name as he slightly shook his head, begging his sister to step away. Her tongue kissed her teeth as a blood-curdling smile widened on her lips, she didn’t need to speak up to tell Paul that she’d try everything she could to kill him, a simple act of revenge for leaving her, for forgetting her, for playing her. 

With a slow nod thrown her way, seemingly accepting her will to fight, Paul turned from (y/n) to walk back towards his people. Only Feyd’s hand on her waist managed to rip her gaze from her brother’s frame, “Make me proud wife. Kill him.” 

Feyd squeezed her waist as he pressed a harsh kiss to her lips, a clear signal for all those who were watching their interaction. He’d kill them all should she die, avenge her death as if it was his own life they tried to take. Without speaking another word, (y/n) pushed Feyd away from her, she tightened her grip on the Emperor’s blade, and let her feet carry her towards her brother. 

“(Y/n),” Paul’s choked-up voice drew a humourless chuckle out of her. For a moment, she allowed her gaze to stray, to look at their pregnant mother and the unreadable expression she wore. (Y/n) had never been the favourite child, even though she was the girl Jessica had been asked to birth. She had always been too ruthless, too cold, too cunning for their family, the outcast who had been married to Feyd at the first given chance. 

“Say it.” (Y/n)’s words were venomous, spat at her brother whose pained expression made him appear even more pathetic in her eyes. She wanted Paul to speak the words, words the siblings had spoken as mere children whenever they challenged one another into a play fight. Paul kept quiet, unable to part his lips until she almost screamed her words, “Say it!”

“May thy knife chip and shatter.” Paul’s voice trembled as he spoke the words, momentarily closing his eyes as if he struggled to accept their fate, to accept that he was expected to kill his beloved sister, unable to back down from a fight like this. She repeated the words much slower than Paul had, with a dangerous smile tugging on her lips – no longer did (y/n) care about her own life, about the mere chance of dying in her brother’s arms. She was hungry for revenge, to make him feel the pain she had been forced to carry deep within herself these past weeks. 

And then everything began to blur, one attack after another, one strike after another, one stumble after another. She felt all their eyes on them as they fought, but (y/n) couldn’t give into the temptation to study the crowd, searching for Feyd’s eyes that were glistening with adoration for his wife. A woman fighting like a snake, slithering along Paul’s body to squeeze him to death. 

Only as Paul’s knife cut (y/n)’s skin for the first time did her world begin to slow down, momentarily stopping its spinning motion. Paul seemed to freeze just like she did, focusing on the blood pouring from the wound. Perhaps he expected her to back down, to leave the circle to search for her husband’s protection. But (y/n) did something she had studied her husband do one too many times: Her fingers found her wound, picking up the drops of blood to suck her fingers clean, high on the coppery taste. Feyd’s laughter rang in her ears as she attacked her brother once again, faster this time, even more ruthless than the rounds before.

With blood sticking to her lips, (y/n) and Paul kept circling one another – all until she seized her chance to ram her knife into his side. Paul’s gasp forced their mother to her feet once again, searching her daughter’s eyes to shake her head, a silent warning not to kill her brother, a silent gesture that they wouldn’t mourn her death, only Paul’s. But while her mother’s eyes carried a clear warning, Feyd’s carried encouragement, asking his wife to end this right there and then. 

A moment of distraction that gave her brother the chance to slice his blade through her skin, forcing it to nestle inside her stomach. Both siblings held onto one another, glassy eyes finding back together as neither loosened their grip. 

“Do it, kill me. Feel the pain you’ve forced me to feel, feel the grief that has almost killed me.” Tears dripped from (y/n)’s eyes as she choked on her blood, knowing that she’d pass out any moment now. And even though she felt the darkness creeping through her veins, telling her that it was time to bid this life goodbye, a smile began to widen on her lips. 

This was the moment she had imagined all these weeks, it was finally upon them. 

Slowly Paul sacked to the ground with (y/n) clinging to him, holding onto her as he lifted his teary gaze. She didn’t see the way her brother's panicked gaze looked around the room, didn’t see the way his eyes found Feyd’s rage-filled ones, luring her husband closer. All she could focus on were the tears dripping from Paul’s bright eyes, holding back his sobs as Feyd kneeled next to them. 

“Do whatever you must, save my sister.” 

……

She woke with a gasp, eyes shooting open. It took her a moment to focus on her surroundings, the grey walls, the dim light, and the figure standing close to her bed. Pain shot through her as she tried to move, forced to plop back down onto the mattress with a curse clawing through her.

“You’re finally awake.” Feyd’s raspy voice drew a whimper from (y/n)’s chapped lips, eyes momentarily fluttering close to try and remind herself of what had happened. “You almost died, killed by your foolish brother who has never fought fair before. I should have killed him for hurting you.” 

“Come here.” (Y/n) ignored her husband’s words, not daring to think of her brother, of their fight, and of the blood she had lost. Wordlessly, Feyd came to a halt next to her, staring down at her to wait for (y/n)’s next command. With another gasp roaring through her, she shuffled around on the bed, making space for her husband to lay next to her. “If you tell others of this I will kill you.”

His chuckles filled the room as he carefully placed himself next to her. The moment had something awfully intimate to it, giving the married couple a chance to be close to one another for the first time, without any eyes on them, without hatred urging words to leave their cold lips. 

Feyd’s hand slightly trembled as he reached for her no longer bloody fingers, slowly interlacing them. Never had he done this before, reaching for her without any further message to communicate, holding onto her for the mere chance to be close to her. 

“What happened to Paul?” Pain clawed through her at the thought of her brother. Anger had forced her to act, anger she hadn’t been able to swallow until now, unsure how to accept that her family had lied to her. 

“Don’t worry about him for now.” Feyd didn’t tell her how he had left the planet with her, how he had brought her away from that place. Feyd didn’t tell her how he had sworn to Paul that he’d avenge (y/n)’s death should she die. Feyd didn’t tell her how Paul had told others to let them go, not knowing where Feyd was taking (y/n), not knowing if he’d ever see his sister again. 

And at that very moment, (y/n) didn’t find the strength to ask another question, the strength she would regain soon enough to find her path back to her cunning self, set on ending the ruleless game between her and her family. 

…… 

“Fight like a Harkonnen for fuck’s sake!” Anger pushed her words past her clenched teeth. Sweat was pooling on (y/n)’s forehead as she stared at her husband with spite swimming in her pupils. She knew Feyd was holding back, not trusting that (y/n) had regained her full strength just yet, the strength she’d need to force him to his knees in a training session like this. 

“Wife.” It was a warning he spoke, a warning not to rile him up even further, knowing that he’d lose his patience soon enough. (Y/n) darted at her husband, her body collided with his to throw them both to the ground. She straddled his waist with a grim expression tugging on her features, knowing that in any other scenario, she wouldn’t have been able to attack Feyd like that. “Fine, this is your own fault, darling.”

Feyd harshly pushed her off him, momentarily robbing his wife of her breath as her back collided with the cold ground. He rose to his feet with his jaw clenched and his hands balled into fists – the version of her husband (y/n) desperately had tried to trigger. They circled one another, holding onto their blades with twitching fingers, set on regaining the upper hand.

Now it was on Feyd to attack first, his blade met hers over and over again, until he cut her cheek, drawing a hiss out of (y/n). She was heavily panting as he chuckled, bringing the bloody tip of his blade up to his pale lips to lick it clean, moaning at the taste of her blood. 

Something began to shift at that moment, something that forced her to drop her blade, to throw herself into his grasp and to kiss him. Both fell back to the ground, allowing Feyd to cage her between the floor and his frame. His hand found her throat to keep her pinned down beneath him, all while their tongues fought for victory. 

(Y/n) tightened her legs' grasp around his waist to pull him even closer, moaning at the way he ground his hips against hers, making her feel his hardening cock straining against his tight trousers. Everything about this moment was new to her, unsure of where to go from there without any experience guiding her, not knowing how to touch her husband. And yet, everything seemed to come almost naturally to her, trusting her body and Feyd to push her through the soaring waves of heat filling her trembling body.

“I should have fucked you months ago. You had your chance, but now I won’t be gentle with you, I will fuck you as a woman like you deserves to be fucked.” His words shot heat straight to her core, words that forced her to hold still as Feyd kept manhandling her, cutting her shirt open with his blade. The groan that left him at the sight of her naked chest made (y/nn) back arch, desperate to feel his hands on her. “I should tie you up, keep you as my toy to claim whenever I am hungry for you. I bet you’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”

“I hate you!” It was nothing but a lie, a lie both easily saw through, but at that very moment neither Feyd nor (y/n) cared about pleasantries, urged on by their desires. He cut open her trousers before another curse could leave her, exposing her arousal-covered folds to his darkening eyes. Tonight he’d litter her in bruises. Tonight he’d force her to follow his rules. Tonight he’d show her his most ruthless side. 

“Hate me all you want, wife, your body still craves the touch of your husband. You’re dripping for me.” He didn’t warn her before he plunged two fingers into her tightness, feeling her walls flutter around his digits. Feyd held eye contact with her as he spat on her cunt, rubbing his saliva against her pulsing bundle. (Y/n)’s moans rang in his ears, urging him on as if he was high on spice, blurring out their surroundings, blurring out the calmness they were now disturbing. “I can’t wait to rip you open with my cock, make you feel pain you won’t ever forget.” 

Her mind was silenced, fogged up by the lust thumping through her veins. Feyd fucked her with his fingers, he pushed her closer to the high she had only allowed herself to feel whenever she had been desperate for his touch but too proud to search his closeness. But her body wasn’t ready to give up the chase just yet. Her hand found her blade, moving without gaining Feyd’s attention, who was still fully focused on her cunt.

With quick movements, she brought the tip of her blade to his throat, stopping him in his movements. The chuckle leaving Feyd left her smirking, looking even more psychotic with the blood still dripping from the cut on her cheek. She barely put up a fight as Feyd ripped the blade from her hand, as he shifted them around to bring her to her knees and up against his front. 

The blade teased her throat as he held her to him, even as he freed his aching cock, ready to disappear deep inside of her, “You had your chance, I would have prepared you for my cock, would have given you time to adjust. But that kindness is no longer among us. Now you’ll take my cock like my own personal whore.” 

He forced his cock into her cunt, groaning at the tightness engulfing him. Tears ran down her cheeks, tears of lust, of pain, of desperation – finding an unfamiliar sense of enjoyment in Feyd’s rough touches. His name rolled off her tongue as he fucked into her from behind, dropping the knife to choke her with his cold hands once again. 

Feyd was treating her like his pet, treating her like he had been raised to treat women – momentarily forgetting about the love he fostered deep inside of him. And she loved every second of it, finally able to give up control for the first time. 

“It brings me great pleasure knowing that no other man will ever get to have you like this. Your body is mine, you’re my whore, you only listen to my commands. And you will kill whoever dares to touch you should I not be fast enough to do it myself.” His words left her choking, forced to claw her fingernails into his pale skin as her mind began to race. Even though the words didn’t sound like it, it was the most sincere love confession Feyd had ever spoken, words that cut deeper than any blade ever would. 

“Feyd.” She whimpered his name as his free hand found her clit, rubbing the bundle of nerves to push her towards the edge. The first of many orgasms was awaiting her, set on ripping her from this place into another dimension, led by her husband. (Y/n) felt his black teeth run along her neck, biting the spot where her neck met her shoulders, close to drawing some more blood from her weeping body. 

She came without another word clawing through her, calling out his name as her orgasm momentarily robbed her of her vision. Feyd kept a strong hold on her throat, his hips kept meeting her behind, forcing his cock further into her clenched tightness. He gave it a few more thrusts before he pulled out of her and rose to his feet. 

With his hand finding her hair, he forced her towards him, making her scalp burn from the strength of his touch. His cock was shoved past her parted lips, letting (y/n) taste herself on his cock as he fucked her mouth. The corners of her mouth began to burn within a few moments, once again making tears fall from her glassy eyes. 

She had never seen her husband like this, trembling for her, with his head thrown back, and his eyes closed, fully focused on the pleasure thumping through her. No longer did she feel the need to fight, no longer did her fingertips ache for the feeling of her blade, no, for the first time since knowing Feyd, she wanted to give her everything to satisfy the man. 

“You’ll swallow every drop of my seed, and then you’ll lick me clean.” It was a simple command, a command that left her moaning around his cock. Feyd came within a few more seconds, releasing himself down her throat and on her eager tongue. The two held eye contact as she swallowed, as she ran her tongue up and down his twitching length, following his every command. 

“Where are you going, wife?” She froze in her movements, her heavily panting self had turned from him, set on plopping down on the ground to catch her breath. (Y/n)’s wide eyes were drawn back to his like spice forced up into the air, following the wind’s call. “That was only the beginning. I won’t be done with you for a while.”

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

They told her she was just spending the night in Miami.

No warning. No lawyer. No time to pack. Just steel cuffs wrapped around her wrists, cinched tight across her chest, chained to a waist belt so snug she couldn’t breathe. A bus with no food, no water, no bathroom—just a puddle of piss soaking the floor. The guards told her to go ahead and urinate where she sat. She did.

Then they pushed her into Krome.

Krome, the Miami processing center where men with criminal records are supposed to be held—not immigrant women with no charges, no convictions, no voice. Krome, where she and 26 others were stuffed “like sardines in a jar,” forced to sleep on concrete, offered one three-minute shower in four days, and told by guards to pretend to have a seizure if they wanted medicine. One woman actually had a seizure. They came for her. The rest they ignored.

Three people are now dead in ICE custody. Three. In just over a month. Genry Ruiz-Guillen, 29, from Honduras, died January 23. Serawit Gezahegn Dejene, 45, from Ethiopia, died January 29. Maksym Chernyak, 44, from Ukraine, died February 20.

No convictions. No due process. No protection. Just death under fluorescent lights.

And while the bodies pile up, the architects of this system are laughing.

THE ARCHITECTS OF SUFFERING

Tom Homan—now officially Trump’s Border Czar—is no longer just shouting from Fox News panels. He’s in charge. And he’s promising “deportations every day,” vowing to expel millions. He’s pushing to build new detention camps on military bases and at Guantanamo Bay, to outsource incarceration to local jails, and to lower federal detention standards across the board. He wants to hand over human lives to any sheriff with a cage and a budget. This isn’t law enforcement—it’s a national purge.

Kristi Noem is no longer the governor of South Dakota. She’s been promoted to Secretary of Homeland Security, overseeing ICE, CBP, and FEMA. She’s already begun reshaping disaster policy and immigration enforcement with the cold efficiency of someone who never cared about the human cost. She’s toured detention centers abroad and proposed funneling more power and funding into the machine that’s already killing people. This is the woman now in charge of protecting the homeland—and she’s treating it like a battlefield.

And Stephen Miller—the alabaster goblin behind Trump’s first wave of xenophobic terror—is back inside the West Wing as Deputy Chief of Staff for Policy and Homeland Security Advisor. He is not hiding. He is not softening. He is laying the groundwork for mass deportations, family separations, and the total militarization of immigration enforcement. Miller’s strategy is simple: flood the system, break it, and make cruelty look like order.

This isn’t mismanagement. This isn’t politics. This is state-sanctioned human suffering.

ICE has 46,269 people in custody—far above its legal bed count of 41,500. Congress just rewarded them with another $430 million. Detention centers are overflowing. Guards are whispering, “It shouldn’t be like this.” But they keep turning the key. They keep locking the doors.

Because this system wasn’t designed to rehabilitate. It wasn’t designed to deter. It was designed to break people.

And it’s working.

CORPORATE PROFITEERS OF THE GULAG

Akima Infrastructure Protection—remember that name. That’s the private contractor running Krome under a $685 million federal contract. Your tax dollars. Your country. Your name on the invoice. And Akima didn’t just ignore the reports of overcrowding, abuse, and death—they didn’t even respond. Because they don’t have to. In America’s immigration gulag system, accountability is optional, profits are mandatory.

Akima isn’t alone. The privatized detention racket is a booming business. The worse the conditions, the higher the margins. More detainees equals more beds, more guards, more federal payouts. These aren’t just prison contractors—they’re war profiteers in a domestic war against the poor, the brown, the undocumented, and the disposable.

And while three human beings die in government cages in thirty goddamn days, ICE puts out a statement saying they can’t verify the abuse without the women’s names. That’s like watching a house burn down and saying you can’t help unless the flames file a formal request.

What ICE really means is this: unless you hand us their names, we can’t retaliate.

FEAR, SILENCE, AND THE NEW AMERICAN NIGHTMARE

These women are afraid to speak because they know what happens to people who tell the truth in a system built to erase them. Their fear isn’t paranoia. It’s wisdom. Because in Trump’s America, the immigration system is no longer civil. It’s punitive, predatory, and lethal.

And while this slow-motion horror show unfolds behind steel bars and security checkpoints, the rest of the country scrolls past it—too tired, too numb, too wrapped in talking points to see what’s right in front of them:

The United States is running concentration camps again.

Not in secret. Not in shadows. In Miami. In Arizona. In Texas. With full congressional funding. With bipartisan indifference. With the open approval of a political movement that cheers cruelty like it’s patriotism.

And unless we name it, scream it, and rage against it, it’s only going to get worse.

Because this administration has made it clear: they don’t want to fix the system. They want to break more people. Faster. Cheaper. Louder.

And if that means more body bags? So be it. To them, that’s not a failure.

It’s the plan working exactly as intended.

WHAT THE HELL DO WE DO?

We stop pretending this is normal. We stop calling it a “broken system” and start calling it what it is: a weapon.

We hold the names. We name the dead. We say Genry. Serawit. Maksym. Not as footnotes, but as proof that silence is complicity.

We pressure Congress to defund ICE, to end private detention contracts, to shut down Krome and every facility like it. We demand independent investigations, criminal accountability, and media that covers these stories like lives are on the line—because they are.

We support immigrant-led organizations. We raise hell at town halls. We show up with signs, with lawsuits, with cameras, with righteous fury. We flood their offices. We write until our fingers bleed. We organize, we protest, we resist.

And if you’re in a position of power—if you’re a staffer, an attorney, a journalist, a human being with a platform—you use it. This is not a drill. This is not a moment to stay neutral.

The machine is killing people. The people running it are proud of that. And history will not forgive anyone who stood by and watched.

Raise your voice. Wreck their silence. And don’t stop until the cages are empty.

[Bill Adkins]

[haggishlyhagging]

When it is asserted in Germany that in vitro fertilization and similar technologies are all about helping infertile women, German feminists impatiently brush that claim aside. They are irritated at any suggestion that they ought to take such a claim seriously. It is, they say, a "Deckmantel," which means "cloak," "disguise." In conversations with them, one hears occasional references to the political naivete of Americans who accept such a "Deckmantel" at face value.

German feminists have known all along that the stakes in this issue are high. They are particularly sensitive to the ways in which these technologies can and are beginning to be used to manufacture human beings to specifications and, in the process, to reduce women to breeders or, less elegantly, to raw material for a new manufacturing process.

Unlike U.S. feminists, they organized as a movement on the issue and began spreading their critique beyond the feminist movement.

That the stakes are indeed high became dramatically evident in December 1987.

The German equivalent of the FBI (the 'Bundeskriminalamt") staged thirty-three simultaneous raids, many of them against feminists, throughout the Federal Republic of Germany, December 18 at 4:30 p.m. A total of 430 heavily armed police burst into the workplaces of activists. Fifteen to thirty in a group, the police swept into homes in Cologne, Dortmund, and Düsseldorf. In Essen, Duisburg, Bochum, and Hamburg, the raids were directed overwhelmingly against feminist critics of genetic and reproductive technology, according to Prozessgruppe Hamburg, a watchdog group.

The targeted critics have written and spoken on such issues as in vitro fertilization, amniocentesis, sex predetermination, and genetic engineering. They have actively opposed surrogate motherhood. Many worked together in a massive coalition to stop Noel Keane's attempt to open a branch of his U.S. surrogate business, United Family International, in Frankfurt. (Keane's New York firm arranged the Mary Beth Whitehead surrogate contract.) Their campaign to stop the sale of U.S. women to European men for breeding purposes ended successfully January 6, 1988 when a West German court ordered Keane's business closed, three months after it had opened.

Grounds for the police raids? In many cases, the women were not given any. But the next day, newspapers reported that the police conducted the searches to ascertain whether any of the individuals were members of a terrorist organization. They were specifically looking for a group called Revolutionaren Zellen and its feminist wing, Rota Zora.

The police were operating under Paragraph 129a of the terrorist act, "Support or Membership in a Terrorist Organization."

The women raided were forced to undress. All "non-changeable marks" on their bodies—scars, moles, etc. —were noted down in police records. The women were fingerprinted.

Two well-known and widely respected women were arrested: Ulla Penselin, active in two groups in Hamburg, Women Against Genetic Engineering and another group critiquing population control policies; and Ingrid Strobl, a journalist for eight years with the national feminist magazine, Emma. Strobl is accused of buying a clock used in a bombing attack against Lufthansa offices in Cologne to protest the exploitation of Third World women in the sex-tourism industry. Both women were charged under the terrorist act, Paragraph 129a. Strobl remains in prison while Penselin has since been released.

In the nationwide raids, police confiscated materials from an archive on genetic and reproductive technology established by women in Essen and from private homes and apartments. They seized drafts of the women's speeches, material prepared for seminars, names and addresses of those attending seminars, published work, videos, tapes of radio programs, scientific articles, postcards, brochures and private address books.

The police raids appear to be an attempt to stop the widespread antigenetic technology movement in Germany by linking legal organizations with more militant ones, Maria Mies, author of Patriarchy and Accumulation on a World Scale and professor of sociology at the Fachhochschule in Cologne, told me in a telephone interview from her home.

"No concrete accusation or crime was being investigated," she pointed out. "This means that women doing 'Aufklarungsarbeit,' that is, researching reproductive or genetic engineering or talking about it or giving seminars, are already doing enough to provide a pretext for the attorney general to launch such a police action."

Mies, an organizer of the world's first massive feminist conference against reproductive and genetic technology in Bonn in 1985, said of the police action: "We think it is an effort to criminalize and intimidate the whole protest movement of women against reproductive and genetic engineering and frighten others away from participating in order to prevent the movement from spreading even more widely."

Mies added: "We are planning another conference against reproductive and genetic engineering just to demonstrate that we are continuing our work."

-Gena Corea, “The New Reproductive Technologies” in The Sexual Liberals and the Attack on Feminism

[luulapants]

Incorrect comments I often see on tumblr posts about US incarceration

"The problem is private prisons!"

Private prisons are awful, and there have been specific instances of incarceration resulting from private prisons (like the Kids for Cash scandal), but they represent a very small percent of prisons in the US. Only 8% of people incarcerated in the US are in a privately-owned prison, and many states do not allow private prisons at all.

However, profiteering off incarceration doesn't stop at private prisons. There is an entire parasitic economy built around prisons, from prison phone, text, and mail-scanning companies to companies that run prison commissaries to the companies that provide food and clothing to prisons. These are all for-profit entities that contract with state or federal "justice" departments, who will choose either the lowest bidder or the company that provides the largest kickback to the officials making the decision (there is a LOT of corruption in these deals). Then they operate as a monopoly with no reason to provide incarcerated folks with anything but the bare minimum. The food companies make people sick. Until recently, prison phone companies have charged extortionary rates from the families of incarcerated people. Since the FCC put a stop to that, they have moved onto text, tablet, and mail schemes.

"The incarceration rate is so high because it's legalized slavery!"

While the 13th amendment exemption certainly plays a role in incarceration, especially the history of incarcerating Black Americans, prison labor is not the only piece of the puzzle. In 1973, 0.093% of the US population was incarcerated - a little less than 1 person for every 10,000 Americans. Today, the rate is 0.6%, or more than 1 in 200.

The factors that led to this trend are multifaceted: there was a backlash to the Black Power movement, the American Indian Movement, and resistance to the Vietnam War. There were "tough on crime" and Broken Windows policies that sought to reduce violent crime by arresting more people for petty crimes. There was the War on Drugs. There was the closing of state mental institutions and the failure to adequately fund the community-based treatment programs that were meant to replace them.

Prison labor does exist and play a role in all of this, but it's not the direct driver of incarceration, and only 1% of prisoners are employed by private corporations. Rather, the more pressing issue is that even if prisoners weren't required to do labor, they probably would still be forced to choose it because of how expensive it is to be in prison. Basic necessities like soap, toothpaste, and even shoes are not provided. In some places, they are actually charged rent - for the prison! The average wage for a prison laborer range from 13 to 52 cents per hour. People will petition to get transferred to prisons with factory jobs where they can get higher wages - like $4/hour making cardboard boxes. Even with their paltry wages, they still cost their families more than they can afford.

"Most people are in on petty drug busts!"

Drug arrests do play a pivotal role in the incarceration cycle, but only 1 in 5 incarcerated people is in on a drug-related offense. This makes sense, because those sentences tend to be short. A less direct way that drug criminalization factors in is that drug arrests give people a criminal record. They might lose their job when arrested, then incur court and parole-related fines and fees, struggle to find a job and housing because of their record, and end up in increasingly desperate situations where violent crime becomes a more viable option. Incarceration causes crime.

"Sex offenders need to stay locked up because they will offend again!"

People convicted of sex offenses actually have lower recidivism rates than people with other types of convictions. This is despite the fact that they receive no scientifically valid treatment during incarceration. This is also contrary to the wishes of the vast majority of victims, who favor less punitive sentences with greater investment in rehabilitation, mental health treatment, and victim support.

[swappingbryn]

Joey was arrested for a litany of charges in a very strict city in a foreign nation. He kept saying he was innocent, but there was so much evidence and even the cheapest legal fees were so expensive, he was found guilty and sentenced to 20 years. After a month on prison, the judge visited him and said he would be let out and forced to return to the US if he signed a document written in a different language. He quickly agreed.

The next day, Joseph Leonard Clinton was snuck out of the prison, put in a limo and brought to a private airport. Sitting across from him was the judge who happily said “I hope you enjoy your new life. I have expunged his record so it won’t hold you back. However, with your vast fortune and his hot face, I don’t think there would be any problems. Don’t worry, the original Joseph is trapped in your body, locked in a new cell. He should never have signed that contract.”

Amir bin Salman was the eighth child of the third daughter of the Saudi king, and knew he’d never get the throne, so he sought his fortune elsewhere. With his money and Joeys body, he was going to have fun.

[plotsignificanthaircut555]

Bereavement V Widow!Reader x Nanami Kento

Part Five of Six: Clock Out, SMUT

Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four (starting from the beginning if you wanna know why any of this stuff is about to happen, or just read this, no sweat.)

EPILOGUE (to be read after, a little extra denouement treat for you)

Grief has been set aside for now, but the thought of losing someone who you just got a handle on, is too much to bare. You have to take action, but what will the subject of your newfound peace think about your change in attitude?

taglist: @nanamin-chan @edgyficuselastica @sunbrightheart

WC: 6.3k Masterlist ao3 Ko.fi

Nanami’s boss had been less than pleased with his “out of house” handling of the Kubota settlement. Two broken chairs in his office and nearly a hundred papers thrown and scattered about the floor to show just how much. According to him, the final meeting was the time to reel her back in. But even as a fairweather fisherman, Nanami knew when to throw one back. The events of the other night weren’t, of course, shared with the boss, but even the passive answer of: 

“The forms are in her email, awaiting signature. Once I send them off to the bank, the contract is complete.” 

Was enough for his boss to go ballistic. Nanami tuned out most of the admonishment, something about final chances and wasted potential and lost revenue. Kento didn’t care. His boss didn’t seem to remember that the actual inheritors of the Kubota company, the deceased’s brothers, were still active clients. He just wanted you. He wanted, what he perceived to be, your ignorance of the inner workings of business. It disgusted him that he would prey on you so openly. But he shouldn't be surprised, these people were predators, scavengers, really. Waiting for the weakest to pick apart.

These people. He thought, Were just like him. 

What, really, was the difference between what they wanted and what he had done to you? Well, they hadn’t actually had the opportunity to take advantage, let alone taken it. He had. And then he had relished in it afterwards, licking his chops like a hyena. 

Disgusting.   

The boss dismissed Kento from his office, choosing to continue his mourning in private or simply having screamed his voice to exhaustion. As the door slammed behind him, Kento looked around the work floor, his colleagues all stared. Some sympathetic, or fearful that the rage may spill out onto them as well,  some smug as though they had been waiting for this. Maybe they had been. It’s not like he had ever been a social component of any of their lives. You can refuse after work drinks seven times, give or take, before people take the hint and stop inviting you. His reclusiveness could be taken as rudeness, he wasn’t even sure if that wasn't what he intended. 

As he swept the room with his eyes, he realized he didn’t have a single friend among the faces present. And for the first time since graduating Jujutsu Tech, he mourned the loss of that community. Sorcery was a prison, but your fellow inmates will always be the only ones who really understand you. Who knows where you’ve been, what you’ve done, and who you are underneath it all. For a brief moment, a matchstick’s burn’s worth of time, he had grown fond of the idea of having that again. Someone around him with whom he could be all of himself, the parts that he hated and the parts he feared. Someone with whom he could feel useful and needed, not feeling as though he just existed without purpose or drive, simply going through the motions of life without living. He had tasted purpose once again, and like a dehydrated man he lapped too indulgently and made himself sick. That life wouldn’t be his, and his foolishness to entertain that it could have been reopened long scabbed over wounds that he knew better than to pick at. 

All he knew now was that he needed a change. He couldn’t live like this anymore. He checked his watch, snug on his left wrist. 11:51 am. He checked once more. 11:51 am. Again. 11:52 am. Nanami released a breath, having caught the motion of the minute hand. He could progress into the room and to his desk. Slotting in between his chair and desk, he stared blankly at the email inbox open before him, no news. No new email from you. It was still early, you likely were still reading through them. 

He uncurled his spine and peeked around to the cubicles to either side of him, both currently unoccupied by their inhabitants. Opening his left desk drawer he pulled his phone free. Personal phone calls weren’t allowed on the office floor, although picking up work related calls outside of business hours was expected. But Nanami couldn’t bring himself to care about the expectations of this place anymore, he wouldn’t be here much longer anyway. 

He opened his phone and scrolled through his contacts, looking for one name that he genuinely feared stood a substantial chance of being the last one he thought of before he died. It was easy to find, practically muscle memory, 

Satoru Gojo DO NOT PICK UP. 

He rolled his eyes at his former self, or maybe at the incoming reaction from the man he was about to call. Kento could already hear the smug pleasure Satoru would take in his return. The years worth of unanswered text messages had not gone unread, nor had the rambling voicemails talking about his old classmates and what they had gotten up to in his absence, despite Nanami giving up his informational clearance. It’s not like anyone was going to correct Gojo. But he knew the door had been opened for him, no matter how final he was each time he spoke to Satoru about his leaving. There had always been this…understanding between them…that Nanami would eventually come back. Even when he didn’t want it to be true, he knew it was his fate. It was where he belonged. 

The coworker to the right of Nanami returned to her desk, Nanami decided this was a conversation better had outside. Phone in hand he made his way to the elevator, pushing the down button and waiting. 

The doors parted and Nanami was so focused on not backing out of this call that he stepped right in before turning his gaze down to who had just come up. 

You stood there. He blinked to be sure he hadn’t lost his mind to the point of hallucination. You were there, your hair down, clothing casual and bright, your makeup was just as beautifully applied but less mask-like, more accentuating your features than changing them. He stared at you, unable to speak for fear that you would disappear if he did. You stared at him, but not in fear or in surprise. He watched your lips curl into a smile. 

“I have your forms.” You said, passing him a manila envelope. 

He accepted it, the strachy, thick paper against his hand was real. This was real. You were real. The elevator sensor saw nothing and began to shut the doors, but his hand shot out to catch it before they closed you away from him. 

“Kento.” Your voice was dripping like agave, smooth and fluid. 

“You’re here.” 

“I am. I hope I didn’t catch you trying to slip out of our meeting.” You tilted your head like a cat, pawing at a caught mouse. 

His forehead furrowed in confusion, shaking his head slightly, “I sent the--You didn’t have to bring--”

“With those forms completed, our contract is finished, yes?” Your smile grew, unreadable and mischievous. 

“Y-yes, once I get them to the--”

“Banks, yes I know. But my part is done, and what are a few final emails, huh? So our professional involvement is now concluded, officially.”

“What are you--” 

“Kento.” You stepped forward out of the elevator, making him step back. 

Despite your having to look up at him, he felt about two feet tall. He wanted to flagellate himself before you, apologize until the building crumbled around you both, he wanted to cry out in joy at seeing you, to grab you and kiss you again--proving he hadn’t yet actually learned his lesson. Not if you didn’t want him to. Did you want him to? He would do anything you asked of him. What did you want?   

“...the other night.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me I--” Nanami silenced himself as you raised your hand to stop him. 

“I’m sorry. I left you feeling as though you had done something wrong. You didn’t. I did.” 

“You didn’t do anythi--”

“Yes I did. I scared myself out of doing something that I wanted so badly. I haven't wanted anything like that in years. Maybe ever. It’s not a familiar feeling for me and it scared me. And I think it scared you too, and I’m sorry. But I know what I want. And I’m ready now.” 

Nanami’s breath shook, relife coursing through his veins still hadn’t reached his brain, but his heart became lighter with every pump. 

“I know what I want, Kento.” You nodded, stepping closer to him, “Do you?” 

Nanami couldn’t speak, your big, unglazed, unashamed eyes bore right into the language center of his brain. Burrowing yourself into his psyche, tying his tongue with every bat of your eyelashes. But he nodded. 

“Kento, do you want to stay at your job?” You asked.

He shook his head. 

“Do you like your apartment?” 

His voice found him, “It’s…fine.” 

“Will you open the envelope for me?” You pressed your hand to the orange-y file folder in his hands. 

He twisted the brads open without looking. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, he was sure that if he did you would vanish, and this would all have been a dream. He pulled out its contents and felt the 8 by 11 pages still warm from printing, but he also felt something else. Despite his fear, he tore his eyes away from you and looked down. In his hand, on top of the signed settlement agreement. Two plane tickets. Tokyo to Penang. He read the words three times over. Then seven more. Ten confirmations that he was not misreading. 

Finally, no longer willing to wait for him to put all the pieces of your plan together, you spoke again. 

“I love you. I really do, and it doesn’t make any sense and it couldn’t be a weirder time, but I love you. I think we have a real chance together, but I can’t stay here. Not in that house, not in this city. I need a change, and I think you do too. So come with me, please. If it doesn't work you can leave whenever you want and I can get you another job in any office you want. But if what you told me the other night was true, I think you love me too. Or you might. Or you might want to?” 

You took in a sky breath, “I’ve never done anything like this in my life. Everything I’ve always done has been safe and easy and prescribed. And it was fine, and I was happy sometimes and miserable sometimes, but I know if I stay here I’ll be miserable forever. And I know that if I didn’t at least try to convince you that I could make you happy and you could make me happy and we could be happy together then I would always wonder what if I had? I’m so tired of thinking about what I should have done or what I shouldn’t have done. I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I want to feel the way I do when I’m around you…all the time. Please, Kento, please, if any part of you wants to at least try, please come with me to Malaysia. ” 

Your hands were shaking, your ears felt hot, your voice was quivering embarrassingly. You thought of what you would say on the whole ride over, none of the words sounded right, no language could help you traverse the barrier of crazy that you were trying to overcome now. 

And you knew it was crazy. Three weeks ago you didn’t even know about one another and just two nights ago he left your apartment with his tail between his legs. Nothing about what you were asking made sense, come with me to malaysia, let me appropriate your life long dream for my own selfish desires. But as insane as you knew you sounded, with every word you felt more sure that this was the right thing to do. You had to try. You had to fight for this. You needed him. And if he said no…well you could always just disappear completely and bury your shame for the rest of your life under booze and pills until you couldn’t remember. Be one of those ladies who sat at bars talking to anyone who would listen about when she almost had it all. There was a certain kind of glamour in that. 

“Yes.” 

You thought it was your own voice for a second, so used to hearing your own spiraling mind for hours on end. It took a second for you to absorb what he said. 

“Yes?” You repeated. 

“Yes. I’ll go with you.” He looked between you and the tickets, but stayed his gaze on you. 

You thought you saw his skin grown fuller, buoyant and pink. His hair grew brighter, his eyes shimmered, even the dreary office grew saturated. You couldn’t catch your breath, you didn’t know what to say, you hadn’t anticipated this part of the conversation. You hadn’t prepared for a rejection, nor had you prepared for acceptance. Luckily you didn’t have to hesitate long, he cupped your face, one hand still clutching papers and kissed you. He kissed you and the world bloomed, the rain stopped, the clock on the wall stood still, even the nosiest of office gossips averted their gaze. Despite the public setting , this was the privatest of moments. Sacred and untouchable. By the outside, by fate, by your own minds. The absurd ocean that had drowned you last night, filled his own chest. A tide all your own. A tide you would call home in just a month of living at its shore. 

Your move to Malaysia was not immediate. Kento quit his job on the spot, left the office with his hand in yours, his other hand holding the only things he needed from his desk after finalizing your paperwork. The only time you stepped foot in his apartment was that day, when you went together to pack his bag. He included a few shirts, finding his wardrobe was unprepared for his change of lifestyle, despite his constant wishing for it.

 But it didn’t matter, you could buy him anything he wanted to wear, even if it would just be discarded and never worn again. He brought a photo album, a few books, personal mementos but no interrupting work computer, none of his perfectly cared for, carefully wound watches made the voyage. His dress shoes and suits would be collected by the building managers and disposed of or sold some months later. Anything he wanted to keep and move later would be moved into your apartment by movers a few weeks later, kept safe until you were settled enough and it was time to ship everything else. 

But that first afternoon, the whirlwind of packing and kissing, of confirmations and double confirmations, as bizarre and chaotic as it must have looked, felt like perfect order. For once, he didn’t care how neatly things were folded, or if he had brought the safest numbers of each thing, if he was preparing enough. All he needed was his passport, the irreplaceables, and you. 

The flight was for the next day, as advantageous a prospect as the whole of your plan. Meaning you had the night together. Your first night together. You sat on his bed, against his clean, fluffy pillows, enjoying the view as he packed his bag. He had shed his work clothes, already feeling too tight, and now just wore an undershirt and slacks. Short sleeves showing off the dimension of his upper arms that were even more delicious than you had imagined. You could see the movements of each muscle in his arms, the way that veins trailed from his hands to his forearms. You had been correct, the freckle clusters grew more gathered and more present further up his arms. His hair was coming loose, he seemed to be molting. Shedding this corporate protective shell, and letting you see the soft creature underneath. He hadn’t stopped smiling since you left the office. 

“When I’m done should we go to your place? Or…” Nanami looked at you lounging on his bed and saw your cat-like smile, “You’ve already packed.”

“Mhm.” You nodded, giggling. 

 He leaned on the bed, over his bag, a dusty blush coloring his cheeks, “You’re a very confident person. What if I had said no?”

“You didn’t.” You cocked your head, all too pleased with yourself. 

He shook his head, a toothy smile you never even thought to imagine shining at you, “No I didn’t.” 

“I knew you wouldn’t” You moved onto your knees, mirroring his stance over his bag, leaning in to his nose. 

“Liar, you were practically shaking.” He teased. 

“Practically?” You laughed, “I was shaking. Are you kidding me, I was mortified. I never thought in a million years you would say yes.” 

He laughed with you, the hiccups of joy merging together in a beautiful harmony. “And you still asked.” 

He said it in awe, not even knowing himself if he was asking why or just stating it as fact. This time you kissed him, when he was so close to you it was so hard to look at him and not want to kiss him. He was so handsome, especially as he was shedding the layers and layers of fatigue. You felt like you were truly seeing him, and seeing him was making you dizzy. You would have to take time to get used to how gorgeous he was, like depressurizing coming back up to the surface. He kissed you back, moving his bag onto the floor to lay you down on his bed and move his body over yours. 

The kiss brought you both slower together, deeper into one another. Barriers of clothes shed themselves, leaving you bare skin to bare skin. Under the covers your bodies joined again, your legs slotting between his own on instinct. You had never felt more and thought less while being intimate with someone. Every move, every turn, every kiss felt purely natural. Like bodies doing exactly what they were meant to do. Like humans throughout all of history, like animals throughout all of time. 

Nanami was gentle with you, but not from fear of hurting or scaring you, his gentility came from his own desire to elongate the experience. To remember every inch of you. Your fingers, he had to kiss each one, each knuckle, each fingernail and print. Up to the back of your hands, so soft, the ripples of ligament and bones making perfect ridges and valleys for his tongue and lips to slot in and out of. Your wrists wore the residual stick of his wet lips like bangles. He kissed up your arms, squeezing the skin, watching it bend and move, wanting to learn every part of you. He slid his tongue around the ball of your shoulders, into your collar bones. His hand joined him here, holding the back of your neck to angle your head back and forth, allowing him to take his time with both sides independently. 

Nanami learned then how much he loved your neck, soft skin over strong muscle, downy hair at the base of your skull, sensitive spots behind your ears that made you gasp. His fingers could brush past the spit whetted skin and your body would shiver. He marveled at the quake of your body, how your breasts jiggled softly, how your nipples hardened despite being neglected thus far, how your stomach tightened at the roll of nerves. He wanted to know every secret of your sensation, how to unlock every reaction. He would study pressure points for the rest of his life if it meant he could find every spot on your body that brought you pleasure. 

The sight of your perfect, round breasts begging for him made him sympathetic, turning his selfish desire for discovery into soft, generous compliance. He moved his mouth lower, tongue trailing down your sternum, tasting the slight chemical tang of the perfume you had dripped there this morning.

If its poison let me die now, here. 

 In each hand he took a full, handful’s grasp of your chest. Pressing them into the sides of his face, he groaned, kneading them against his skin. If this is how soft you felt on the outside…what must you feel like inside? He worried he would cum right there against his sheets and miss out on finding out completely. But he didn’t have to worry about that now. He would have time. 

There will be time.

Your hands found his hair, mussing the clean style, feeling each hair individually in between your fingers. He busied his mouth with placing soft, suckling kisses on every inch of each breast, muttering all the while about how soft and beautiful they were. 

“So pretty….so soft….so perfect….mmm…baby…you’re so…so good.” 

Your cheeks heated, but you let the embarrassment crest and fall away. You didn’t have to deny or shy away from his compliments. They didn’t feel like something you had to earn or maintain, they felt innate, constant. Like no matter what you did or didn’t do, the fact that you were there would be enough. 

Once he had his fill, he moved lower again, kissing along your ribcage, the lines of muscle and fat that trailed down your torso. His hands moving down your flanks, making you shiver again, you had to take deep breaths to avoid giggling. 

“Ticklish?” He mumbles against the skin next to your belly button. 

“A bit.” You bit your bottom lip, trying not to tense away from his touch. 

He moved his hands up and down your sides again, playing with the speed and pressure a few times, until you break a little squeal. 

“I won't take advantage.” but the twinkle in his eye tells you he has crossed fingers behind that promise.

Still watching you from between your legs, he brought one hand down the length of your left leg, studying the folds of skin, the bend of your leg, the ball of your ankle. He rests his head on your right thigh, sighing happily. Marveling at the beauty that was now his own. He didn’t know if it was the loss, or the years of dissatisfaction, or the subsequent years of passive misery, but something, something he had done or endured, had earned him an angel. And here you were, patient and permissive to his every touch and study. Fingers ghosting back up, having felt every inch of you that they could reach from here, he moved onto his stomach at your center line. He looked up at you on the bed, pretty and perfect, perched on his pillows, watching and waiting to see what he did next. 

“Say it again.” He surprised himself with the demand, voice soft, like a secret shared with flashlights under a blanket. 

Brief confusion turned to adoration on your face.  

oh how beautifully she morphs. 

“I love you.” You whispered down to him, dyeing his face rose with just your words. 

He hummed and kissed the joint between your leg and pelvis. 

“Say it again, please.” he purred against your skin. 

“I love you, Kento.” You reached down to brush your fingers against his cheek. 

He let his eyes flutter closed, you touch, your skin against his face, your words of love in his ears, he wanted to live in this moment until the end of time. And then remembered the privileged task that waited for him. You made no moves to rush him, not wanting to truncate the way he had chosen to show his love for you. 

“I dreamt of this, you know.” He confessed, kissing the other side in the same jointed crevice, “Of having you all to myself like this. Not rushing through things, taking my time with you, learning you.” 

He moved his hand under your legs, moving them over his shoulders, having a hard time deciding whether to look at your face or study the way your lips parted, exposing the pretty, sticky fold of your pussy to him. But once he got a look, he couldn’t tear himself away. He licked a long stripe over the whole of your vulva, his eyes rolling back in his head at your taste. It was perfect, better than his imagination, better than his memories of others, so human, so perfectly salty-sweet, a taste entirely your own. 

“I dreamt of you, too.” you moaned, settling back against the pillows, letting his tongue lull you into bliss. 

The slow gentility began to fade, every taste made him more and more frenzied. Large, open mouthed, sloppy kisses to your pussy, sliding his tongue up and down, from the top of the seam, down to the skin before your ass. He held your legs tighter the more you moved, keeping you locked against his mouth. Moving his tongue inside of your hole, needing your sap from its source. Pulling it from you, letting it coat the inside of his mouth. He allowed himself one hand to assist him, trusting your knee locked over his shoulder and his other hand would be enough to keep you steady. He used this thumb to circle your clit ever so gently, not pressing down or pinching…yet. 

You couldn’t believe the sensations he gave you. The hot waves of pleasure sought to drown you in him, and still he was your only buoy to cling to. You held his neck in one hand, your breast in the other. But you couldn’t sit still for long, you had to switch hands, fingers in your mouth, pushing at his shoulder, pulling at his hair, scratching at your own thighs. Anything to offset the overwhelming, all encompassing touch from Nanami. You had never been licked like this, never did you think something like this was even possible. It looked like he was barely moving. One sturdy arm over your pelvis to reach your clit, the only thing moving was the ball joint of his neck and his thumb. He wasn’t afraid to get wet either, his nose down to his chin were all saturated in you. Dripping wet, and he lamented his tongue not being long enough to lick himself clean. 

“Kento, baby, please,” You whimpered, “Please use your fingers too, please, I-I need it.” 

You felt him smile against your pussy, you could hear it too, the slimy spreading of his lips making your back arch. He moved his free hand bringing two fingers into his mouth, letting himself break his focus and look up at you. Fuck, he shouldn’t have done that. You were glowing, sweat and drool on your body finer than the most expensive body oils money could buy, finer than if you had been granted luminescence from some deep sea goddess to exist solely as a creature of nocturnal beauty.  He had to avert his eyes lower, but when he saw the leaking mess he had made under you on the sheets, drool and cum pooling together, sinking into his mattress, he didn’t know which sight was worse for him--or better? 

Fuck. 

But you were asking him--no, begging him for his help. He could never deny you that. He moved his fingers up your seam, watching you sink further into the bed, your chest heaving, your eyes looking up at him, dreamy and desperate. 

“I like how you sound when you’re asking for things.” Nanami smirked at you. 

“I hope you’ll like how I sound when I’m telling you to do things.” You pouted down at him. 

“Oh is that how it is?” He chuckled, sliding his fingers up and down once more. 

“You like begging, instead? I can beg.” You widen your eyes into soft puppy eyes, “Please Kento, please, please, I need your fingers. Make me cum, please.”

That shouldn’t have worked on him so easily, it seemed that his fingers found your hole all on their own, pushing inside, letting him feel the velvet inside of your muscles. Your body’s most protected opening, against his fingertips. He dove back into, pairing his tongue along the fingers he fed you. 

You whined and keened backwards,“Yes! Yes, fuck---”  

His fingers were even better than you dreamed, longer than yours, the pair of them thick in your still yearning hole. He nodded with your cries of affirmation, bobbing his head, his tongue following up to your clit and down to his still exposed base knuckles. He bent his fingers upward, making you shudder. He angled his thrusting fingers upwards, pressing your button every time with a lifetime of perfect precision. It wasn’t exactly hard for him to locate such…weak points. His brief education in your body was all he needed to be able to locate the whereabouts of the more precise erogenous zones, and the epicenters therein. It had been quite a while since it had an excuse, or a reason to indulge in the more intimate applications of his innate technique. But hey, he didn’t keep all that training up for nothing.  

“H-how, oh, fuck.” Your eyes rolled back, your head rolled into the pillow, and you pulled its edge toward your face, burying it. 

It was so fast, so perfectly precise, so right on the spot everytime. You felt your orgasm building inhumanly fast. Maybe it was the desire, maybe it was the neglect, maybe it was him. It had to be him. But you felt the pressure behind your pelvis compounding on itself, his tongue on your clit, his olympic archer accurate fingers drumming against your g spot. 

“Ken--I..” You couldn’t even get the rest out before your sentence was overwhelmed by your cry of pleasure. 

And a true cry of pleasure it was, tears spilled from your eyes, your body shook, only for Nanami to hold you flush against the mattress and continue his ministrations on your body. You didn’t know if you had cum this hard in your life. You screamed into the pillow, letting the down feathers catch your sounds. Your thighs clamped over his ears, muffling the sound further for Nanami, which he would have detested if he didn't get a mouthful of your squirt just before the pressure became too much for you. He couldn't hear or see anything, all his other senses shut off completely in necessity to taste every milliliter of pleasure you released for him. He had earned it, he deserved it. 

It was your hand pawing against his shoulder that made him finally relent, his sight and hearing returned to him the moment he detached his mouth from your spent, dribbly cunt. He could hear you panting, he could hear himself panting as he knelt up, standing on his knees watching your body below him. Yours were sweeter, soft gasping moans intercut with deep breaths, trying to fill your lungs. Your eyes were wide as you took him in, finally, bared before you, you took in his form, the shape of his body, its harsh lines of muscularity befitting of an anatomy class diagram’s cut perfection. Effort clenched abs, hard built chest, soft tan-rosy brown nipples, moles and freckles littering his torso. His chest flushed red in splotchy signs of effort, sweat and squirt and drool and cum slipping down his neck, onto his chest, a few stray drops rolling down his stomach, catching and splitting along the lateral lines of his abdomen, reaching for his reddened, erect, and leaking cock. You were right, he was thick, very thick in fact, curved upward all too tantalizingly. But the drip, the leaking precum spilling from him in a thick line down to the bed was…It was obscene. It was foul. It was too much. 

You reached for him and pulled him down to meet your lips, his once tender kisses now mirrored the sloppy way he had eaten your cunt; all consuming, breath stealing, tongue replacing kisses that made your already expelled lungs burn for fullness. In pursuit of your own desire to be filled, you pulled him between your legs again. Hard, wide cock all too eager to push inside, already kissing your hole with his own. You both shuddered this time, breaking the kiss apart are just the slightest contact. He kept his hips steady, locking in their position apart from you so as to not miss his favorite part. He would learn, much later, that it was your favorite part too. The first press inward, the first splitting of yourself around you, his first introduction inside. Be it now, the very first time, or in the ensuing year that would follow, the first envelopment of his body into your own of each instance of sex would have you both shaking and grasping at each other. 

Savoring this for himself, he pressed his forehead down to yours, feeling the dewy sweat of your face, mix with the drenched wetness of his own. Sweat moving down the slope of his nose down onto your own. 

“I love you.” The words that permeated the room already came from him this time.

You swallowed them up in a kiss, tasting the language on your tongue, savoring the taste of his love as he pushed into you. Kento had to break the kiss, gasping at the tightness, the newness, the perfection of the feel of your inside. He could believe it, raw, uninhibited sliding of muscle against muscle, sex against sex. 

“Oh, fuck.” His head slid to the side, to bury against your neck, that fucking intoxicating perfume making him even dizzier. 

You dug your fingers into the grooves of his back, your legs hiking over his hips and pulling him in further. When he finally bottomed out, you both struggled to breathe. Gasping in each others’ air, the oxygen in the space between your faces barely enough to keep you both alive. You grasp at the back of his neck, feeling the muscles at the base of his skull twist as he moves up to look at you. You locked eyes, and the pain, the breathlessness, everything but the pleasure vacated both of you. He could finally bring his hips back to submerge himself again. And again. And again. A smooth, steady pace, bottoming out, before pulling out everything but the last inch. He could kiss you again, and he did. Kissing you hard and hungrily as his hips picked up the pace. 

“Yes, yes, god yes.” you chanted as his lips would allow. 

“So good, so tight, so…so perfect.” He echoed in return. 

He fucked into you harder, trying to stave off the orgasm that had been building in him since he first kissed you at the office, at least until you were crafting one of your own. He pulled your hip along with him as he thrusted, and you moved as his hand instructed, rocking your body as he thrust. Deep reaching, thick cock spreading you open all the way to your cervix, pressing against the most sensitive spots, especially the one he found so perfectly before. No longer able to go without air, you let your head fall back and he busied himself with tending to your neck, kissing, sucking, biting, leaving little marks just small enough to be barely seen. 

He felt it, the rock of your hips, the grind of your clit against the base of his pelvis, the scrunch of your face, the way your glossy lips parted and pursed. You could feel it too, his hips stuttered, his cock twitched against your cervix, your neck grew wet from his sloppy kissing, spit now overproducing. But it was your heart beats, pressed chest to chest, syncing in frantic, effort latent beats that truly gave it away. You caught his eyes, dark mahogany and black pupil inseparable from one another. His lashes fluttered, he pushed in hard, pressing against your g spot hard, a two handed push into bliss. But you were not alone this time, the hands that pushed you held you in your fall, falling himself. 

Each line of cum painting you inside made him shiver. The sweat on his neck quickly turned cold, anything would be cold against the warmth of your body. He clutched you tighter, despite your whines of overstimulation, of sensitivity. Your orgasm slipped away and you slumped against the bed, he followed you, holding you tighter, as if you would vanish. It took a few minutes for you both to come back to yourselves, aftershocks and held breaths coming and going as the seconds ticked away. Nanami thanked you profusely, between kisses along your breasts, soft hands across your body, in the exchanges of words, in tongues, in your own minds. When he finally did pull out of you, nearly an hour had passed since the luggage was discarded. You laid together in the bed he once called his but soon would be no one’s, rolling on your sides looking at each other in disbelief. 

“I really do love you.” Nanami brushed sticky hair off your forehead, “I don’t need to go to Malaysia to know that. I knew when you laid into me in the conference room.”

 “When I called you a coward?” You raised your eyebrows, getting cozy next to him, “I certainly hope you don’t think that's what love looks like.”

You yawned and snuggled into his chest, he closed an arm over your shoulder. He looked down at you. The lashes on your cheeks, the curve of your nose, the sleepy pout of your lips. He remembered the stoic, barely held together woman he first met in that office. Tight hairstyle, hard gaze, tense shoulders. And now, here she was, undone, relaxed, at peace against him. Kento believed you took his breath away the first time he saw you, but he knew now he had never truly had breath at all before you. 

“It’s not.” He kissed your forehead, closing his own eyes, and finally holding you to sleep. 

Kento didn’t know what he thought love looked like, he hadn’t had anything even close to it in far too long for any familiarity to have lingered. But, now, feeling your body soften against his, feeling the waves of sleep weighing his eyes down, he felt, for the first time in years, that he could find it again. And he knew, truly knew, that he would.

RETIREMENT (Epilogue)

Wow, y'all, thank you so much. Writing this has been such a joy, spending four months diving into the minutia of grief, loneliness, love, and how to process and move on without feeling like you are totally healed. I have always taken issue with the idea that you need to wait until you are "fixed" to be loved and to love. We never feel fixed, we never feel completely healed sometimes, and you shouldn't have to wait until you are a "better person" to love. as long as you can show up and be vulnerable, and give yourself freely and acknowledge where your pitfalls may arrive, thats all anyone can ask. You deserve love, you don't have to be perfect. No one ever is, we never will be. Let yourself be loved imperfectly. -- Doodle, who loves you <3

[infinitecyanroses]

So with all the lore we've gotten lately I decided I want to organize how many player characters have been tied to or affected by the Federation. First I wanted to make a chart but I realized it would be quicker to just list everything down first. Feel free to correct me if anything is missing. I may also continue to update this

Last updated: January 30 (Prison event update)

Had a Past with The Federation Before the Island

Baghera Jones- confirmed former Federation test subject/experiment

Jaiden- confirmed to have helped Cucurucho in the past, role unknown

Aypierre- has memories of being operated on by the Federation before coming to the island

Quackity/ElQuackity- ElQuackity called Quackity his brother and since it seems that ElQ has been working with the Federation for a long time, Quackity could have a related past

Bagi- After joining the island, she discovered a tree house with two journals that were signed by her. The journal also mentioned a cat named Zeno which Cellbit found who belonged to an ex-federation worker that Cellbit had been investigating clues from

Cellbit- Bagi found more journals confirming that she had a family on the island, including a brother who went missing and a lot of details from her journal point to Cellbit potentially being that brother, Cellbit found further information confirming Bagi is his twin and he believes he was kidnapped

Antoine Daniel- see Currently Affiliated, Cucurucho (pink ears) also mention Antoine having worked on previous experiments

Polispol- is the one who directed/created the Quesadilla Island commercial that played when the first islanders arrived by train

Currently Affiliated with The Federation

Cellbit- became an official Federation employee after signing a contract, is often tasked with investigation work and information retrieval, got employee of the month

ElQuackity- seems to be an official Federation employee, status unknown but seems to be a high ranking experimenter. ElQuackity went to Egg Island/Purgatory and seemed to have a past with the cyclops who was controlling the island there. At the end of Purgatory, the cyclops asked ElQuackity to stay by his side and he agreed. When Cucurucho traveled to Egg Island and saw ElQ, he called him a traitor and told him he would stand trial. ElQ chased Cucurucho off so ElQ is no longer aligned with the Federation

Fit- currently working as the Federation's janitor

Foolish- was made an official Federation detective by Cucurucho and was tasked with investigating Mr. Mustard's disappearance. After submitting evidence to the Feds of other islanders breaking the rule, Foolish was promoted to Police Administrative Assistant and Dispatcher and also made employee of the month for September

Aypierre- is currently making wine for the Federation

Jaiden- spent two weeks helping the Cucuruchos and is currently tasked with informing new members about Cucurucho.

Forever- recently elected as president of the island to serve as the go-between for the island citizens and Federation.

Kameto- Has been helping the Federation ever since his disappearance by watching footage and recording the happenings of the island and is now working as a spy for the Feds under guise of being a former Federation prisoner

Antoine Daniel- Role unknown but he was able to get a private meeting with Cucurucho (pink ears) and criticized him for letting the 6 panel comic leak out to all the islanders, saying it was too soon. Cucurucho apologized to him, implying some sort of connection between the two

Polispol- Cucurucho hired him to create a new video for them

Has Been Kidnapped/Arrested by The Federation

Felps- agreed to sacrifice himself to the Feds in exchange for getting Richarlyson's first life back, only to be captured and iced by the Feds

Cellbit- was caught trying to warn other people about what happened to Felps while first infiltrating the Federation and was held in a Federation building with Felps

Quackity- was captured and held by the Federation and replaced with ElQuackity. Was also recently kicked from the server after playing the dice game, no clue who's responsible or what happened. Quackity came back but was captured by ElQuackity, who stole his new train ticket before the Purgatory event. Quackity later escaped after the islanders left but was shot by the black colored Cucurucho

Maximus- was arrested by the Federation for terrorizing a Federation building but was only held for one day

Pac- first arrested by Foolish under Cucurucho's orders, then later recaptured and placed in a cell at the bottom of the ocean with Federation guards

Mike- first arrested with Pac for the same reasons, has recently fallen into a trap, unknown if the Feds are also behind it, recently came back acting more paranoid and wanting to eat/kill the eggs

All of the current new members- were arrested and kept frozen until the other islanders found them

Baghera- after discovering her childhood bedroom on the island, she woke up 9 days later in a Federation hospital room and found a recent subject file about her and a book listing other federation hybrid experiments

Philza- followed a string of crow-related clues he thought would lead him to his missing kids, only to be trapped in a giant bird house by Cucurucho as payback for lava casting the Federation office building, he woke up days later in his house, unable to find proof that the bird house existed, making him question if it was real

Badboyhalo- arrested by Foolish and Cucurucho for 15 minutes for vandalizing Federation property (though BBH claims it was longer)

Aypierre- was imprisoned by Cucurucho for a full night for lashing out at Cucurucho while asking about what the Feds had done to him

Roier- was drugged and captured by Cucurucho while he was investigating Cellbit's whereabouts, taken to a dungeon cell and blindfolded for a few days before Cucurucho brought him to a lab where his missing twin brother, Doied was (continued in fed operation category)

Forever- after getting infected by dark matter due to a Fed sanctioned trip to the Nether, Forever became possessed by an entity known as @v@ who made Forever attempt to kill the eggs. Cucurucho intervened and teleported Forever/@v@ into a max security prison, keeping him chained up before downing him with a chainsaw

ALL of the active islanders and their eggs (except Baghera and Cellbit) were taken and kept in a maximum security prison by the Federation for three days in order to keep them away from the attacking eye workers while the Federation did damage control. Despite not being officially charged with crimes, they were all treated like prisoners

Was operated/experimented on by the Federation

Maximus- was treated by the Federation after the code entity attacked him but learned later that the Feds had also stuck a recording device in him so he had it removed, was operated on again after contracting a parasite only to wake up with part of his leg turning into code

Felps- after he was rescued from the Federation, he was found wearing a hospital gown and had a mark on his arm, hinting that the Feds might have experimented on him

Cellbit- was also treated by the Federation after being attacked by the code entity, suffered memory loss from the time the Feds captured him

Quackity- was seen being put through multiple tests by Cucurucho before being released with very little memory of his past, only being able to speak in Spanish, and not being able to read or write (probably a form of aphasia)

Roier- After being captured and taken to the lab to see his twin brother, Cucurucho and Doied forced Roier into a machine that would swap his brain with a rat, the operation successfully put Roier's brain in a rat's body and he ended up passing out (probably more to come)