#revolutionary take i know /s

[litres-of-cocaine]

i cannot believe that people genuinely dislike skyler white it is so strange!!! like even my dad called her manipulative and yes, sure but like that’s what makes her so fun??

like i think the direction they took her in s5 was the right and logical one for her character but s4 was PEAK come on.

in the early seasons she is essentially the embodiment of the stay-at-home mum existence and she’s an interesting and assertive character in conversation with that but ultimately used a plot device. like the family life she represents conflicts with the meth trade that walt is getting involved in. obviously she has an inner life going on, i.e. her pregnancy and the arguments with marie about the shoplifting, but she more seems like an individualised portrait used for walt’s deception. she’s propping up the narrative where walt lies to himself about the reasons he does it and parallels his family life to his business life.

like this is not to diminish that side of her character at all (although it is irritating that we don’t get a female character that isn’t a family member or love interest be a larger part of the narrative until s5) but i feel it’s more of a setup not just for walt but her later arc.

s4 where she is actively involved in the money laundering, buying of the car wash etc. is so so dear to me as it’s such an interesting view into her naivety but her skills in doing this.

where krazy 8 said walter wasn’t suited to that life and then he turned out to be works in a similar to manner to how skyler adjusts to this sudden criminal enterprise that she is a major part of. she also turns out to be good and criminal-minded when she gets involved even if she is unsceptical that what walt (and her by extension) are doing is hurting people.

she doesn’t want to be involved because she’s afraid for walt but it’s undeniable that she is good at it. i would argue that this characterisation of her as so overly cautious and nearly paranoid is paralleled to gus’s cautiousness and care and is probably the most successful businessman that we see throughout breaking bad. certainly more successful if we are thinking in terms of caution and longevity. skyler. beyond this parallel she is already shown to be good with tax evasion in that whole ted plotline and then manages to get him off of prison after the irs discovered him. the irs. the people who are literally ruthless when it comes to that kind of stuff.

it creates such an interesting contrast with walt who likes that world not only because he is good at it but also because he likes the power it gives him over others. it makes him ‘feel alive’ blah blah blah etc etc. but skyler doesn’t enjoy this power. when ted is afraid of her she is devastated and feels the guilt of her actions come up on her all at once and this is the start of her unhappiness and fear of walt. like in s4 she’s not *happy* but she’s not necessarily unhappy either. there’s a whole ass scene of her bouncing holly on her knee while she’s looking up money laundering on wikipedia.

this all comes crashing down in s5 and becomes particularly obvious after the midpoint of the series. she’s practically a shell of herself. those looks between her and jesse at the car wash?? could not be more obvious kind of submission to walt’s gross authority from either of them.

(don’t get me talking about the parallels between skyler and jesse it will set me on a roll)

and again this makes sense for the changing dynamic between her involvement and the increased understanding of how violent the business the both of them are a part of is. her character is not less interesting but definitely less fun to watch. it’s not presented as cathartic suffering for the audience either which i think brba did a good job with. she’s not assertive anymore and i think that’s a great example of the effects it’s had on her. she’s lost a key component of her character. like i guess you could call her high-maintenance or difficult in s1 if you found her annoying and that’s an opinion but realistically i’d say she was just assertive in way that’s alienating for some of the misogynistic sides of the fanbase.

she regains some of this right at the very end where she confronts walter thinking he’s going to say he did it for the family again. it’s only a small thing in refusing to let walt walk all over her but at least it has some reclamation of her initial character!

this has been a ramble and i think i had other things to say but in conclusion:

skyler white is overhated

[rotzaprachim]

the thing about andor season 1 being a moses arc is that cassian andor literally is moses. once you mention that moses’s rise to leader serves as scaffolding to almost every major character moment for cassian well you just can’t unsee it

[the-cooler-king]

Oh yeah..... midnight gospel be hitting.... sitting in my bed fuckin. Crying. Get a grip girl

[vindelllas]

a brief exploration of the atmakarakas 🪻

🩷 note: any information regarding atmakaraka placements should be treated lightly, as a good portion of these celebrities do not have verified birth information. i calculated all of the following celebrities with unverified birth times assuming they were born at noon their time!

brihaspati atmakaraka

🌾 aesthetic: model rockstar girlfriend x guilded glamour

🌾 key components: the femme fatale; the vampy embodiment of s*xuality. expanding on the divine intellect of cyclic and karmic law. "arge-bodied is jupiter, and also tawny haired and eyed, of kapha nature, intelligent and proficient in all shastras"

shani atmakaraka

🪐 aesthetic: the theatrical romantic

🪐 key components: the sensual hollywood starlet. learning how to acquire responsibility and remain afloat during the trials and tribulations of the body, mind, and spirit. "thin and long-bodied is saturn, and yellow-eyed, vata natured, large toothbed, indolent, lame and having coarse hair, o' twice born"

surya atmakaraka

🌞 aesthetic: the golden hour material girl

🌞 key components: of the outshining rays of surya, inspiring the growth in others. the center of the solar system and, thus, the center of attention. called to be the destined authoritative figure they were meant to me by finding humility and calming to their endless desires. "honey-yellow eyed is the sun, square and radiantly pure, o' twice born, of pitta nature, intelligent, masculine, with but little hair, o' twice born"

kuja atmakaraka

☄️ aesthetic: the magnificent mystique

☄️ key components: le féminin indépendant. their brimming beauty attracting vampiric envy from others and, thus, they must learn to set healthy boundaries and protect one's energy. "cruel with red eyes is mars, moving to and fro, of torn form, pitta nature, angry, with a lean medium-sized body, 'twice born"

buddha atmakaraka

🪻 aesthetic: the famed femme feminist

🪻 key components: embodying the misunderstood lalita. the most youthful appearing atmakaraka. fluent in intellect and ever-expanding in knowledge/femininity. "the most excellently formed, of metaphorical speech, and taking pleasure in laughter is mercury, having pitta, having kapha, o' wise, and of vata nature"

shukra atmakaraka

🍓 aesthetic: the renowned, infamous socialite

🍓 key components: the hollywood pin-up. embodying the epitome of venusian luxury and s*xual channeling, but eventually learning to channel their divine intellect away from the temporal/ tangible pursuits of the flesh. "pleasing, lovely formed, the most splendid and beautifully eyed is venus, who is poetical, abounding in kapha, of vata nature and curly haired"

chandra atmakaraka

🌙 aesthetic: the revolutionary (a vessel of subculture in the midst of pop culture)

🌙 key components: of the dark, yin waters of the moon. glimpsing into the realm of the obligatory pilgrimage of the soul. "abounding in vata and kapha and filled with knowing is the moon of round body, o' twice born, auspiciously eyed, of sweet speech, fluctuating and love sick"

🩷 all of these placements were found using astrotheme/.com and/or astro-charts/.com. it is important to note that some chandra (moon) placements may be off by up to 6 degrees and lagnas (ascendants/rising signs) as well, due to the fact that many websites do not have 100% accurate birth times for the given celebrities.

do not worry loves, uttara phlaguni post is on the horizon!

xoxo,

angel 💋

[self-loving-vampire]

Nah the games thing is so real, I didn't have a console growing up either but I sure as hell had access to my dad's computer, and nothing I ever grew up with (especially not the tycoon/business strategy games like rct or zt, or virtual life/pet games like creatures or the 90's petz series) ever gets treated like part of Gaming History by anyone ever. even though some of those games did stuff (30 fps on a windows 95 game with real-time 2.5d animation in the fucking pre-nintendog puppy games! the devs say they prioritized high framerates on shitty computers as over graphical realism to better create the illusion of life) that are still kind of impressive to me to this day.

The console-centric approach a lot of people seem to take when discussing history in particular leads to overlooking not just entire genres but a lot of supremely important, groundbreaking games.

At this point I have lost count of how many times I have heard some youtuber my husband is watching talk about how some super popular console game "invented" some revolutionary concept only for it to be something I know for a fact the Ultima series (to give an example) was already doing in the early 90s or even the 80s.

You just miss on a lot of really significant things if you neglect PC gaming.

[alpaca-clouds]

The Haitian Revolution

Yeah, okay. I guess to properly do the history thing, I also have to talk about the Haitian Revolution, don't I? Given that it is so important for the backstory of both Annette and Edouard.

Why didn't I do that so far? Because the Haitian Revolution is super hard to talk about because of the sources. A bit issue is that for a good part of it we only have French sources, that are not always the most... neutral. Because a lot of the rebelling slaves had never learned to write. As such, we actually do not know a lot about the side of the rebels until some Free Blacks started to take their side and lead the rebellion.

But I know a bit.

So, let me explain what I know.

Haiti (St. Domingue specifically, the French side of the island) was build exclusively on slave work. There were plantation there for indigo, sugar and coffee for the most part. And those plantation were very important for the French economy. And of course it was slaves working those plantations.

On the island there was a three class system (though if we are honest, it was a four class system).

Whites, who were free people and citizens of France. (Though in truth there was a difference between the plantation owning whites and those whites, who were not of the owning class.)

Free Black people. What differed in Haiti from the US for example is that it happened quite often that children of rape (white owners on Black slaves) would be freed and even adopted as children. While not considered citizens, they could own things, including their own plantations. (Yes, there were quite a few of these that owned slaves.)

Slaves, who outnumbered all other people on the island somewhere between seven to one and ten to one.

Now, most slaves did not survive the first three years after getting to the island. Many died in fact in their first year, because the working conditions were so harsh, they often did not receive food, were severely punished (through it receiving infections and such), and of course there was just the general issue of sicknesses.

There were people rebelling a long while and from what we know (again, there is so little in terms of sources) there were some escaped slaves living in the mountains and at times using guirella tactics. But there was not quite the move for a widespread rebellion starting...

That was until the French Revolution started. Once more the gentle reminder: The French Revolution took a long while to brew and originally was not a violent revolution, it only became violent in response to the violent oppression of it. Now, the people on St. Domingue were instructed not to talk about the Revolution, because some folks rightly assumed that it might give people ideas. Especially as among the Revolutionaries there was a big discussion about the abolition of slavery.

But in the end... Well, it did not work out and the freed slaves banded together for a proper uprising in 1791.

It is this uprising that we see in Nocturne. I have seen some people being very shocked in the human on human violence we see there, because folks are really whimpy when it comes to that. So, a little explanation: Originally (in the 1791) uprising the slave uprising was once again not very violent. Almost everyone who got killed was connected to immense abuses of slaves. The rebels tried to spare everyone who treated their slaves kindly. As such within that first uprising only 400 whites got killed, compared to 4000 Black people, as the French were much better armed.

Still, the rebels managed to capture part of the island.

It should be noted: This is probably around the time when Annette and Edouard left. They captured some plantation, and freed quite a few more slaves.

There would follow quite a bit of back and forth then. Especially between Haiti and the French Republic. And I would not be surprised if we were to see that in the coming season(s).

Mostly, because the Revolitionaries went back and forth between whether Free Black people could be citizens who got to vote or not. Making the Free Blacks, who originally were against the revolution, more and more take the side of the rebels.

And yes, it would get more and more violent. Because France and then later Britain, too (who did not agree with France on many things - but on saving slavery) threw thousands upon thousand of soldiers in fighting down the revolution with extreme violence, leading the Haitian Revolutionaries to answer this violence with their own violence.

But for the love of God, do not go there and be like: "Ugh, violence. Violence bad." Like, fuck that. I said that about Isaac before as well: Slaves freeing themselves have the right to use whatever violence necessary for that.

[qvrcll]

Hi! So I love your blog and I have a request if you're up for it!

So imagine Vendetta!Leon or ID!Leon with a younger, Rookie D.S.O agent. So the reader is learning about what it takes to be an agent and they are skilled but a little reckless. The reader and Leon end up going on a mission together and something happens to where the reader does something risky/reckless to save Leon and afterwards while Leon is patching them up he's also scolding them for putting themselves into a dangerous situation...

I just thought it was a cute idea and I adore your blog so obviously no pressure and thank you regardless! :)

change

summary: training to be a d.s.o agent has its perks and its fair share of dangers, and who would know that best other than the acclaimed leon s. kennedy? former rookie cop turned myth, you’re troubled as you try to not question your worth to your duty — to him.

warnings: intense violent imagery, d.s.o. agent reader, talk of death / loss, talk of wounds / stabbing, weapons mentioned, angst (comfort i swear!!!!!!!), written with infinite darkness ! leon in mind

a/n: bam stop using deftones songs as titles FAILED. and hello??? ur mind??? revolutionary. but thank u so much for the request!! i did make it more angsty than intended 😭 but happy ending i swear !! this is just a general disclaimer, but i’m trying my best to get as many requests done as possible, but finding myself easily burnt out, so please bare with me if i take some time to get these pieces out!! enjoy :-)

word count: 3.5k+ (help)

You’re well put together — inundated at the seams and bursting in the areas that made you an excelling recruit, something of a common place practice when one gets appointed to a station as alpine as the D.S.O.

It’s gruelling at first. The training, not the people — the people here offer you awkward but veritable grins, cloying pats on the head when you’d surpassed a notable fix in your inculcation, maybe even conversation in places you’d expect hard worn expressions, bumps of the shoulders, a lack of acquiescence for a new comer such as you.

“Turns out, there’s a new donut place opening in the city” someone speaks through a mouthful of food, grinning when admonished by their peer. They look at you with tired yet cordial won eyes, something like a respite in comparison to the gruelling training and pains you endure in staple hours.

You laugh, craning backwards, replying “Really? Wanna go sometime?”

And they teem, sheen with surety as you set a date. The date passes and you’ve got your fridge brimmed with donuts — pastel, sugar coated and chockfull of profuse fillings.

You’re home. You’re staring at your laptop. The device whirrs with effort, the screen fulgent with simulated light as block words stare back at you — MULTIPLE KILLED IN GOVERNMENT ORDAINED PROJECT. SEVERAL INJURED.

The next day, you press your lips together and wait for the space ahead to be filled with a familiar face, some day old blistering talk about donut shops and parties and mandated leaves.

No one comes. You chew your bread in wanton silence.

And your days blur as usual — your attitude is unparalleled. You give yourself the credit for coarsening against such losses, of confidants who offered you their time and remaining nuance of sentience. You don’t, however, congeal like they do. You do not die or recoup.

You move senselessly and so do the days.

It’s several months later, when you’ve gathered yourself in the training room, greased with sweat and vigour, when you meet him.

Leon S. Kennedy, in the flesh.

There’s talk of him in the corridors, rumours of his barely capricious resolve and even more so of his loyalty to the D.S.O. Of his habitual reclusiveness, ordained leaves and near blank appearances.

He’s almost a myth.

Still, you’re real and working and need to cavort around your training till your muscles bleed and chalk up with pain that marks enough effort for the night — you do not want to stay a rookie forever. There’s a insecurity underscored in your brain somewhere, in bright red lines and despite the sweat of your skill in your hands, but you decide to delineate it for tonight. Try to focus on the knotty feel of the compress against your knuckles as you strengthen your feet, begin to get into a stance most up to par, a gracing thought of ‘please don’t break my bones’ pressed into the bean bag before—

“Hello?”

The addition of another voice, besides the earsplitting one in your mind, makes you falter. Makes you lose your footing and touch the target in front of you, rather than skirting it with a hard worn touch — the sight would’ve made you chuckle on a normal day. But today was not normal, it was marked with a accent of irresolutions. So you swivel on your feet, baring your teeth like the caitiff the D.S.O had disillusioned everyone into being. The pretence doesn’t fool anyone, not even yourself, but you give it a try.

And maybe you give yourself some credit, for stoking it up to the myth, the caricature of duty himself, Leon Kennedy. In the flesh, complexion enervated in his well earned stack of muscle, that seemed to be garbed with a leather jacket. Jeans.

How… normal.

You lose tension in your muscles. Ditch the shout in your brows. Abandon the faux, heavy lined bellicosity in your belly for curiosity. Some guilt and embarrassment, too.

“Leon S. Kennedy?” you gasp, feel the air hit your tongue. The room grows a faltering few degrees hotter, and some part of you is convinced you’ll sink into the floor in a matter of minutes.

But Leon offers you one of his complimentary smiles that scream business. His hands are discarded in the wide sinews of his jeans, where they are distracted and nonplussed with the goal of hurting the material with diverted fingers. Yet you linger ahead of him, visibly sweaty and awkward, and it blunders his heart with some peace that you’re biding that same level of awkwardness.

“In the flesh,” he jokes, but the room is too small, too dark to determine tone. To determine the weight of his words or his presence. You still find sentience in you to laugh, snort even, and it makes the air between a lot more genuine, “I’ve come to discuss something here with you.”

“With me?” you croak, not wanting to sound delirious but inevitably falling for the trap — what did the Leon Kennedy want to do with a single recruit that is you? Skilled, yes, but sharing the innumerable roster of missions as him? Not a chance. Still, you grab a towel and a bottle of water, finding rhythm in your step as you talk alongside him to the exit.

Slogging be damned.

He offers a small nod, resigned in a way that made sense to the both of you, “We’re to be assigned in a collaborative project. A mission, if you will,” he opens the door, allows you to step past the threshold first and doesn’t miss the way you flesh out with a terrible blush as you skitter ahead, “Nothing too out of the ordinary for agents like you and me. Just a simple clear up.”

But we are nothing alike, you want to ink the air with the words. And some part of you stiffens as you hear the intractable comparison. Still, you’re curious above all things else and hear him out — not that I can refuse, you add mentally. Scribble out with imaginable red ink.

“When will it be?” you ask, feet jittery and muscles still sheening.

“A month from now” he confirmes. You work to notice the exigent lines of wear and tear on his face, the follow of a stubble beginning to thread against his chin and jaw. The sharpness giving way to kindness in his eyes as he looks at you.

Oh god, he’s looking at you.

“I see,” you say, gaze falling to the gravel and spit of stone as you corner the exit. As the wind hits your skin, you’re pathetically assuming a shiver. You hope Leon isn’t as perceptive as the rumours pin him to be, but you never truly get anywhere with that wish — he places a warm, kind hand on your shoulder, “You’re freezing.”

“Yeah I should probably—“

“Get back?”

“Home, yeah.”

And an awkward, painfully annoying silence courses the space between you two — between you and this acclaimed proxy you barely knew prior to these graceless seconds. The better part of you ushers the thought away and the worse part of you is antsy to prove something — anything.

“Get home safe…” he offers some semblance of a tight lipped smile, again as reclusive as he can get. His back is turned to you, departing, and you’re pulled in the other direction by your feet, when you suddenly turn around.

He’s gone already.

The month beneath his guidance is as you expect it — resilient and tough on the flesh. He manoeuvres you in ways you’d never have begun to correct yourself (“Lift the end of your arms here, instead of down here.”)

He presses feeling and rigour to his praise (“That’s it — you got it. Good job — now give me 20 more.”)

He holds you back from splintering push forwards, from the bridge between you and your apex. Holds a hand against your wet shoulder to shoulder your eagerness (“Woah, woah — don’t get too ahead of yourself.”)

You make it known of your gratefulness. You buy takeout and share it on the stairs. You communicate your worries and walk out free of them.

You also hate him for rubbing raw of your potential. You hate him for the wounded look in his eyes when you falter. You hate him for the itch in his fingers when you push yourself some more.

But you keep that one for the shadows. Don’t make it known. Hide it behind falsity.

You share takeout on the stairs again.

The night before the assignment couldn’t be more gruelling.

You’re welcome by the sheets, yet find no recluse in them, as you twist and turn as the hours come. Your feet are stretched and throbbing with hurt from the range of pushing exercises from the day before, your fingers curling with effort only.

And your head is plagued. Swimming, bathed, with those reticent thoughts. Those same block letters that spoke back to you, flagged the death of thousands you knew from passing glances to remembered conversations.

You turn on your side, try to flush the thought away. But they come back with vigour, with spit.

You knew them.

You’d eaten with them.

You’ll die just the same.

Fuck this.

Your feet find the cold, hard-wood floors immediately. They’re a ridged comparison to the heat of the sheets, but a blistering reminder of what’s to come tomorrow. You pace your apartment, crowd your brain with tasks, busy your hands, till the sun flits past the clouds like routine.

And with your heart in your throat, you ready yourself to the chin, gripping yourself with the promise of doing what you must to euchre death on its own doorstep — both for you and Leon.

The day arrives with a quick start. You’re deployed in a vehicular that is smaller than anticipated, holding your fears in your hands with cupped palms. Leon sits beside you, eyes vacant of anything palpable. You’d talked once, but that’s all of what either of you offered each other up till now — now, it’s you and your fears, cut-throat and fusty, ahead of you.

A thought of your friend passes your mind.

A thought of the donut shop.

A thought of the bottom of your coffee cup.

A thought of the post-mortem images. Of the flesh. The blood. The time. The place.

“Remember,” Leon cards you out of your worst, thoughts crumbling against themselves as you swivel to glance at him, “on me at all times. No sudden moves. Got it?”

He is far more profound here, the spitting image of the rumours materialised into the skin of a battle worn agent — his tone is pebbly, no semblance of that night’s patience in it anymore.

He’s in it for good. And you should be too.

“Got it,” you reply when the seconds flow too far. He nods back, curt and sharp and you want to talk him up. Want to offer your share of strategies. Want to card through the wounds on your arm and how to avoid the bloody things. Want to loop your fingers through half of his experience and not want to set him back.

But it was never that simple. And the ride is just as silent.

Two hours in and you’re stationed against crumbling brick, jagged stone, MK-45 gripped tightly in your hands. The smell of rot, mycelium, abused your lungs. Makes you stagger forward and hold yourself by the seams like flesh on plying bone.

But when you look at Leon, he’s everything but as discomposed as you — his eyebrows are tightly drawn, a shadow to his eyes that wasn’t there prior. There’s a bite in his step, in the way he holds his weapon, in the way he surveys the area.

Get yourself together, you think.

Within minutes, you force yourself to straighten your back, swallow back the burdensome bile stretching against your mouth and prime yourself to the futile smell of the dead at every carrefour you cross.

“Ahead,” Leon speaks and clings to your attention.

You look ahead, noticing an array of groaning zombies clawing at a car that seemed to have initiated its alarm. The smell is amplified by the rub of petrol curdling out of the car (from the repeated clash of the zombies, you’re sure) and you frustrate yourself into not gagging — think ‘fucking hell, I really hate these things.’

“You go to the left, I’ll take the right,” Leon whispers and you realise his motive.

Mutual accomplishment built on the precipice of trust.

Still, he looks at you like he’ll splinter without a response.

Like he relies on this circulation, no matter how damning, how short. His eyes scream ‘don’t you dare do anything stupid’ and you choose to blur it into something nonsensical, a thought of ‘it’s common procedure, a set of instructions he needs to hand feed me’, choosing to ignore the obvious side of things, the bleeding flush of his words, the trepidation nailing every withering seam of his body.

He’d grown to interpret you as more than just a rookie, someone capable of vigour and strength of the winning.

He needed you alive.

You needed him to look at you other than a wounded animal.

You offer him some little nod, feet hurrying up to the fluster of zombies against the few cars gathered there — as you get close, you can see the vegetation cram against the side walk, the stink of flesh against the windshield.

But you’re skilled, not stupid.

Your weapon purrs with warmth in your hand as you pin down the first vier, working your second round of bullets with the other five you’ve attracted— their fractured groans are animalistic, orotund where human capability shouldn’t be.

But you’re twice the work than they ever are.

“Fuck,” you whisper, realising close proximity doesn’t hold up with your choice of weapon — so, working against better judgement, you retrieve your knife by the hilt, scoring it against the reeking flesh of the first two. You quickly gain footing and stab the other two point black in the skull, feeling the vibrating collusion fill the blade.

And you’re close — you feel it. With another plow, the last of them falters to the floor with a wet thump. Blood pools at your feet, curdles against the material of your boot as you curl a hand against your hip in weariness.

And yet, you have half the nerve to concern yourself with Leon.

As you turn, you quickly see that he is struggling. He’s cornered, stuck between a stretch of the building that allows a swift gateway of those creatures to buckle within arm’s reach. And there’s little solace as you learn the fact, as you ready your weapon — you’re aiming before you can think, firing before you can feel.

Leon spots you, as his jaw goes slack.

His voice is swollen with disbelief and you’re sure you catch the words “get out of here!” but you’re moving on the pure pump of your blood, of the stretch of muscle and skill in your body. Two, three, four enemies crumble at the bite of your bullet and your fingers sink against the sting of gunmetal.

Memorise the step of their movements.

Formulate an opening.

Ignore Leon’s snare and his warnings and the way his arms curl around his weapon and the look in his eye and the fickle hope in them and the way they look at you like you’re something wounded.

Ignore the way a grunt sounds in your ear, a pale and cleft palm clinching your shoulder like an orifice — and finally, you realise, Leon had been right.

The zombie is quick to remind you of your mortality — it swings you to the side with it’s astounding asperity, frightens you with the dexterity of its bones as it makes quick work of the distance between you. It’s teeth stitch against cold bone, blood and meat between the gaps.

You gasp out a hoarse cry — your weapon is out of reach and your arm stings with a burn, a swelter. Your leg feels numb and you’re sure you’ve caught it on something, and you’re convinced you’ll be half mauled to death, when suddenly,

“Shit!”

Leon rattles through the zombie towering you, sears it with a knife — it falls atop you like meat and you shove it off with awfully numb hands. You’re barely catching respite as Leon hauls you above his shoulder as he runs to some place else, and the world quickly melts beneath your eyelids.

The next time you’re conscious, it’s much quieter.

There’s a dripping noise from your right — you try to play with that recurring sound till you’ve figured your bearings, but the throb in your head is searing. Your leg jumps with a pain so awful you choke a cry when you’re all opened eyed and slack jaw, and you catch sight of Leon in front of you, balancing your leg atop his lap for inspection.

“L-Leon?” you gasp, feel the burn of your throat. You’ve said nothing but he quickly hands you a water bottle, and you allow yourself the contents almost immediately — “Where are we…?”

“A few ways off the target location. Recuperating,” he answers, too quick, too harsh. You wince, both from his demeanour and the growing image of your maimed leg — the skin is dented with much blood, the flesh peeling apart with ease and the pain hits you like a train. His fingers are trembling and spat with your blood, moseying around the quiver of the wound.

And you can’t figure out where your pain ends and where his anger begins.

For one, there’s some grip to his movement, in the way he bandages the broken flesh of your leg. The way he swats your hand away when you go to dictate the amount of hurt it would bring.

Only then does he look up and your breath hitches — his eyes are red rimmed, mouth set like hard stone in a frown and his jaw sharp, blistering to a furious degree.

“I’m sorry—“

“Are you? Because you would’ve been dead without me having been there” he spits out, lashing against your apologetic words. You press your lips together, a bitter feeling fermenting in every space your framework can produce.

“I said I’m sorry Leon.”

“Will that fix your wound?” He grates and his voice sounds like a threat. It worries you. It angers you. Its rends you like glass, cuts you like a skiver.

“Maybe if you didn’t look at me like a fucking wounded animal, I would quit taking my chances at dying” you force out, tone through clattering teeth when his fingers pause over that delicate and awfully repulsive spot on your leg.

“What?”

“Oh, please don’t play pretend with me Leon,” it’s your turn to hit the brakes, “It’s that look you give me — like I’m some backwater D.S.O rookie here to drag you through glass. Like—Like I’m here to get myself killed.”

You pause, breath cut short with an unsatisfactory cry as you throw your head back from the gushing pain from the wound. You crack open a weary eye to spot his movements have resumed, but his jaw is quivering, jagged, his eyes unfocused and his hair in his face.

Shit, shit, shit — I’ve really done it now.

“Wait, Leon—“

“Is that what you think this is?”

You blink — his fingers are on the ground beside your hips, his eyes flooded with disbelief. Much like earlier, only this time, it’s counterpart being woe instead of anger of disappointment. He lifts his head, cradles the anguish in his eyes with a tattered sigh and you realise, oh. You had it all wrong.

“That you’re just some agent I don’t care about?” he’s close, somehow, “that—that I care for you out of duty?” closer, now, with his breath on your neck, on your face, in your ear, “That I don’t want you gone so soon because I only tolerate you? Not because—I like you?”

Your anger drops its futile act.

“What?” you whisper, because you’re so beguiled that it’s a trick. A trick from the pump of adrenaline in you, from the fear. The sweat. But he’s looking into you, at you, and his stare is not sympathetic. It stinks of love and admiration and truth and some close call of fear.

“I’m saying that I like you.”

There’s a few moments of clouded breath. You’ve never done this before — never held this song and dance of emotion between another and certainly not at a time like this, but god, Leon looks at you like you’re something to be worshipped, not admonished like the wounded thing that you are.

He looks at you like hope.

Like love and love and love.

And you’ve never appreciated the stench of rot on you or another, and you’ve never appreciated distractions. But the burn of his lips against yours is delicious and swirling with something addictive when you meet him with nothing but rigour — he kisses you back like he’s meant to, like he’s going to run out of you if he doesn’t.

And when you pull away, groaning as your leg spasms with hurt, you smile at him gently, curve a laugh from your overworked lungs.

“Buy me dinner first, Kennedy.”

“Kennedy?”

“Would you prefer Scott?”

“God, you’re awful.”

© 2023 qvrcll ! do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[daydreamtofiction]

Malicious Compliance // Surgeon Strange x Reader

Masterlist | Request a Fic

Summary: After a brief meeting with the world renowned neurosurgeon Doctor Stephen Strange, he plans to make you his latest conquest. He’s only interested in one thing, but that’s okay, because so are you. (female reader)

Word Count: 4.6K

Warnings: Strong language, explicit sexual content, pre-sorcerer Strange (arrogant, cocky). Smut: no strings attached, dominance & praise, oral sex (receiving), light choking, unprotected sex (sort of?). Readers must be 18+

A/N: Just a quick lil oneshot for you all. I literally thought of this today and the whole thing poured out of me in one sitting lmao. I like it though, hope you guys do too!

His eyes are glaciers. Cold, hard, yet always moving. They flit towards the window, sunlight turning them the crispest blue, then back down to the notebook on the table in front of him. They warm slightly when he looks over to Doctor Palmer, roll languidly whenever Doctor West speaks. But in the end, they always seem to settle back on you.

He’s as hubristic as you’d expected; leant back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, taking up as much space as his body will allow. He corrects a colleague when they call him Stephen. It’s Doctor Strange, he says, voice so deep and rich it’s almost tangible. 

He watches as you press your finger to the inner corner of your eye, trying to rub away the tired itch beginning to take root there. You wonder how offended he’d be if he knew you fell asleep reading one of his published papers last night, how you woke up in your hotel room this morning with your cheek pressed to page seventeen of The Strange Palmer Method. It would make his blood boil, you think, to know his work had been used as a pillow. You resist the urge to tell him. 

Coffee burns the roof of your mouth. You wince and place the cup back down on the boardroom table, sift through the pile of papers in front of you as the room waits for you to speak again.

“Honey,” says Doctor Strange. 

“I’m sorry?” you reply. 

He points to your mouth. “It’ll help with that burn.” 

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head. “Oh I didn’t- It was just a little warmer than I expected. Thanks, though.” 

The corner of his mouth curls and he turns to look down the length of the table, the flecks of silver at his temple catching in the light.

You clear your throat as you find the document you were looking for. “So, pending approval from the ABMS, we would like to roll out training for the Strange Palmer Method in all of our hospitals.”

“What about my new technique for stent placement?” asks Doctor West. 

“Oh please, Nic,” Strange scoffs. “We’re talking about actual revolutionary surgical procedures here.” 

Doctor West’s back straightens, you open your mouth to speak but he gets there first.

“Excuse me, my stent technique could drastically cut down the amount of time a patient’s brain is open on the table! Do you even realise-” 

“Mhm, why don’t you go win some awards and make national news, then maybe we can talk.” 

Doctor Palmer’s head falls into her hands as the other surgeons groan and shift uncomfortably in their seats. You’ve met your fair share of asshole surgeons in this job; travelling up and down the country stroking egos and exalting god complexes. But this man sitting across from you is, without a doubt, the victor of them all. 

“The stent technique is very interesting,” you say, easing the tension in the room. “But we would need to see the results of a study or trial of some kind before taking it any further.” 

“Very diplomatic of you,” says Strange. 

“Not diplomatic. I just know a promising procedure when I see it.”

“Hm. Are you a doctor?”

Your gaze turns to a glare. “I am.” 

“Where do you practice?”

“I don’t anymore. My job is to keep other doctors at the top of their game. Hence why I’m here right now with all of you.”

He’s almost smirking, head cocked slightly, twiddling a pen between his fingers. It’s fitting, you think, to see a surgeon take such pleasure in getting under people’s skin. 

You hate that you find him attractive. That you’ve managed to fall victim to a charm buried so deep beneath layers of pure arrogance that you have to dig to find it. If he wasn’t so beautiful on the outside, you’re almost certain you wouldn’t bother fighting to find something redeemable within. But the way your body reacts to him; the warmth, the buzzing deep in your belly, it must be there. 

The meeting finishes and you remain at the table, straightening the wad of papers in front of you and slotting them back into your binder as everyone filters out of the room. When you’re alone, you stand and walk to the large window, taking a moment to gaze out at the view. Your eyes skim New York City, admiring the blend of old and new; small stone buildings wedged between tall skyscrapers, the late afternoon sun glinting across metal and glass, pockets of green peppered amongst brick and mortar. You wish you got to come here more often. 

You pick up your briefcase and drape your jacket over your arm as you make your way out of the boardroom. The corridor is bright and quiet, but the bustling of the hospital is a low hum. You close the door behind you and begin to walk, unfazed by the sight of a figure leaning against the wall up ahead. 

His arms are folded over his broad chest, dark blue scrubs doing little for his tall, robust frame. His legs are crossed at the ankles as he rests his weight back against the wall, head stooped slightly, but his eyes are on you. 

“Doctor Strange,” you say with a polite nod as you continue past him.

He smiles, allows you to pass, but you feel him move behind you. 

“You don’t really think Doctor West’s procedure holds any merit?” he asks, catching up to walk at your side. 

“I do.” You furrow your brow. “You don’t think there’s merit in improving the efficiency of existing surgeries?” 

He shrugs. “Just not all that exciting when you compare it to what I’m doing.” 

“You mean what you and Doctor Palmer are doing…” 

There’s a chuckle deep in his throat, like he enjoys the back and forth, watching his opponents fight for their lives while to him it’s just a sparring match. He quickens his pace to slip in front of you, turning to face you and forcing you to halt in the middle of the corridor. 

“Be honest,” he says. “You’re impressed.” 

“Of course we’re impressed. Why else would the board have sent me here?” 

“No I mean you, specifically.” 

You glare up at him, hiding your amusement with an eye roll. “Yes, Doctor,” you say slowly, your words empty and biting. “I am very impressed.” 

His cupid’s bow deepens as his lips curve into a self satisfied smile, lines forming in his cheeks and the corners of his eyes. He knows you find him infuriating, but it only seems to encourage him. There’s a moment of silence, long enough for his gaze to trail the length of you, just once. 

“You know, I’d love to talk more with you about it,” he says, looking down at his obviously expensive watch. “Maybe over dinner. Have you eaten?” 

You draw in a deep breath through your nose, letting it out in a sigh as you begin to speak. “I don’t need your superficial attempts to woo me, Doctor.” You reach into your briefcase and pull out a pen and a business card, scrawling on the back of it and handing it to him. “This is where I’m staying. Come by around eight.” 

You’re certain he’s going to protest, pretend he actually wants to go to dinner, talk, that he was ever interested in anything that didn’t involve the removal of your clothes. You wait in suspense as his eyes flit down to the card in his hand, then back up to your face.

“I prefer to fuck in my own bed,” he says bluntly. 

A wave crashes in your stomach, rushing down into your core, the sensation so strong and unexpected that your knees almost buckle. This isn’t the first time one of your work trips has ended in you going home with a surgeon, but the way this one doesn’t try to feign the ‘nice guy’, doesn’t pretend to want anything more from you than your body, that’s new.  

“Unless I’m on vacation, of course,” he adds with a cocky smile. 

“Of course…” 

He flips the card over and plucks the pen from your hand. You watch as he scribbles on it and hands it back to you. 

“So this is where I’ll be tonight,” he says. “You said eight works for you?”  

You press your tongue to the inside of your cheek, unsure if you’ve ever met anyone as imperious as this. You slip the card into your pocket and move to walk past him, stopping as your shoulders brush and looking up at him. 

“I hope your dick is as inflated as your ego.”

He smirks to himself, remaining quiet as you continue to walk away. 

Your skirt is riding up your backside. You reach back to yank it down for the hundredth time before pressing the buzzer on the wall of the apartment building. The setting sun is just a glow beneath the horizon but the streets are still busy, the air warm with a pleasant breeze. You lean back to stare up at the building, the mirrored windows stretching so high you can’t see an end to them. You wonder which one is his. 

There’s a scratching sound on the intercom, followed by a deep voice. “Yeah?” 

“It’s me,” you say, glancing over your shoulders as if you’re on some kind of secret mission, scared of being seen. 

He doesn’t speak again, instead there’s a quick buzz followed by the click of the heavy front door. You let yourself inside, heels clacking against the glossy marble floor as you hurry towards the elevators. When the doors slide open, you pull out your business card, punch in the floor number he’d scrawled in the bottom corner. It begins to ascend, making your already swirling stomach turn. 

You pull down the back of your skirt again as you step out into the hall, peering down the length of it in search of his apartment. The door is tall and wide, dark timber and a heavy metallic handle. You knock but your knuckles barely make a sound, the dense wood swallowing the echo. 

Still, he comes. You regard him quietly as you step inside, the snug sweater and tailored jeans, a pair of sneakers making you feel entirely overdressed. He’s already grinning; a smug, confident smile that reignites the ire in your chest. You ignore him and walk further in, eyes wide in awe at the vast, industrial space.

You walk over to the window that stretches the length of the apartment, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, framing a perfect snapshot of the city. 

“Now I understand why you make the women come to you,” you say. 

“Hm?” 

“This place. It’s impressive.” You glance over your shoulder at him. “That’s the point, right? You like to impress. To show off.”  

He laughs quietly and makes his way to the kitchen area, opening the extensive liquor cabinet. “You want something to drink?” 

“I have rules,” you say abruptly, turning around to face him from across the echoey room.

He straightens. “Go on…” 

“Nothing that happens here can be used for any type of professional leverage, good or bad, by either of us.” 

“Of course-”

“This isn’t a date. I don’t spend the night, I don’t keep in touch, I don’t call when I’m back in town so we can do this again. This is just tonight. And it’s just sex. Understood?” 

“Understood.” He returns to the cabinet and takes out a bottle. “So, about that drink…”

You’re already gone, wandering off through a door at the rear of the apartment in search of the bedroom. 

You find it. It’s a dark, cave-like space, large curtains draped across another huge window, only the faintest glow of the sunset fighting through the fabric. It’s clinical, just as you’d expect from a surgeon; sleek furniture void of any clutter or knick knacks, exposed brick walls with the occasional piece of art - no photographs. There’s a full length mirror, a small couch, and a bed so large you could sink into it and disappear. You wonder just how many women have delved beneath those sheets before you. 

He appears in the doorway, looking you up and down. “You’re eager, little one,” he teases.

You roll your eyes, watching as he closes the door behind him and approaches you. You reach up to touch him, to kiss him, but instead he takes your wrists in his hands and lowers them back to your sides. 

“Mm, not yet.” 

You scoff in dispute, eyes following him as he strolls across the room and switches on the wall sconces, illuminating the area above the bed in a dim, warm light. 

“Look,” you say. “If you’re just going to mess with me then-”

“Well actually, after you left the hospital this afternoon, I got called to consult on a patient and ended up having to stay late. I just got home around fifteen minutes before you knocked on my door. So if you don’t mind, I would like to take a shower first. Is that alright with you?” he finishes sarcastically. 

You settle down, composing yourself and relaxing your shoulders. “Of course.” 

“Make yourself comfortable.” 

He pushes open a door to the right and you catch a glimpse of the luxurious, marbled master bathroom as he steps inside. The door closes behind him, leaving you alone again. You stand there for a moment, listening to him whistling to himself, his belt buckle unfastening and hitting the floor. Water bursts from the shower, the sound like soft static, and you immediately rush over to the mirror. 

You examine yourself carefully; fix your hair, press your nose to your skin and clothes, shift your underwear so it sits smoothly and undetectable beneath your skirt. Then you sit down at the foot of the bed, knee bouncing impatiently. You change your mind shortly after, moving to the small couch opposite the bed instead. 

Ten minutes or so pass, but it feels like an eternity. You picture him drawing it out on purpose, working the lather into his skin one section at a time, scrubbing at his hair for much longer than necessary, just to make you sweat. The water shuts off and you listen to him singing to himself, the hum of his voice through the door. When the door finally opens, steam escapes into the bedroom, the rich smell of citrus and cedar filling the air as he walks out, still humming quietly. 

You glance over at him, mouth falling open slightly to find him completely naked, your gaze falling immediately to the pronounced length hanging from his body as he pads across the room. You look away quickly, rolling your eyes and huffing with indignation. Of course he’s naked, you think, he likes to spar, and you’ve willingly stepped into the ring.

Droplets sit on his shoulders and roll down his torso as he moves around the bed. He climbs on and lays down right in the middle, hands resting behind his head, propped up slightly on the headboard. His hair is still damp, half-coiffed, the grey at his temples darker than it was before. His body is solid, the mystery beneath the scrubs now revealed to you in all its glory. His arms are thick as they flex either side of his head, divots of muscle creating shadows across his torso, cock resting proudly on his thigh as he parts his legs in wait. He’s exquisite, and you can’t help but bask in the sight. 

“So,” he says casually. “Are you just going to stay over there looking at me? Or are you going to come and sit on my face?” 

You glare at him, unamused. 

“What?” he shrugs gently. “You’re the one that said this was strictly sex. Forgive me for abiding by your rules.” 

“There’s a word for that, you know,” you reply. “Malicious compliance.”

“Mm, is it really malicious if I’m offering to eat you out?”

“Depends how good you are at it.” 

“Come here and find out.”  There’s no humour in his tone, but it’s still playful, like he’s goading you. 

You stand up and take a step towards the bed. 

“Clothes,” he demands. 

You stop, pressing your lips together tightly. His eyes never leave you, remaining locked on yours as you kick off your shoes and untuck your top from the waistband of your skirt. 

“They should study you,” you say. 

“Study me?” 

“Yeah.” You lift your top over your head and throw it to the floor, reaching down to unzip your skirt. “Look into how one singular person could possibly be such an ass.” 

“Clearly there’s a part of you that likes it, y’know, since you’re here… taking your clothes off for me.”

“What can I say? I’m partial to a surgeon. Think it’s the hands.” 

The skirt pools at your feet and you step out of it, extending your arms as if to say ‘ta da’. He smiles. 

No one has ever looked at you like this. So intense, like he’s studying every inch; relishing in every freckle and blemish, every curve and crease, mapping out the places he plans to touch, taste, explore. 

You continue towards him but he raises his palm, halting you again. “You haven’t finished,” he says. 

You glance down at yourself, then back up to him, letting out a grumbling sigh as you reach behind you to unclasp your bra. It pops open, the release of pressure on your skin as soothing as a deep breath. His gaze darkens as you slide the straps off your shoulders, watching your nipples harden as you reveal your bare breasts to him. 

“These too?” you ask, hooking your thumbs into the waistline of your underwear. 

“Mhm.” 

You take them off as gracefully as you can, shimmying them over your hips and thighs and kicking them away. His cock is hardening, swelling and rising towards his stomach. Your mouth twitches with a triumphant smile, but you suppress it as you climb onto the bed, crawling up to meet him. 

You lean down and press your lips to his, feeling your skin prick, arousal kindling in your core. His mouth is smart, but it’s also divine. The feeling intensifies, spreading through your belly and pounding between your legs as you sweep your tongue into his open mouth, feel his restraint wavering as your hot breaths mingle. You let your chest press against his, the feeling of skin on skin making you burn with need. 

You bring a hand up to his face, he brings his to your throat, bracketing it gently and peeling his mouth from yours. 

“I didn’t tell you to kiss me,” he says quietly. “I told you to sit on my face.” 

You pull back a little more, making eye contact, breathless as a million comebacks shutter through your mind. But in the end you say nothing, letting out a soft huff and slowly shifting your body up the bed.

You hold the top of the extravagant headboard with both hands and swing one leg over him, straddling his shoulders as his fingers reach up behind you to the small of your back. His touch is electric, lips searing as they plant a kiss on your inner thigh. A soft whimper escapes you in a breath, as though anticipation is its own foreplay. 

He wraps his arms around the backs of your thighs and pulls you down onto his mouth. Your grip tightens on the headboard, fingernails digging into the soft, cushiony fabric as he parts his lips against your centre, sucking softly on your already throbbing clit. Your head falls back when his tongue drags up the length of your slit, moulding itself to every pucker and groove, lapping you up like he adores you, and you wonder how many women have fallen for him in these moments. 

You groan quietly, closing your eyes as you focus on the flicks and strokes of his tongue, the sucking and swirling, the hums deep in his throat and he devours you. Your clit is sensitive, making you shudder, the pleasure so intense you can barely stand it. Your body raises up instinctively, but he tightens his hold on you, spitting on your clit and returning his mouth to the place that both aches and sings, somehow at the same time. 

You gasp in response, eyelids fluttering as you swear under your breath. He releases one of your thighs and you glance over your shoulder to see his hand wrapping around his cock. He begins to stroke it forcefully, working himself to the rhythm of his mouth, and you almost fall to pieces. 

“Oh my god,” you moan, slumping forward and pressing your forehead to the headboard. 

Your thighs clamp around his head, but it only spurs him on, making him bury his face deeper, and you can’t remember the last time he came up for air.

“I can’t,” you whisper. 

The nerves in your clit are screaming, dancing on the precipice between pain and pleasure. He continues to lap at your centre, pushing you to the edge until you’re clinging on for dear life. Pressure swells in your core, flooding you with a tingling heat that softens your bones and turns you to liquid. Until finally you’re there, falling, melting. 

He growls as your body begins to shake, working his tongue over you one last time before releasing you from his grasp. You collapse next to him, sliding down the pillows until you’re lying at his side. You’re breathless, chest rising and falling heavily as you stare up at the ceiling. 

He rolls onto his side to face you. “You’re quiet when you come,” he says, placing a kiss into the crook of your neck, another at the dip of your collarbone.  

“I’ve spent the past two years practically living in hotel rooms,” you reply. “I’ve learned to be inconspicuous.” 

“Hm.” He props himself up on his forearm and leans over you, his other hand trailing softly down the side of your body. “Let’s see if we can do something about that.” 

Before you can reply, he’s kissing you. His mouth is slick, it tastes of you. Your body is spent, limbs heavy, yet still you find it responding to his touch. He shifts further onto you, spreading your legs with his hands and settling himself between them. You can feel his cock nudging your centre as he rocks his hips, sliding along the soaking wet mess he left there and brushing his head over your clit. It’s sensitive, raw, makes you gasp. But he swallows the sound with a heady kiss.

He’s big. Thick. Hard. Maybe that’s where he stores his arrogance. He continues to tease you, soaking himself in the mix of spit and slick as he wraps his hands around your neck, kisses you so deeply you can feel him drawing a moan from your throat.

He pulls away and looks down at you for a moment. “Condom?” he asks casually.

You’re on the pill. Have been since you were seventeen. But still, you know you should say yes. Yesterday, this man was a stranger; a face you only knew from TV and the medical articles you’d read.

“No.” You shake your head and reach down, gripping his cock and directing it into you.

He chuckles, the sound deep and low. “What a good girl.” 

You sigh as he teases at your entrance, pushing the head of his cock in and out but never breaking all the way through. 

“Were you thinking about this today in the meeting?” he taunts softly. 

You groan and buck your hips, desperate for him to take you. 

He eases back slightly and tuts. “I saw you squirming in your seat. How hot and flustered you got when I looked at you. Tell me how much you wanted this.” 

“What I wanted,” you begin quietly. “Was to wring your neck.” 

The corner of his mouth curls into a smirk. “Really…” 

“Really.” 

He squeezes his fingers gently around your throat and you exhale softly. The desire is almost painful, your core throbbing, pussy aching. 

“Funny how things work out,” he says. 

You let out a stifled moan as he sinks into you, filling you so completely you’re certain you can’t take it.

“That’s it,” he mutters as he looks down, watching his cock disappear all the way to the hilt. 

You whimper and tighten around him. He sucks the air in through his teeth, returning his gaze to your eyes with a mischievous smile. 

“I’m gonna need you to not do that,” he says. “You’ll have me finishing in seconds.” 

“Are you telling me the great Doctor Stephen Strange lacks self discipline?” You contract your walls again, this time on purpose.

He bows, forehead resting on your chest, and growls deep in the back of his throat. Then suddenly, without warning, he draws his hips back and buries himself in you again. You gasp, fingers digging into the blades of his shoulders as he repeats his thrusts, building to a firm, steady rhythm. 

A small cry escapes you; a sound you’ve never heard yourself make before. He hums in response, keeping you pinned to the bed with his hands around your neck as he snaps his hips, punishing you from the inside out. 

“Wrap those legs around my back,” he demands. 

You do as you’re told, locking your ankles and gasping as he sinks further, the head of his cock kissing the deepest parts of you and sending jolts of pure electricity through your stomach. 

“You’re going to break me,” you whisper.

“Not this time. Maybe later,” he replies, still so arrogant it makes you want to reach up and slap him. 

But your hands are stuck to his back, nails digging into the smooth, taut flesh. Another unfamiliar sound falls from your lips, somewhere between a grunt and a hum. He likes it, you can tell in the way he closes his eyes to compose himself.

“Jesus,” he hisses.

His movements begin to stutter and he rests his forehead against yours. You feel his cock throbbing, your pussy growing wetter until it’s dripping. He lets out a long, satisfied groan and begins to slow down, every rock of his hips like the promise of another climax. 

“Don’t stop,” you whisper desperately. “Please don’t stop, I’m so close.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but still he obliges; continuing to stroke into you as you squirm beneath him.

“Oh god,” you groan. “Harder. I need- harder.” 

He grunts, screwing his eyes shut tightly, and begins pounding his cock into you with such force you can feel your body shifting up the mattress. You know he already came, you know how sensitive he must be. But somehow, knowing that makes this all the more delicious.

The electricity builds again, every thrust like a lightning strike through your core. Your legs begin to shake and you finally let go, giving in to the current and letting it course through you. Your orgasm is intense, sharp and tingly, making you shudder, body stiffening until it passes. 

He slows to a stop, resting his full weight on top of you. You welcome the pressure, like a weighted blanket; warm and grounding, soothing the ache beginning to settle in your limbs. 

After a few moments, he slides out of you carefully, rolling over to lie at your side. “You want that drink now?” he asks. 

Hair sticks to your forehead with sweat, you brush it back, sucking in deep breaths as you stare up at the ceiling. “No, I’m good.” 

Silence envelops you, neither one of you speaking again until your hearts stop thumping. 

“So… I guess this means you’re going to approve the training for my method,” he says. 

You turn your head, glaring at him in stunned silence. 

“I’m kidding,” he says with a smile, greatly amusing himself. 

“God, surgeons are assholes,” you mutter.

[vintagerpg]

My first encounter with the zine/chapbook/booklet format was with these cool booklets you could get at Revolutionary War sites in New Jersey, which would have short stories or historical essays in them, perhaps accompanied with some art or a map (gee, if that doesn’t sound like an RPG zine, dang). My second encounter was a near simultaneous one-two punch — Pagan Publishing’s Unspeakable Oath, and Necronomicon Press’ gorgeous line of weird fiction chapbooks. Looking at the latter today (and you’ll see all of the former on weekends later this year).

History of the Necronomicon (originally 1980, this is the sixth printing from 1992) is, appropriately, a pretty typical example of the products. This is a facsimile of a short run of booklets produced as a memorial for Lovecraft in 1938, reproducing his bibliographic essay on his most notorious grimoire. S. T. Joshi has a brief historical afterword. The whole thing is printed on heavy stock, with a bright yellow cover adorned with black and white art by Jason Eckhardt (very into the scorpion scarf). A handsome package containing an entertaining piece of writing by a weird fiction author that was otherwise difficult to gain access to (I don’t know of any other places the essay was collected before Arkham House’s Miscellaneous Writings in 1995).

The essay itself is interesting, a great example of how Lovecraft imbued the Necronomicon with a beguiling authenticity through faux-academic writing and reference (it also is a curiously presentation of Lovecraft’s default xenophobia mixed with an abiding love for the Thousand and One Nights, both of which clearly inform the text). The book’s Arabic title is Al Azif supposedly takes its name from the buzzing sound of locusts that was associated with Djinn and whispered revelation (and hence the locusts in Eckhardt’s art). The book of the buzzing. Love that.

[deathbxnny]

Hello ! Can I request an s/o with a really soothing, calm and smooth voice with the Stellaron Hunters ? Idk why it sounds really nice maybe because I'm a simp for smooth voices. Love what you write btw

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A/N: Thank you for the request and sweet words Anon! Also I absolutely relate to this and it's one of the many reasons I'm obsessed with Kafka. Her English voice does unspeakable things to me lmao

Content: Fluff, established relationship, reader has a smooth voice, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns!

((Not fully proofread))

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》Kafka

She's obsessed with the way your voice sounds and is not shy to compliment you about it either. In fact, she loves flustering you with her own sultry and smooth voice as payback.

Kafka could listen to your voice for hours and therefore talks to you alot, just to hear more of it. It doesn't matter what the topic is either, as long as she can hear you speak, she won't care. It's just so soothing and relaxing to her. You could ask anything of her and she'll do it with no hesitation.

This however means, that arguing with her over anything won't really work either, as she'll always be way too distracted by your pretty voice. She can't take you seriously, when you sound so soothing and cute.

-----♡

》Blade

Blade seems mostly unaffected by your voice and doesn't make a big fuss out of it. Why should he care anyways? Its nothing special and he hears you talk everyday... but it's all just an act, ofcourse.

Deep down, he's enamoured by your smooth voice. You're just so soothing and calming to him. Whenever he's having a rough day, he knows you'll be there to help and soothe him. Your voice always instantly calms him down.

With that said, he won't ever tell you about the effect you have on him. He's way too stubborn to admit that and doesn't want you to think that he is weak... but you still notice how easily he caved to your demands, whenever your voice is extra smooth.

-----♡

》Silver Wolf

She loves your voice and gives you compliments on it, but that's as much as you'll get out of her. She already thinks that everything about you is perfect, so she doesn't find it surprising or revolutionary, that your voice is perfect as well.

With that said, you keep her calm and focused, whenever you two are working together. Her job can be very stressful and hearing you gently tell her to take it easy, whilst you encourage her, helps her alot.

You soothe and calm her, but also sometimes fluster her on rare occasions. If you catch her in the perfect time, you might get a small blush put of her, as she tries responding to you normally. Perhaps she's just in denial at how much your voice truly does affects her.

-----♡

A/N: I hope this is okay, Anon! Thank you again for the request!<33

[melodymay-k1tty]

Hello...

Well, could you do a scenario where the S/O should take care of some drunk OC and they declare their love to her or something...? Well, actually that would be cool with a Fem!Reader, but do as you wish, it's your choice!🫠💕 Btw I would also admire if in Part 1 you could include Sabo and Corazon in particular, I would really like to see them in this situation lmao😵‍💫

SABO ★ CORAZON ★ SANJI ★ LAW: DECLARING HIS LOVE FOR S/O AFTER GETTING DRUNK.

A/N: Well, I'm new to this scenario thing, and I'm not that big a fan of requests, cuz I can't write about something if I don't feel it in my heart... But I think I can manage about it. So here it is. Thank you so much for all your love, care and support! 🤧🩷

Age Rating: +12

Content Warning: consumption of alcoholic drinks. kiss description. maybe a little angst.

Genres: fluffy. headcanons (scenario).

Characters: sabo x fem!reader. corazon x fem!reader. sanji x fem!reader. law x fem!reader.

Word Count: 2.2k

SABO (Being the user of Mera Mera no Mi🔥)

• You are a high-ranking officer in the Revolutionary Army, Sabo's right-hand. After a successful mission of the two of you in Dressrosa, he decided to invite you to drink something in a bar, which was located on an island nearby. You accepted.

• You're not a big fan of alcohol, but Sabo didn't know that. The blonde guy, on the other hand, was a big fan of alcoholic drinks, and used to consume it whenever he was successful in his missions (which is quite often).

• He sat at the counter bar after you two comes there, and you did the same. Sabo called for a waiter who came immediately. He placed his order, which was beer, and asked you to order yours.

“I'll have a non-alcoholic strawberry cocktail with condensed milk, please.” You talk while the waiter writes it down on his pad of paper.

“Alright, ma'am and sir. I will bring your order soon.” He speaks after withdrawing from there.

Sabo looked at you in a somewhat strange way. “You don’t drink alcohol?”

“No, I like sweet drinks more.” You speak while he stares at you seriously, but he soon opens a smile. “Cutie.” He smiles like a know-it-all.

You looked at him strangely, and he immediately retaliated. “I meant, you look like a cute little girl acting like that.” He makes fun of your face a little.

“Sabo...” You look at him with hate and you were ready to attack him. But the waiter interrupts them.

“Your order is almost ready. In the meantime, would you like to fill out this survey?” He asks while handing over a sheet with some questions.

“What is it about?” You ask. “Can't you read, little girl?” Sabo laughs and makes fun of your face some more. “It's a survey about couples, and here it also says that couples who respond will get a discount of up to 50% on the amount spent at the bar.” He says with his knowing smile.

“But we're not a cou...” Before you can finish your sentence, Sabo puts his hand over your mouth, preventing you from speaking. “Will we really get that discount?” He asks the waiter, with his usual smile.

“Of course, sir. Just complete the survey with your girlfriend, and you'll get 50% off. It's a data collection survey for an article that will be released on Valentine's Day, in the island's local newspaper.”

“I understand. I'll do it as soon as possible then.” Sabo speaks enthusiastically to the waiter who leaves. The blondie starts marking off some answers on the survey, like we're really dating.

You had already understood that Sabo was a cheapskate and didn't like to spend money on others. So you decided to just leave it down.

He finished marking the answers, and shortly after that, your drinks arrived.

You two started drinking, but Sabo got too carried away. He ordered more and more glasses of beer, one after another. Maybe he was thinking that 50% off could become 100%...

And when you least realized it, he was out of his mind. “Y/N, let's go home soon” he grumble drunkenly, collapsing on top of you.

His sleepy voice showed just how much alcohol had already knocked him out. You saw no option but to take him for home.

“Okay, just let me pay the bill first” Apparently, the account is left for you. But thinking on the bright side, at least a discount you would have.

Sabo couldn't even pay attention to what you said. You then placed him gently propped up in the chair, and got up to go pay the bill.

After that, you put him on your shoulders and left the bar with him.

“How heavy he is...” You complain while carrying he with difficulties.

He had a stupid smile on his face, he looked like a retard. You looked at him strangely.

“What it is?” You asked arching your eyebrow. Sabo acted strange after your question, he turned red and sparks started to come out of his logia body.

He smirks again, his cheeks getting redder.

“Y/N, I love you…” His stupid smile gave it all away. You were in shock and ended up letting go of him, letting him fall to the ground.

“AAUGH!” he lets out a groan of pain as he strokes his own head. “Hmph. Y/N, why are you so mean to me?” he says this as he gets up, and his drunken body begins to stagger.

“I'm sorry, Sabo...” You say as you help him up. “Y-you… Are you serious?” you widen your eyes.

“Y/N, I want to sleep with you today and always...” he closed his eyes and was about to fall asleep. You leaned against a bench, pulling Sabo with you, and make a phone call for Dragon, who went to get you and took you to your house.

You two went to your rooms, and you went to sleep thoughtfully.

The next day you woke up and went to the kitchen for breakfast, bumping into Sabo, who blushed violently when he saw you. But now, in an embarrassed way.

“H-hello, I-I'm sorry about what happened yesterday...” He speaks awkwardly. “It's okay, Sabo-kun...” You smile sweetly.

You two was in a compelling silent for a while. Until he decides to say something. “I think we need to talk… I need to clear something up.”

“Sure, what is it?” You looked fine on the outside, but on the inside, your heart was beating hard with fear of what he might say to you.

“Dragon told me everything. I know what I say to you in yesterday night, and about that... I need to tell you that it's really true.” Now he was staring at you. And again, sparks were shooting out of his body, his face was red and he was probably really fear of what you might say too.

“Sabo-kun...” You murmur.

“Okay, I understand that you might not feel the same about me. But I would like you to know that, although.” He says as him leave the kitchen, but you pull him by the arm.

“S-Sabo...” You look deep into his eyes, and he looks into yours. Your bright eyes never stopped looking at each other. “I love you too.” You said as you approached him. The blondie approached you too, shifting his gaze between your eyes and your lips.

He placed his big hand on your face, and kissed you passionately but calmly. Your lips glued to each other, were making your bodies approach too, and in a matter of moments, you and Sabo were glued and your kiss was getting even more intense and passionate.

“I am the happiest man in the world to know that, my little girl.” He speaks after parting with you, stroking your hair and smiling cutely at you. “But I love you more...”

Finally you could understand, that he didn't do the couple survey to get a discount, but because he loves you and, in fact, wanted you like his girlfriend.

CORAZON ♠️

• You were part of the Donquixote Pirates, led by the infamous Doflamingo. While you were still living in Spider Miles, the whole family was gathered at the table and having dinner, when you felt someone poke you under the table.

• You looked to the side, seeing Corazon's serene face disguise as he lit a cigarette. He had left a note on top of your thighs.

• You pocketed the note and politely left the table, getting Doflamingo's permission. You went to your room and read the note. On it was written “You said you wanted to get to know me better. We're going out to eat today, I know of a wonderful restaurant nearby. I hope you isn't full yet.” You opened a silly smile when you read the note, and ran to change your clothes, and soon to meet him discreetly outside. You climbed out your bedroom window and left, going to meet Corazon.

He was leaning against the wall outside the house. As always in silence, lighting his cigarette. When he realized you were there, he stared fixedly at you, and let his cigarette go out carelessly.

“Wh-what is?” You asked embarrassed as you crossed your legs because of your momentary shyness.

“Nothing” He answered coldly and walked away, and you followed him. You felt honored that you were the only person who knew Corazon could speak. It was like you were special.

You two finally arrived at the restaurant, beautifully decorated with artifacts of dragons and other ancient legends creatures. The food smelled divine.

“Hmm” You mutter at that delicious smell. “Maybe you really were right when you said this restaurant is wonderful, Corazon” You say smiling.

“You can be sure I don't make mistakes when it comes to food” He replied confidently and sat down at a table in the corner of the restaurant, with your company.

The waiter came to serve us with a menu in hand. “Good night, sir and ma'am. What will you want for today? Our menu is full of original and exclusive recipes only from here, but we also have traditional ones” He says as he places the menu on the table.

“I'll have the dragon meat in white sauce, with vegetables and all the extras. For a drink, I would like a red wine and a white wine” Corazon spoke without even thinking twice, making you speechless.

“Right, sir” The waiter takes your order. “And Ma'am, what will you want?” he asks you, while Corazon looks at you waiting for your answer.

“T-the same as him. But instead of wine, I would like a melon juice” You say with a little embarrassment, for not ordering something fancier.

“Alright, your order will arrive within 30 minutes” The waiter speaks after bowing and leaving.

You felt Corazon's heavy gaze on you. “What do you want to know about me?” He asks suspicious.

You were intimidated by his look, but you answered him. “I just wanted a friend. Sometimes I feel really lonely around here... And looking at Doffy's face really isn't one of the best hobbies” He looked convinced by your answer. "I understand. In that case, I'm sorry to tell you, but I can't be a friend.”

“N-no? Why?” You ask incredulously.

He gives a blank look and then lights his cigarette. “It's complicated to explain to you, but it's better that way. We can’t have any kind of bond.”

You give him a sad and downcast look. “I see, it's okay.”

And so, you talk about friendship ends there, until you two talk about the crew matters, and the food finally arrives.

“Hmm, wow! It smells delicious. I've never tasted dragon meat before. I thought they were extinct...” You say looking appetizingly at the food.

“Dragons are just hard to find, but they never went extinct” Corazon is as serious as ever as he begins to cut his meat and eat it. You could see a bright in his eyes as he tasted the meat, and the same happens to you.

After a few minutes, you realized that Corazon was acting strange. He'd started to get tipsy after drinking so many glasses of wine, and he'd even had a little whiskey too.

He got up abruptly, you ran to hold him when you saw that he had almost fallen to the ground. “C-corazon! Are you okay?" You ask worriedly as you hold in his shoulders.

His eyes were small and bloodshot, probably from the drunken effect of alcohol. “Y/N... I...” He tries to say something with difficulty.

“Please don't do that again!” You scold him. “You almost fell, you know how worried I was?” You ask angrily and as you look at him, you see that he is staring at you with twinkling eyes. He approached you slowly, when he finally pressed his lips to yours.

“Y/N, I… love you” He whispers after breaking away from the kiss. “But we can't be together, only for your own good” Tears start to fall from his eyes.

“W-what? What are you talking about, Cora-san?” you ask incredulously. “D-do you love me?” Your eyes widen. “And why are you saying that? We can not be together? What...?"

He doesn't say anything for a few seconds as the tears fall down his face. Until Corazon finally says something...

“I... I CAN'T!” He screams while crying. “I'm on a suicide mission, I'm going to die. I'm cheating on Doffy, Y/N” He keeps crying “I love you so much, and I don't know if you feel the same, but...”

“Ya, Corazon! I feel the same, I love you too!” You grab his shirt with your fingernails and speak with desperation.

Gently, he removes your hands from his shirt, and squeezes it affectionately. “I'm sorry, Y/N” He speaks with a look filled with sadness. “But I can't risk losing you or hurting you. We can't be together, and you can't get attached to me. Please… Just forget about it” He asks while stroking your chin with his thumb.

You start crying uncontrollably.

“I'm going to die... It's just a matter of time” He whispers sadly, which makes you cry even more, and hug him tightly, not wanting to leave him never ever.

He gently separates you from the embrace.

“But know that I will always love you, my sweet Y/N” Corazon finally smiles, a smile so big as the love you feel for him.

You will never accept your parting words.

SANJI 💐

(The rest I will continue later)

[blacklegsanjiii]

I just realised something with the kid of warlords AU: the seraphims!!

Cause they still have some of the same character quirks like the real ones (like hancocks crush on luffy and mihawks interest in zoros skill) so put it Sanji aka their kid, their lil boy

They see him walking around and randomly start lecturing him or hugging or whatever the fuck, idk its really funny in my head

Maybe since vegapunk works for the marines and world goverment and they mustve known about sanji being the warlords kid, theres a lil seraphim sanji? Idk idk

That's so cute! It reminds me of these asks from a while ago when warlord!Sanji was fairly new. Sanni is staring at the little Jinbei and Jinbei is also staring at little him because it's a possibility it could be his kid. Then before Zoro fights the little Mihawk with star eyes and white hair and black wings in front of him who reaches out to him but the little Hancock rushes to him first and hugs him. Everyone is staring at the seraphim in wonder because the crew doesn't know yet. Sanji and Jinbei haven't mentioned this so when little Jinbei yanks Sanji down by his shirt so that the seraphim can look him over it's weird. Then the seraphim pull away as one more comes in and it's a little Sanji looking like him as the others crowd around the smallest seraphim, clearly younger than the others.

Everyone is staring at them and then at Sanji and Jinbei and then back and forth. Sanji is looking confused at them as they try to figure out what's going on but then all the fights start breaking out and the group starts fracturing. When the run into Bonney and Kuma, who Sanji knows and grew up with and was kind of surprised was a Revolutionary in secret. No wonder he never participated in the weird hand off. Turns out Bonney is his daughter too so that's just...wild to Sanji. Sanji is just hoping that no one is going to ask too many questions even after he fights Kizaru and Saturn and Jupiter. Kizaru recognizes him and Luffy is confused and asks if this has to do with little him and Sanji says he'll explain everything after they get out of here. Kizaru keeps calling him 'little warlord' because of his parents and he's smiling and trying to catch up during the fight but Sanji is like 'not the time!' as Sanji starts escaping with Vegapunk.

When all is said and done and they're leaving with Kuma, Bonney, and the seraphim everyone immediately starts asking Sanji questions about that except Luffy, Bonney, Jinbei, and Kuma - Luffy and Bonney are asking for food as Zoro is trying to fight Sanji for answers which leads to some of the Seraphim getting ready to fight him. Sanji is trying to make sure they don't fight Zoro, or in S-Hawk's case fight him again and Sanji is very tired. Very, very tired and says they should probably head to Karai Bari because two of them are there and Kuma says the army could raise the seraphim and Jinbie laughs and says he'll have to fight Hancock and Mihawk for the seraphim of Sanji which he is holding and the seraphim is looking at him curiously. Robin asks if he was the child Crocodile would go see once in a while at Baratie and Sanji nods. Mihawk got him of the rock and didn't want to leave him alone and took him to meetings and then he had jobs so other warlords took him and Perona would visit him on Kuriagana and they'd dress up and make Mihawk paint their nails. Then he moved to Baratie full time and they would come visit him because they all wanted him to be able to set himself apart from them, not that anyone knew really but still. It was important that they kept their distance for a while because they didn't want Sanji to get kidnapped. Still they should probably at least drop Seraphim Sanji with Mihawk and Crocodile because they can get a hold of Hancock and do what they want there, but Kuma can take the others, probably, most likely. Kuma is chuckling as Jinbei is losing it because the way it sounds Mihawk and Hancock are about live their best parenting lives again.

When they do arrive at Karai Bari there's a Kuja pirate ship and Hancock is swooning on the dock at the sight of the strawhat flag. Luffy is sticking close to his boyfriend and is just holding Sanji's hand and also eating a huge piece of meat. Crocodile is there next to Hancock and lets them on land and Luffy cold cocks Crocodile. Hancock immediately loses it at that and Luffy then asks Sanji if he should have punched his dad and Sanji shrugs because it's not like he listens to Sanji. Crocodile sighs and asks them to come on land and they all start to follow to a tent and Hancock is swooning for Luffy until she notices the little seraphim and the little Seraphim Sanji and snags him and runs ahead causing a violent and fiery chase. The amount of shouting and yelling coming from said tent when they arrive is loud and Zoro and Luffy break in first only to see Hancock smiling widely and holding S-Croc and S-Shark while Mihawk looks genuinely bewildered at the sight of S-Hawk holidng a miniature Yoru at him and Seraphim Sanji hiding behind him.

"The hell is going on?" Mihawk asks as he looks at the men who bursted in and the others follow quickly.

"These are Vegapunk experiments, they're called Seraphim but they are us." Kuma explains.

"Right, and there's a little Sanji!" Hancock squeals.

"Oh not again." Mihawk groans.

"The Revolutionary army is willing to take them-" Kuma starts.

"Absolutely not, I'll take them Amazon Lily. I'll call Perona-" Hancock rambles.

"At least Doffy's in prison." Crocodile says to Mihawk.

"Maybe it would be more helpful if he was out of prison." Jinbei hums.

"I don't need my boyfriend fighting two of my dads, please." Sanji sighs.

"Right, of course. Which one are you dating?" Mihawk asks Sanji.

"Me!" Luffy smiles widely as he picks up little Seraphim Sanji and S-Hawk lets him.

"Oh, that's fine. I'd have a few questions if it was Roronoa." Mihawk shrugs nonchalantly as Zoro gets red, seeing a challenge.

"I would be a good boyfriend to your son!" Zoro yells with offense.

"Sure." Mihawk says as he looks at the seraphim who are watching them all with narrowed eyes.

[read-marx-and-lenin]

Not that one poster but I think the revolution will kill thousands of people because that's historically what has happened in every revolution. Even in Palestine you can see civilians and children being killed for daring to revolt, and the disabled also get left behind to die with no accessible medications or hospitals as they've all been bombed. I don't see a way it could work without this happening though so it ends up being a "Some of you may die but that's a price I'm willing to pay", which... Isn't that different from the other side who's also willing to let others die for their ideology.

Source: https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.aljazeera.com/amp/news/2023/10/27/people-with-disabilities-not-spared-from-israels-war-machine-on-gaza-strip

I wasn't trying to argue that in a revolution, nobody would possibly die. I was trying to figure out why, in that person's mind, the two options seem to be "vote for Kamala" or "tens of millions of people die in a four year long revolutionary bloodbath".

Besides, as was already pointed out, people are already dying under capitalism and imperialism and colonialism. The people of Palestine did not fight back for no good reason, they fought back because they were dying at the hands of the Israeli occupation.

I don't think in the United States specifically we're going to suddenly have mass support for revolutionary socialism in the next four years, but for the same reasons, I don't think Trump is going to be able to magically install a fascist dictatorship by virtue of winning another term.

The conditions that provide opportunities for fascists also provide opportunities for socialists. We are in a minor economic downturn at the moment for sure. Prices are going up, wages are still stagnating, lots of people are having to stretch their budgets. But that's ordinary. We have people dying because they can't afford healthcare, and that's horrific, but it's also mundane. It will take an extraordinary economic crisis to push this country onto the brink, and yet such a crisis is inevitable due to the internal contradictions of capitalism.

The relative comfort and stability that the average US citizen experiences is by virtue of the massive poverty and instability that is inflicted on the average person elsewhere in the world. Capitalism and imperialism siphon wealth and labor from the third world and concentrate it in the first world, and any attempts by the masses in the third world to achieve prosperity and security will necessarily disrupt this process. These tensions will inevitably lead to economic collapse within the US and other first world imperialist nations, and this will happen sooner rather than later. Not four years soon, but I would not be surprised if it happened within the next fifty years.

We are not living in a time of peace that a bunch of insane radical leftists are threatening to upend for the sake of ideological purity. We are living in a time where the contradictions of capitalism are once again coming to a head. We are on the brink of another world war. The victory of capitalist counter-revolutionaries in the last century came at the cost of "tens of millions" of lives. Tolerating the imperialist warmongering of US politicians is inexcusable if we are supposed to care about people's lives.

When Kamala Harris brags about the United States having "the most lethal army in the world", she means it. She is more than willing to sacrifice millions of lives on the altar of US hegemony and US control over other nations. The bourgeoisie know full well what is coming and they are already preparing for it. The best time for us to organize was yesterday, and the second best time is today. The Democrats are the enemies of peace and freedom just as much as the Republicans are, and we should not waste our time acting like the former aren't just as eager and willing to throw the rest of us under the bus as the latter are.

[lakesouperior]

🐻🐤🐰🦊 just some thoughts on the fnaf movie

🐻the attention to detail that was put into it, with all it’s little details and easter eggs. the posters in the background, (and i haven’t seen anyone bring this up), the guy who got face-mauled by the cupcake wearing a midnight motorist t-shirt. the spring lock scene. the fact that scariest of all the jumpscares (of which there weren’t a lot but it’s kind of for the younger demographic ig they can’t make it too bad) was freaking balloon boy. the highest kill count going to MVP Carl the Cupcake. this is what i mean when i say movies from established franchises should be made by fans, for fans.

AND THE MATPAT CAMEO. HIS ACTING ISNT EVEN BAD AND EVEN IF IT WAS I EOULD STILL LOEV ITTT DVDNFB

🐤 you can tell they put a lot of thought into the child actors. abby is phenomenal. the five missing children? properly creepy and sad looking.

🐰 characters were all really well written and entertaining. the karen aunt, for all that she is an antagonist and very much hateable, still manages to be funny. even background characters are hilarious, like Doug for example, and don’t even get me started on the friggin matpat cameo i nearly screamed in the movie theater.

🦊 vanessa and mike are naturally each other’s narrative foils (and stand-ins for respectively Michael Afton/Elizabeth Afton (MichaElizabeth if you will) and Charlotte Emily imo), and them saying the same line, the “that’s two jobs”, mike at the beginning, and vanessa at the end, TO THE SAME CHARACTER?? TO THE BIG FUCKIN BAD HIMSELF??? WHO THEY BOTH HAVE DEEP HISTORY WITH???? literally this is good writing. i’m not saying the movie is perfect because it isn’t, but this is good writing.

🐻 and vanessa, as much as she kind of is, doesn’t feel like a coward because her worst fear does come true. her own father, the person who she thought the world of, tries to kill her as soon as she steps out of line. her fear wasn’t unjustified. she spent her entire life under his control — has literally never known anything else, and to still rebel after so long must’ve been the hardest, most terrifying thing in the world but she still did it because she’d grown to care for mike and abby.

and this is what i mean when i quote that one post: “strong female characters ≠ characters who are female and punch good, but strong female characters = well-written female characters” like yeah, vanessa’s an antagonist, or an anti-hero i suppose, but she’s still, once again, likeable and mysterious and funny. and the “bring her here again and i’ll fucking shoot you”?? that was probably her first act of true rebellion, aside from telling mike more than she should’ve about the pizzeria.

🐤 mikes arc is a very obvious “let go of the past and learn to cherish the present” which isn’t exactly revolutionary, but i think it’s done quite well though it could be improved a bit. and as much as you think he is an absolute cabbage head for telling them they could have abby for even a second, but you still, once again, get it.

our man’s running on like two hours of sleep and also meds, finally getting to see his baby brother up-close and even touch his face for the first time in probably more than a decade of blaming himself, and then getting told he could go back and see his parents again, the grief over who he probably hasn’t been able to process since he had to take care of abby when they died (possibly even took his own life in the father’s case if he’s supposed to be a henry stand-in like i think and doesn’t that just make it fifty times worse)

and it’s set up that he wants that perfect family back, the kind that he had during his childhood, that abby never got to experience.

and maybe he feels guilty for that. maybe he thinks, in his sleep-deprived and grief-ridden mind, for only a moment, that she would be better off, since she seems to like the animatronics and their ghost children better than him and he still feels like he doesn’t know how to raise a kid.

🐰 speaking of abby, for once Child Character in the horror movie isn’t just there to do some stupid shit for Plot Reasons (cough, The Curse of La Llorona, cough cough). i mean yes, she does go with them at the climax, but she has been given no reason not to trust them and considering the fact that they are other children, it would honestly be more suspicious if she didn’t trust them (also we’ve been shown she doesn’t really have friends before the end, so they’re also her first and only friends, no wonder she’s clinging to them) plus she’s been left alone with the aunt she does not like, possibly still believing mike is abandoning her. you get it.

she’s also very entertaining in her sassiness. like “are you here to arrest my brother?” or “yeah, love you too bro, kinda don’t wanna die tho, can we leave?” literally i can’t stand kids in general, but especially so in in horror movies, but i would give my life for abby.

🦊and the drawing thing? it’s beautiful and sad and really hammers home the fact that these monsters, however scary they have been made by their brutal and cruel deaths, they were, and are, just children who didn’t deserve to die and communicate the same way children like abby do. it also makes abby herself relevant to the plot and actually useful.

🐻and about abby; i have my own Theory there. we know she wasn’t in the picture during Garrett’s disappearance, which means she’s at least twelve years younger than mike. it’s actually quite common for couples who are going through a rough patch to have kids to try to fix it, which i think is what happened here, made even more possible if they also had her as a sort of replacement for Garrett. this, as i said earlier, makes mike’s indecision all the more understandable — if abby doesn’t just look a lot like Garrett, but was actually supposed to be him and would’ve never existed if not for the tragedy.

but that’s Just A Theory. 🐻🐤🐰🦊

[archangeldyke-all]

Sev with a ver nerdy reader. Very loser vibes with glasses and all. Could you write about how they meet and get together? How their relationship would be and what would other think or do about such a contrast couple?? Xxx love youuuuu

aweee i fucking love this

men and minors dni

singed is a mad genius, you'd never deny that. but mad geniuses tend to get caught up in the whirlwind of their revolutionary thoughts and creations, and they leave behind important things like, you know, numbers. or studies. or a general respect for the scientific method.

so while singed spends his days tinkering in his lab, you spend your days sitting beside him, trying to decipher his discoveries into a language people who aren't mad geniuses can understand.

this is just to say: you're a glorified lab assistant.

you don't know how you caught sevika's eye. you're polar opposites.

sevika fights for a living, she can command a room with a single look, and she's got women swooning for her everywhere she goes. you scribble calculations in a basement for a living, sometimes you and singed are so focused that you don't even speak to each other for days at a time, and you're aware that your glasses, frumpy clothes, and lack of awareness when it comes to style don't exactly make you sexy.

but... somehow, you've enchanted her.

you first met a few months ago, when singed brought you along to a meeting with silco to have you help demonstrate a new varient of shimmer.

typically, singed takes these meetings alone. he likes to keep his science life and his shady dealings as separate as possible-- plus, he knows how nervous you get. but, the new variant required at least two pair of hands to properly prepare, and you were kind of hoping to meet silco's elusive kid-genius foster daughter. singed sings her praises on the daily.

jinx, unfortunately, didn't show up, but sevika did. and you nearly shat yourself, because the woman didn't take her sharp gaze off you for the entire demonstration.

afterwards, when you were packing up in the empty office as singed and silco chatted in the bar downstairs, sevika tracked you down. "hey."

you screamed as you turned around, dropping a vial of shimmer on the ground. she chuckled. "f-fuck sorry." she said, holding her hands up. "didn't mean to sneak up on you."

you pushed your glasses up your nose and just shrugged. "'s okay. i-i'm just jumpy." you whispered.

"you're cute." she'd said.

and then, because you've never been able to be normal about anything in your life, you passed out.

so, the start of your and sevika's relationship was a bit tumultuous. she had to spell it out for you, many times, that she finds you endlessly endearing and adorable.

"during that first meeting. singed read something off his notes but didn't understand, so you explained it to him. just you rambling a bunch of nerd shit, but you made it sound so simple, and you had this sweet sparkle in your eye-- i dunno." she shrugs, then pushes your glasses up your nose for you.

you guys actually balance each other out really well. sevika encourages you to have a bit more of a backbone, you help her see the softer side of things.

she's obsessed with your constant nerdy ramblings. she learns so much from you. she can point to anything and ask you about it, and you'll have an answer.

she'd also never admit it to anyone, but she loves your fantasy books. the nerdier and more complex the better. sometimes, she'll have you read whatever book you're reading outloud, and more times than not, she falls asleep within ten minutes to the sound of your voice.

she's constantly pushing your glasses back up your nose for you. if she notices a smudge, she'll gently take them off your face, clean them with the hem of her shirt, then push them back on your face.

she's obsessed with eating you out while you read or work. she likes to watch you struggle to maintain your focus-- which is usually so laser sharp.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbi3 @ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @leomatsuzaki @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @vikasub @glass-apothecary @m0numents @macaroni676

[hms-no-fun]

in your view of things right now, with the political climate so hot coming into the election, and companies doing worse than ever in terms of amassing greed and power and fucking us all over... what do you think has to change to find a way out?

oh boy, what a question. i've got a BA in film studies. i pay my bills by making youtube videos and writing homestuck fanfiction. i am not an authority, i only kind of vaguely know what i'm talking about in any given conversation. but i do think about this question a lot, and i've been wanting an excuse to arrange some of my thoughts on the matter. so, you know, don't take my words here as gospel, or as a coherent platform, or whatever. i'm just a goat with some opinions who hasn't read enough theory but means well.

alright. as a communist my answer is always gonna be "proletarian revolution," but that's an endgoal we're currently nowhere near achieving. the path to getting there is impossible to truly know, because of course revolutions are historically contingent on an organized vanguard being prepared to take control in a moment of national crisis. we don't have a leftist vanguard in this country, haven't done since the FBI and state governments went to war with the Black Panthers. my ideal vision of an effective communist party is one unlike any that currently exists on a large scale in the USA, built by organizing communities to coordinate neighborhood needs, as part of city/county organizations coordinating local needs, as part of state organizations that etc. right now political parties are exclusively focused on electoralism. i want a party that can organize eviction blockades, free community daycare, reading groups, high-capacity cafeterias, and all manner of mutual aid. i want a party that can operate with solidarity, as the Panthers did by supporting the 28 day 504 sit-in that resulted in the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act. an effective vanguard party interfaces directly with the working class and builds its policy platforms based on their needs with no apology, rather than the acceptable liberal half-measures we've grown so accustomed to.

but it's a loooooooong road to get even that far. and you might say such an organization would be offputting, but like. the Panthers won over a lot of moderates over time because they weren't just out on the streets posturing. they took care of people. we only have free school lunch programs at all because of them. this is the thing that drives me nuts about so many leftists today-- you don't win over a moderate or conservative by debating the merit of their ideas. you help improve the material conditions of their day to day life, thanklessly, as you'd do with everyone in that community, because you cannot adopt means testing by another name without selling off an essential part of yourself. slowly, over time, some of those people will be won over. it'll never be everyone, but it doesn't have to be everyone. it doesn't even have to be a majority. you can get a hell of a lot done with even just 30% of people, especially if those people are even mildly-disciplined members of a well-organized party apparatus.

so, okay, that's my sense of the broad strokes. i want a proletarian revolution by way of a militant vanguard party. not saying this is the ONLY way forward, just the one i think would be most likely to succeed under the right circumstances. but again, we're a million miles away from having a communist vanguard in this country. quite frankly, such a thing feels an impossible pipe dream at this exact historic moment. so the question for me then becomes, how do we create the conditions that would allow for such an organization to emerge, claim power, hold it long enough to build a substantial base, then act on it towards a revolutionary goal?

first you've gotta ask why it's so hard to imagine this fanciful 20th century ass operation today. obvious answers: it's fucking impossible for a third party to gain a foothold in the system as it stands, so let's fix that. ranked choice voting would be a good place to start. i'm no electoralist, but if we're presuming that the revolution isn't happening tomorrow then some element of its foundation must be in making our democracy an actual democracy that can reflect people's needs. repeal citizens united. put HUGE limits on campaign donations and make it harder to conceal donations through super PACs. redistricting is another essential piece of the puzzle-- there is precisely one map of every major usamerican city and it's the map of redlined districts where people of color were not allowed to buy property. look at wealth distribution in communities and it'll map 1 to 1 to historic redlining, guaranteed. we gotta fix gerrymandering, loosen restrictions on poll access (such as the ad hoc poll tax that is government ID requirements), and if we're really feeling frisky push for a mandatory federal voting holiday so that no one has to work on election day (which elections count for "election day" is a whole other quagmire of course). less obvious answers: the cops and the FBI are still imprisoning and murdering black, poc, native, and queer activists in broad daylight. the national prison population is an IMMENSE locus of potential revolutionary energy. some goals on that front: abolish prisons, massively defund the cops, and curtail the surveillance state. restore the convicted felon's right to vote, and otherwise remove the many bureaucratic roadblocks that artificially create the cycle of recidivism. put money into nationwide job training programs (NO PUBLIC-PRIVATE PARTNERSHIPS) not just for ex convicts but for everyone, for reasons we'll get to momentarily.

i focus on electoral reform at the start here because i think it's an illustrative example of just how sprawling the task before us is. my goal isn't to overwhelm you or make you feel doomed because "holy shit that's already a lot of stuff that feels totally impossible and you haven't even mentioned healthcare yet," but to hammer home that the class war is being fought on a million fronts. you will go completely numb if you expect any one person or organization to address all of these issues simultaneously and as soon as possible. in an ideal world, there are many many affinity groups working towards these ends all over the place, either as part of or in solidarity with our imagined vanguard. i'm trying to look at ways to materially improve the lives of people in our political economy as it currently exists, rather than just saying "we need revolution" and leaving it there.

alright then, so what about capitalism? another major factor in the systematic disenfranchisement of the working class is the role corporate employers play in maintaining the class war. nobody has time to participate in local political actions because everyone has to work crushing hours, and when they do have days to themselves they still have to personally drive to wherever things are happening and find parking, instead of grocery shopping, taking care of kids, just fucking relaxing, whatever. obvious answers: medicare for all. right now, healthcare access is tied to employment status unless you are COMICALLY poor (i just got kicked off of medicaid a couple months ago because i now make marginally more than the cutoff, which now means i'm paying $200+ more a month on healthcare and am now way more worried about money than when i was on welfare. what a great and functional system!). if you're afraid of losing your health insurance for any reason, then you are disincentivized from expressing any opinions you might have about the conduct of your employer by, say, quitting. just passing universal healthcare alone would cause some major turmoil in the US economy. invest in mass public transit with rigorous local neighborhood access, and now a hell of a lot more people are empowered to participate in civic duty. less obvious answers: get rid of at-will employment! make it much much harder for employers to fire people, and regulate the ability of corporations to do mass layoffs. this would go a long way towards throwing some wrenches into the methods corps use to invent economic prosperity through the creative application of spreadsheets. on top of that, let's nuke the absolute fuck out of means-testing for programs like food stamps, medicaid, social housing, or literally any other form of "charity" that made Reagan shit his pants.

speaking of means testing, let's talk about bullshit jobs. there are a TON of pointless, degrading, wasteful jobs in this country. corps playing middlemen to middlemen. endless state and business bureaucracy using hundreds of systems that rarely if ever communicate with one another, putting a huge administrative burden on working people while the rich beneficiaries of this exploitation get to launder their guilt through the public-facing punching bags of customer service representatives. too many people work at the office factory. there are a lot of industries that need to be massively curtailed if not outright destroyed, a fact that intersects with the threat of climate change when you include coal and oil jobs. it's not enough to get rid of these positions, you also have to have a plan for those displaced workers-- hence the job training program i mentioned before. if we actually want to see a transition into a more egalitarian society that doesn't run exclusively on fossil fuels, then there needs to be a pipeline that gives purpose to the people whose lives will inevitably be radically altered by the kinds of changes we're talking about. there's an important thing, actually-- we all need to be prepared for this line of questioning and have a good answer in the back pocket. there is no shift from pure capitalism to even lite democratic socialism that won't hurt some cohort of people that doesn't deserve it. unless you want them to fall in with the fascists, you're gonna want to have a plan for how to integrate them into the world you're trying to build.

here's a wildcard for you. a lot of folks are on that "break up the monopolies" grind these days, and i appreciate the sentiment. i also think we would be vastly better served in the long run by simply nationalizing the monopolies. obviously there are plenty of worthwhile concerns to be had about any usamerican government gaining that kind of control over anything at this precise moment, but we cannot let that impede the horizons of our imaginary. i don't want market reform, i want the abolition of markets. the internet should be a public utility and ISPs should be government institutions. tech needs UNENDING regulation as we are all aware. social media should be public and interoperable. there needs to be a rolling back of internet surveillance. i've been toying with the idea of a Federal Department of Digital Moderation as an intervention on the current fascist radicalization pipeline that is social media, but that raises so many other concerns that i don't have an answer for. mostly i just think that the profit motive needs to be excised from as many sectors of public life as possible, and nationalization is a pretty good way to get there.

affordable housing! lower rents means fewer hours at work to make ends meet means more time to spend with family & community means more chances for more people to participate in civic action. abolish student debt and make college free! and make it illegal for colleges to invest in shit like fucking israel! a more accessible system of higher education means a more educated proletariat. this wouldn't by any stretch automatically lead to a more leftist proletariat, but conservatives have worked very hard to curtail access to higher education and that alone is more than enough reason to push for it. i've really buried the lede here, honestly. to my mind, medicare for all, mass public transit, free education, and national rent control are THE milestones we ought to be aiming for in terms of domestic policy. it is simply impossible to estimate how seismically and immediately these four policies (if applied equitably and without means-testing) could transform civic life in the USA. any systemic social ill you can name has some connection to one of these four ideas. i personally hold prison abolition & police defunding as equally essential, but these are unfortunately a MUCH harder sell for a lot of folks and will require some solidaristic frog-boiling from the likeable progressives/socialists of the world to naturalize the idea. but then, on that front i'm speaking very much outside my lane, and would defer to the wisdom of actual abolition activists in a scenario where we were talking concrete policy.

then there's foreign policy. this post has gone on a long time and i'm not the person to talk about this at length, but: the united states military needs to be defunded, and its outposts across the world removed. to curtail global climate change, the american imperial project must end. our meddling in foreign affairs is directly responsible for the domination of capital, and so long as this and other western states exist as they do, no communist outpost is safe. then there comes the question of reparations. all those billionaires didn't invent their money, they stole it. in quite a lot of cases they stole it from US citizens, but they've stolen far more from the rest of the world. tax the rich at 99% and distribute billions no-strings-attached to african and pacific island nations? other countries deserve a right to self determination without the threat of foreign interference. our nation's wealth doesn't just need to be taxed and redistributed to working class usamericans (particularly black communities), it ought to be redistributed internationally to all the countries we've fucked with over the last century and a half. but that's a pretty late stage pipe dream.

i guess the last thing that i've been thinking a lot about is more esoteric, and certainly difficult to implement. i believe we need to seriously interrogate "progress" as a concept. right now our society is defined by technological advancements as encouraged by a capitalist economy. if you fuck around with old analog tech at all, you've probably said to yourself more than once "they really don't make em like this anymore." i think about that fucking Hot Ones interview with matt damon about how streaming has stabbed the established profit model in the heart, where he says something like "we had a pretty good thing going before they showed up." i think about small museums closing down in the pandemic because they couldn't turn a profit, small local shops closing down for the same reason. constant newness paired with engineered obsolescence. disruption of the equilibrium in order to steal profit. it's easy to argue that socialized healthcare is good because it's actually more cost efficient than private healthcare. but those are the terms set by capitalists. i believe that healthcare and profit-seeking should be mutually exclusive. i believe that some things are a public good, however small --museums, quirky shops, parks, art spaces, open lots, movies, music, theater, whatever-- and that these things should be protected from the market at all costs. the alternative is corporate consolidation of everything, as every piece of local color cannot compete with economies of scale and asphyxiates to death. i refuse to accept the idea that "progress" means throwing away anyone who specialized in the thing being progressed beyond. i refuse to accept the idea that "progress" is linear and exists beyond the purview of morals, values, and ideology, nor indeed that it is inevitable and in any event an unalloyed good.

i believe that it doesn't matter if making higher-quality clothes at greater cost in unionized factories is "less efficient" than fast fashion. all "efficiency" means is spread everything as thin as possible, just enough just on time regardless of context. it's a mask for robber baron bullshit. it's an attempt by the bourgeoisie to naturalize the laws of economics as if they were on the same level as the laws of gravity, and we just can't accept that anymore. there's that meme, "i want shorter games with worse graphics made by people who are paid more to work less and i’m not kidding." i think we ought to apply that sentiment far more broadly. if we truly believe in the dignity of a self-determined life, then we must agree that some things are above profit, above efficiency, and are worth doing right. i haven't quite nailed down yet how exactly to verbalize this idea in a way that can be easily & quickly understood. but i feel it intensely, and only moreso as time goes on. as we push for these seemingly-impossible policy changes, it's of equal importance that we not lose ourselves to the limitations of the system as it exists under capitalism. to transform the world we must transform ourselves. to save the world we must save ourselves. if we hold a value to be true, then it must be constant and uncompromising. we must agree that our lives are better off when certain things exist even if they aren't efficient or fail to turn a profit, and thus decimate whatever part of us has been raised to believe that efficiency and profit ought ever to enter the equation. of course, in any revolution costs quickly become a huge going concern. there will always be painful compromises in policy along the path, always disappointments and mistakes. no revolution can be perfect. but through all these material challenges, the world that must be needs a place at the table with us. impractical, impossible, unfeasible... necessary.

you will probably not live to see that world, anon, and neither will i. we are all in the long game now, and it can never stop with one good policy, one good politician, one needed win. it's everything or it's nothing. socialism or barbarism. it is this belief which guides me, that no one ought to suffer the indignities i've suffered in my years working for shit wages, struggling to find housing, watching family die from economic abandonment. that there is simply no reason for society to be the way that it is, and that "the world isn't fair" is no excuse when we are the engineers of that "world" in every way that matters.

anyway, those are some of my thoughts on the subject. i hope i haven't made a complete fool of myself here.