#the united states is a fucking joke of a country and it has been for years

[sunbentshadows]

Been mulling over the news today. But not about Biden, nor Harris. Not the breathless coverage of media-spinning-this-as-another-losing-move-for-Democrats.

I've been thinking about the right-wing in this country. The Republicans. You know, the group the coverage SHOULD be about. Especially as they've fallen into a fascistic cult of personality and vindictive cruelty-as-politics.

What is the Republican platform now? It used to be fiscal conservatism and 'business-interests' (at least on the surface), deregulation, less governmental power. Now it's, well. Trump. Sure. But what are they fighting for? "Get their guy in the White House"?

Well yes. But no. The Republicans are desperately trying to hold power. The power to dismantle the rights of every person in the country who isn't a white-male-Christian-business interest. One of Their Guys.

Why? Why so much now?

Because they're fucking UNPOPULAR. The country doesn't support them! If the entire country voted, the right wing would not meaningfully exist in the US political sphere.

Think about that for a second. REALLY internalize it: If everyone in the US voted, period, full stop. The right would be gone. The Republican party, as it is, now, would be a fucking joke.

So of COURSE they're swinging towards fascism. In a two-party system, a political party's only meaningful directive is survival of the power of their party. The very existence of Project 2025 is proof - it is the last, dying fucking breath a party that has TWO options to stay alive: Fascism and minority-rule, or change.

And they're sure not picking fucking change.

That is what we're up against.

If I could ask ONE thing of any person in the US who desperately wants to keep their human rights, who understands a loss in this election is likely the end of US-democracy as we know it - it would be to point the narrative towards the utterly vile platform of the right wing. Talk about it to everyone. Don't normalize it! Don't EVER say "That's just what Republicans do so it's normal". That's what they want.

If we win the branches of government - if we could make it 10% easier to vote. 5% easier to vote. That could swing elections and politics for a generation. We can even dream bigger: Ranked choice. Mandatory ballots. National holiday voting day.

And Republican strategists know this!! They're so terrified of it they're willing to dismantle the fundamental tenets of the United States of America to prevent it!

PART of why I'm so frustrated with the constant circling-on-Democratic-candidate is because it entirely misses the point. The choice is between a party trying to enshrine minority-Christian-Theocratic-rule in the country for generations - or, you know.

A middlingly-charismatic Democrat.

And, judgement-free - if you had a MOMENT of weighing the 'good' of those things, that's the fucking problem. These things are not remotely equal. The coverage of this political moment is like the coverage of climate change, and it gets into EVERYONE'S head - "The world is ending. But are hot summers REALLY that bad? Experts weigh in!"

The breathless both-sidesing of the current political moment is so appallingly, atrociously irresponsible I hardly have words for how fucking livid I am.

Vote.

[mindmelter]

Five Alien Hosts: Adventures In Italy (Part 2) - Not Alone

( 1 Year ago )

It was finally the night of the Comet Clyde, a significant event for the entire world. Everyone was looking up to the sky to contemplate the beauty of the comet, but not Victor. Victor was watching gay porn in his room, he couldn't care less about the Comet, who cares about watching a once-in-a-lifetime event, if you can watch hot men fucking instead? That's what he thought until a loud explosion came from his backyard, breaking every single window in his house.

Scared, Victor ran to see what was the cause of the explosion. When he arrived in his backyard, he stopped mid-track. There was a meteorite shaped like an egg in his backyard.

Victor slowly walked towards the egg-shaped meteorite. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Victor looked up to the sky. "It must have come from the comet," he thought. Suddenly, he heard a weird cracking noise coming from inside the egg. Victor had watched enough sci-fi movies to know there was only one explanation for that: aliens. But he just wasn't expecting what came out of the egg.

"What the..." Victor screamed and fell down in fear.

One black bug crawled out of one of the holes, then a second one, a third, a fourth, and for last, a fifth.

Victor was scared, but the bugs didn't attack him, they just stopped in front of him. Victor calmed down and slowly stretched out his hand, but before he could touch them, the bugs quickly crawled back inside the egg.

The next morning, Victor was eating breakfast while watching the news. The news — as it had been since the beginning of the year — was talking about Comet Clyde and its brief passing the night before.

"Last night, we witnessed the final passage of Comet Clyde. Although the comet was far from Earth, it still sent meteorites raining down across the globe. The countries that are confirmed to have been hit by meteorites are the United States, Italy, and Spain. It is theorized that the largest meteorite fell in Spain. No casualties have been reported. The American army is now confis-"

Victor turned off the TV and stared at the egg-shaped meteorite that he placed on his dining table. The bugs hadn't come out since the night before. He tried to feed them by putting some bread in front of the egg, but none came out. Maybe alien insects feed on something different, but what? Victor asked himself, he hoped they wouldn't feed on humans.

Suddenly he heard a loud knock on the door. When he opened it, he saw four male soldiers.

"H-hi, can I help with something?" Victor asked.

"Good morning, you're Victor Sanchez, correct?" A very good looking soldier asked. Victor nodded.

"Yes, that would be me."

"I am Sergeant Ramirez. Last night we received a report from your neighbors about an explosion coming from your house."

Victor gulped, his heart was racing, but he tried to remain calm. "An explosion? I didn't hear anything last night, s-sir."

The soldiers looked suspicious at Victor, he was never a great liar.

"Can we come in for a second?"

Victor nodded and allowed the soldiers to walk inside his house.

"Could someone explain to me exactly what's happening here?" Victor asked as the soldiers began searching his house.

"Last night, this part of the city was struck by debris from Comet Clyde. The government has ordered the Army to collect and hand over every meteorite found. It's a matter of public safety."

"Well, if a meteorite crashed in my house, I would know it, right?" Victor said in a joking manner, but inside he was very nervous.

"Yes, I guess you would..." Sergeant Ramirez then noticed the broken windows. "What happened to the windows?"

"I... I don't-"

"Sergeant, I think you'll want to check this out," another one of the soldiers said, pointing at the meteorite on the table. Victor cursed at himself; he forgot to hide the damn egg. Sergeant Ramirez raised an eyebrow and looked at Victor.

"Oooh... umm, this? This is just a house d-decoration! Please don't touch it, It's very expensive!" Victor said rushing to the table and grabbing the egg.

"The Captain said something about an egg-shaped debris, didn't he?" Another soldier pointed out.

"He did." Ramirez responded, walking towards Victor, "Sorry, we will have to confiscate this."

"No! You can't!" Victor shouted, hugging the egg tighter, he couldn't let them take it, the things they would do to those poor bugs... Victor would never forgive himself.

"We are not asking, we got orders to follow. The government's gonna compensate you for this. So, either you cooperate or we'll have to take you in."

Victor got angry and in a quick decision, he threw the egg to the floor, breaking it in half. Four bugs immediately crawled out of the broken egg and went toward the soldiers, the tiny bugs were so fast that the soldiers didn't even have time to react. One soldier attempted to reach for his gun, but before he could aim it at the bug, it swiftly crawled under his uniform pants and headed toward his head. Each bug targeted a soldier and forced its way into their ears.

The four soldiers collapsed to the floor, and one by one, they began convulsing with their eyes rolling back to white. Suddenly, all four soldiers stood up with blank faces and empty eyes, Sergeant Ramirez pulled his pants down and started to jerk off, while the other three soldiers kneeled in front of him. Victor watched as Sergeant Ramirez jerked his big shaft right on his colleagues' blank faces.

"What is happening here?" Victor asked, but Ramirez just continued mindlessly jerking off.

Soon he started to cum and the three kneeling soldiers started to eagerly lick every drop. It looked like the bugs were consuming it. So that's what the bugs feed on, Victor thought. Sergeant Ramirez remained motionless during the entire time, with his hard dick pointing up, still pulsing and dripping cum. Sergeant Ramirez then looked at Victor with his dead eyes. "Follow him." He said, pointing to the broken egg on the floor.

Victor then noticed there was still one bug left inside the egg—the fifth bug. Victor was scared that the remaining bug would do to him what the others did with the soldiers, but the bug just crawled out of the egg and went towards the door. Victor followed the bug outside until he saw the bug crawl inside the military armored vehicle that was parked in front of his house. The bug easily crawled under the car and disappeared.

A few seconds later Victor started to hear some male grunting and weird sounds coming from inside the car, and suddenly, the vehicle's door opened. Inside was the Captain of the operation: A very hot, muscular, and intimidating man.

"Get in." The man commanded, he had such a deep voice that Victor obeyed without thinking twice.

"Hello, Victor. It's good to finally be able to communicate with you." The man said.

"I know you're the bug controlling this man, but..." Victor looked at the man's huge tattooed arm, he could tear Victor in half with those arms. "is this safe?"

"I'm in control of this human now. The changes that I made in his brain are irreversible, you don't have to fear him anymore. He's my host now."

"Your host?? What happened to the real him?"

"He was gone the moment I pierced my way inside his brain. Let's put it that way: I turned him into my vehicle and I'm the only one who can drive him."

"Ok, so I'm safe from him but... Am I safe from you?"

"Yes. We didn't crash into your backyard by accident, you have been chosen by us to be our Master. We felt your energy from afar and from all the humans in this city, your desire for control was the strongest of all. We knew you wouldn't find a problem in letting us take over your kind, so we directed the egg to you."

Victor remembered he was watching gay porn when the egg crashed in his backyard, could it be related? Was his desire for the men in the porn the reason that attracted the bugs to him? He had so many questions.

"You need control and we need a controller. You're special because you don't care about them, in fact, you get aroused by it," The Captain smirked and caressed Victor's hard tent. Victor nervously laughed.

"Does this host arouse you?" The Captain flexed both his arms. Victor shyly nodded. The alien-controlled Captain placed his big hand behind Victor's head and pulled him for a rough kiss. They shared a long passionate kiss, with the Captain's big tongue dominating the kiss the entire time. Victor then started to feel the Captain's grip on his neck getting tighter. The Captain stopped the kiss while maintaining a tight grip, he smirked at Victor and said "You will be the perfect Master for us." He then spat on Victor's face and released him, leaving Victor speechless.

"Oh c'mon, I know you like it. Let's get inside, I will properly introduce you to my brothers."

Victor followed the Captain back inside his house. The four soldiers were now casually talking to each other with their deflated dicks hanging out of their flies. When they saw Victor, they dropped to their knees. "We are here to serve you. Master." They all said in unison. Victor looked at the four soldiers kneeling in his living room, they all had their tongues hanging out for some reason.

The Captain suddenly pulled down his pants and started to casually jerk off his huge shaft. Victor was amazed by the size of it. The Captain walked towards one of the soldiers and aimed the tip of the shaft at the soldier's mouth, but before shoving it inside, he looked at Victor with his empty blank eyes.

"My brothers are still hungry, will you help me feed them? I don't think this host has enough to feed them all."

Victor grinned and walked towards Sergeant Ramirez.

"Feed me, Master," he begged.

Victor didn't like the way Ramirez talked to him earlier and how he tried to take the egg from him, Victor would enjoy this part very much. Ramirez took his entire length into his throat like an expert. Victor moaned loudly and grabbed each side of Ramirez's head as he started to get hough. He looked to his side and saw the Captain doing the same with another soldier. Victor couldn't hold it any longer and started to shoot.

__________________________________

( Present Days )

Victor woke up with a warm mouth wrapping around his member, he pulled the covers to reveal Grus's bodybuilder host under the sheets with his entire length inside his mouth. The bodybuilder stopped sucking and gave him a sexy smile.

"Good morning, Master," He said, giving the shaft a few kisses.

"Good morning... Grus." Victor moaned. "You know how to wake me up appropriately. After last night, you must be starving. Here, take your reward." Victor said, grabbing the bodybuilder by the hair and starting to thrust deeper into his throat. Victor moaned louder and finally gave Grus's what he wanted, filling the host's mouth with his cum. But the bodybuilder didn't swallow, he suddenly froze and his eyes rolled back as Grus crawled out of his brain and to his mouth, consuming the small pool of cum inside. As Victor waited for Grus to eat, he noticed that Alexander (Sylo's host) was not in the room with them.

The night before, Sylo had called Grus to Victor's room. They spent the night having fun with each other. Victor jerked off while he watched Alexander fuck the bodybuilder, who was on all fours moaning like a slut. Victor loved seeing two brainless hunks fucking each other right in front of him, it was like watching gay porn but now he could participate. Soon Victor was being spit-roasted with the bodybuilder's thick brown cock inside his mouth and Alexander's huge cock filling his ass. He passed out after he came.

"Where is Sylo?" Victor asked.

Grus had now crawled back inside the bodybuilder's brain and walked to the window.

"Sylo is sunbathing outside. He said Alexander would look good with a tan."

"And you? Do you have plans for..." Victor stopped talking, as he came to realize he didn't knew Grus's host name. "I just realized that I never asked your host's name, how is he called?"

"I'm offended Master," Grus joked. "His name is Ahmed."

"I'm sorry," Victor laughed. "It's hard to memorize all of their names, I don't care about their names or who they used to be, I only care about their bodies. Usually, I like to refer to them by their profession, like the mailman, the delivery man, the bodybuilder..."

"Yet you know Sylo's host name, you don't call him 'The CEO' you call him by Alexander. Is my host not hot enough for you, Master?" He asked, doing a double biceps pose.

"Don't be like that, I love your host very much. Didn't I already prove it to you last night?"

"I don't believe you, I think you like Sylo's host better. You don't appreciate me enough, I should go find another gay slut to give this body the attention it deserves." Grus joked, making Ahmed flex again for Victor.

"You're acting just like Yinx, yesterday he was all jealous that I was sharing a room with Sylo."

They shared a laugh.

"I'm going to shower him, Master, Ahmed is all sticky from last night, do you want to join? I will let you wash my body with your tongue, It's been a while since you gave one of my hosts a tongue bath."

"Maybe some other time. I will go check on Sylo." Victor then kissed Ahmed, but their kiss was suddenly interrupted by Ahmed's phone ringing.

"Who's that?" Victor asked.

"It's Ahmed's younger brother, he just won't stop calling. I think we should do something about it, Master."

Victor grabbed the phone and declined the call.

"New rule: Don't worry about your host's business, just enjoy your vacation as Ahmed. Ok?"

He nodded.

"You promise?"

"I do, Master."

They shared another kiss and then Ahmed went to take a shower while Victor went to put some clothes on.

Victor walked outside to Alexander sunbathing in the private area of the Hotel. It was an exclusive area that only Victor, Alexander, and the other hosts could access, so it was a very private place.

Alexander glanced at Victor.

"What are you staring at? You pervert." Alexander said.

"Good morning to you too, Sylo."

"Sylo? Who the fuck is that? You know what? I could use a fag like you. No one is watching, come here and clean my sweat with your tongue."

Victor sat on Alexander's lap, facing him, and gently caressed Alexander's arms, feeling the hard-earned muscles that Alexander was once so proud of. Those muscles were not built for him to grope, Alexander built them for women, but now they were for Victor, just for him and nobody else. Victor then leaned over and started to lick the sweaty biceps, especially the armpits, they had a strong musk.

"Sylo, you need to wash Alexander's body. He's smelling really strong. When was the last time you washed him?"

"Stop calling me that and go back to work!" Alexander grunted as he shoved Victor's face back into his armpit.

"Good boy, clean me up. These muscles won't clean by themselves." Alexander purred. Victor nodded and buried his face deeper into Alexander's pits, lapping at them like a thirsty dog.

"That's it, smell it, taste it, It's all for you."

While Victor was busy lapping at the muscles, Alexander pulled down his shorts and then ripped off Victor's shorts. Victor was impressed by how strong Alexander was. With his other hand, Alexander pressed the tip of his shaft into Victor's entrance. Victor grunted in pain, he was still sore from the night before.

"Take your time, Master. I know he's too big for you," Sylo broke character for the first time to make sure Victor was okay. It wasn't Victor's first time with Alexander, but it was their third, and Victor was still not used to the size. Victor's heart raced as he looked into Alexander's eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Please, Alexander," he whispered. "I want you inside me." Alexander smiled and lowered him down onto his waiting cock, Victor was feeling the heat and length of the shaft stretching him impossibly wide. He gasped at the sensation and then began to move, slowly at first, but gaining momentum as they became lost in the rhythm of their bodies, soon Alexander was filling Victor's ass with his cum.

"Fuck, he has one of the biggest cock of all the hosts you guys made."

"Even bigger than Quin's host?" Alexander smirked.

Victor suddenly noticed a shadow over him, he looked up and saw Andrei — Quin's footballer host.

"Definitely not as big as mine." Andrei said.

"Oh hey Quin, you scared me for a second." Victor laughed, looking up at the handsome footballer. "What are you doing here?"

"You know, usually, I would have breakfast with Grus, but he didn't sleep in our room yesterday, he was too busy getting fucked by you two."

"Sorry, Quin, I just shot Alexander's load into Victor's ass, wish I had enough to feed you," Alexander said.

"It's ok brother, don't worry."

Victor then had an idea. "Grus is taking a shower right now. I fed him this morning, but he didn't shoot. Ahmed's balls are still very much full. Let's get inside."

Victor couldn't stand because his ass was hurting, so Andrei helped him by carrying him on his arms to his room.

Unknown to Victor and the bugs, they were not alone. A man was hidden nearby, taking photos of them. The man had a devilish smile as he looked at the photos he took. In one photo Victor was getting fucked by Alexander, in another, Andrei was carrying him in his arms. "Master is going to love this." The man said to himself.

[sflow-er]

It's Eurovision week, and for the first time in over twenty years, I won't be watching or engaging.

As you probably know, the global BDS (Boycott, Divest, Sanction) movement has called for a total Eurovision boycott due to the EBU's refusal to ban Israel.

The ESC has been a beloved part of my spring since I was little, and it's really fucking upsetting not getting to enjoy it this year - but that's just it. I know it won't make any difference whether one person chooses to watch or boycott, and that my watching it wouldn't even be registered as a view if I just watched the TV broadcast instead of the stream, but I can't imagine any set of circumstances in which I would enjoy it.

Back when the contest was held in Tel Aviv, I "bought myself a license to enjoy it" by donating to the UNRWA multiple times what I would've normally spent on voting, but no amount of donations would be enough to do that now. Not when every artist will be styled using the products of an Israeli beauty brand (Moroccanoil, a major ESC sponsor and likely a major player in why the EBU wouldn't even consider a ban), and when Israel itself has made its participation a political statement. The only reason their public broadcaster KAN agreed to change the lyrics of their entry, which originally referenced the Hamas attack and is still was called "October Rain" but has now been renamed "Hurricane", was this:

The president [of Israel] emphasised that at this time in particular, when those who hate us seek to push aside and boycott the state of Israel from every stage, Israel must sound its voice with pride and its head high and raise its flag in every world forum, especially this year. (The Guardian, 07 March)

Singer Eden Golan has also said that she believes her "participation is part of a very important mission for the country" and that she expects to begin her compulsory military service soon after the contest:

I still haven't enlisted in the army, and when I return from Eurovision, I'll report for my first call-up. In the first year as a returning resident, they don't call you, but that year passed and I was summoned – and my draft was postponed because of Eurovision. Doing army service is a mission, and I want to take the auditions to the military bands. (Israel Hayom, 22 April)

Yes, really. It's more likely she'll be some kind of PR ambassador for the Israeli army than be sent to Gaza with a gun, but still.

Many people are also upset about Palestinian flags being banned from the arena, and I'm not happy about it either, but I do think it's more or less understandable. The arena is a closed space, and any kind of altercation that might be sparked by those flags would be a big security risk. And at least if we are to believe executive supervisor Martin Österdahl, they haven't actually changed the rules; signs and flags with political messaging were always banned, and in this time, the Palestinian flag does send a powerful political message.

Then there's also the security risk associated with the event itself. Malmö is one of Sweden's most diverse cities, which also has both Jewish and Palestinian communities. According to a survey published on 4 May, 47% of city residents intend to avoid crowds during Eurovision. Mass protests and counter protests are expected. Events such as Quran-burnings by right-wing extremists are still allowed in the name of freedom of expression, even though the terror threat level in Sweden had to be raised to 4 out of the maximum 5 last year/this past winter due to precisely these kinds of provocations, and tensions will be running high. So even if the event itself manages to look as glitzy as always on TV, it will still be shadowed by what might be happening outside. Will there be unrest? Violence? How will the police respond?

There's no enjoyment to be found in any of that, no being "united by music" (the ESC slogan, which is a joke at this point). At least for me.

That being said, I do not judge you if you plan on watching. I understand that it's a huge annual tradition for many of us, and in these times, we need all the joy we can get. I also understand that it can feel like empty virtue signalling to boycott something when millions of others will tune in regardless - although it is good to keep in mind that this isn't some silly boycott started by social media activists on Xitter. It's a serious effort by the BDS movement.

I would challenge you to think about how you engage, though. If possible, watch it on TV instead of on stream, so your view won't be logged. (You could even consider waiting until the show gets posted on Youtube instead of giving views to the official stream, but I get that you probably want to see it live.) Try to abstain from hyping the contest or your fave entries on social media, and also from voting. Consider donating what you can afford to a charity that provides aid to Gaza instead (here's one list I found with a quick search).

And finally, spread awareness of the flip side. Don't be lulled into complacency by the claims of "Eurovision isn't political" when Israel itself has made it very clear it is - and do not make fun of people who want to sit the contest out this year or belittle their efforts.

[jewish-culture-is]

This is a little long but I've been scrolling through your blog and it just...hit different, and maybe everything here will be a little too specific but I've never had a place to say it before

Thank you for offering one

Jewish culture is learning about Israel in Sunday school and how the idea of it allowed so many Jews spread by diaspora to breathe a sigh of relief only to be faced with a disappointing reality shaped by politics :/

It's walking the halls in 9th grade and seeing two seniors right in front of you with 88 patches on their backpacks talking about globalists and blood libel and knowing you can't tell anyone

It's your mother very proudly telling you that, if you'd been in Germany during the 1930s, you could've hidden in plain sight because you don't look Jewish and it's being proud of that yourself until you realize just how fucked up that is

It's your raised Roman Catholic father being told by his siblings that he won't be seeing his wife and children in Heaven when he dies because we'll be going to Hell for not being baptized

It's having one person ask you if they can make Jew jokes about you and agreeing because nobody has ever asked and you know him and at least you can have a modicum of control because he'll stop if you tell him

It's being in college and going to a professor to discuss an essay and the professor expresses their condolences and you have no clue what they're talking about but run with it to get an extension only to Google recent news after leaving to discover a synagogue attack on the other side of the country

It's knowing the prayers by heart and being able to read romanized Hebrew but never knowing what it actually says but that disconnect fades just a little when you're singing with everyone during Shabbat and the voices rise around you, beautiful and complete and united

It's navigating dietary requirements at work and having a coworker complain about being tired of always getting cheese pizza because she wants pepperoni

It's finding a New York Jewish deli and having matzo ball soup that makes you cry because it soothes something you didn't know you were feeling for the past 24 years

It's writing poetry about ancestors migrating to the states for a better life and safety

It's having a mezzuzah fixed to your apartment door with a Command Strip, always ready to pull down without leaving a trace behind when you inevitably move again

Jewish culture is love and fear and song and generational trauma and support from strangers based only on a shared history and chocolate-covered matzo and people telling you that you'll find Jesus one day and yearning for a home and having to create one in the goyim around you because they love you and you love them but there will always be a sheet of glass between you that only you see

Jewish culture is being alive, and it's so so worth it

I am happy to offer you this space, and I'm so glad that you like it here <33

[dev1lm4n]

shroom

pairings: joel miller x f!reader

summary: in which you tried to help your grumpy mentor get over the mushroom's aphrodisiac side effect.

word count: 3.9k (gosh yea i went over the top with this)

warnings: explicit (18+), no actual penetration, thigh fucking, slight age-gap and reader's implied to be an orphan.

notes: honestly this is just a reason to write desperate joel but oh well :)

What lies beneath the gray-ish rocks were dove gray with a subtle hint of purple. Fresh air broke through your nasal cavities, gusts of wind combing your loose strands gently like a doting mother. Even in a photograph you could quickly take into account that it was peak summer, for the steep valleys are finally visible and pretty asters bloom abundantly on every inch of green. 

You would’ve guessed mid June was the cause of these heavenly blessings. The rest of the year the ranges were as white-peaked as any storybook mountains and they were especially cruel to visitors. Summer was just more so your cup of tea. 

Despite the relentless sun rays burning your skin and the itchiness from sweat and mosquitos, it’s a lot more inviting. Felt a lot like a long awaited vacation, one where you’d get tanned with friends on seashores and gossip about boys like it was the most important thing on earth. Things like that are simply left for your imagination. The United States of America hasn't been as liberating, ever since Cordyceps happened.

It’s not the first time you scaled along the wilderness in order to get to your destination unharmed. Without getting bitten by chomping, pestering infected, or worse, people. Nature is just naturally serene. A hug of browns, a shelter of long dwindling limbs, and a variety of edible materials that’s free to use. You were a quick learner and a considerably great adaptor. 

From dusty books piled up in your home, a FEDRA orphanage, you picked up knowledge on a collection of plants and animals native to the country. Being a resourceful forager might’ve been your one and only redeemable feature, and perhaps the only reason why Joel Miller agreed to bring you along on his trips.

Tess was the one who scouted you in the most bizarre fashion possible. You remembered vividly how she interrogated the fungi you picked on the city’s outskirts, asking why you’d pick up the one thing people refrain from eating these days. You remembered the amused look she had on her face, but it was all too long ago. Too long you’re starting to forget what she looked like smiling and full of hope. Time has passed and you’re not the same snotty, bratty teenager anymore. 

Though, you’re not exactly grown.

Still budding with youthful stupidity and brashness.

Which is where Joel came in handy. He was your tamer. The one who’d put a rough hand down when you’re being too rash in making decisions. The one who’d tug on your leash when you’re an exploding mess of fury. Tess was kinder and sweeter and.. more of a makeshift mother figure to you, while Joel was whatever he was. He wasn’t introduced into the picture until last winter where you managed to get two different people hunting for your head. Which you still insist wasn’t entirely your fault.

Tess was worried, you understood, but he’s a real mood killer at times.

You watched along the trees, how they swayed in a warming breeze. Hands tied behind your back as you hummed a nursery rhyme fondly. This time it was ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ on repeat for a billion times, which you’re sure is going to get some unappeased comments from the ball of grouch behind you. He always hated anything fun. Always chalking it up to being far too dangerous or distracting. You were even banned from keeping a firearm around him. What a joke.

“Quit singin’. You’re going to attract trouble.”

“Fucking hell.”

“What was that?”

“You’re such a bore, Joel.”

You could feel his gaze on the back of your head, probably looking at you as if you’re a foul harm to society. Tess always said that it’s just the way he looks but you don’t buy it. You’ve seen the way he smiled at a thing she said, even when it’s closer to a shy grin than a full ear-to-ear smile. An exasperated sigh was all you heard from him next, then a few grumbles about how you two are going to set camp next to a large pine tree as it’s getting late.

“It’s getting late or are your old knees aching?”

“What’re you doin’?”

Joel’s voice almost shook your skin off your bones. There was a delicious moment when you turned on your heels to face him, face washed blank with confusion, like your brain cogs couldn’t turn fast enough to process the information. It’s like you’re caught popping his favorite pills, when it really was just another one of your fascinating finds. You weren’t planning on sharing with him out of all people, so you were visibly annoyed. The distasteful twist of your lips had him scowling.

“It’s just food. Reishi mushroom.”

You showcased the fungus, waving it in front of his scrunched nose. The mushroom was reddish brown varnished with kidney-shaped caps that fanned out the closer it got to the ends. It’s supposedly bitter tasting, but it wasn’t poisonous. You looked convinced enough it wouldn’t straight-up kill the both of you upon tasting, even when it’s your first time encountering such a species.

“You sure it’s not poisonous?”

“You could have the first bite if you’d like.”

He looked at you with that expression– the same one he put on when he’s interested in taking on your challenge instead of diffusing the bickering. It’s harder to see what he’s conspiring when the darkness is borderline blinding. You couldn’t cater to every wrinkle and divot on his face, even with great concentration. Joel reached for the mushroom and held it lightly against the rough pads of his fingers. Examining it much closer under moonlight’s glint.

“We’ll have it tonight as soup.”

His words were absolute, even when Tess is around. You knew that and he knew that. It was unspoken. You surrendered your merry bounty willingly without throwing a childish tantrum this time. He can be cruel and unapologetic; you weren’t exactly eager to go through that route with him. Especially when your first filling dinner is on the line. You simply nodded at his decision, twisting your tactical knife back into its shell and stuffing it deep into your cargo jeans. Slightly sour about the entire ordeal.

There was always something cathartic about having a filled stomach after a long day of trekking, borderline orgasmic if you had to describe it in another way. It was an extremely appreciated coincidence as well that Joel managed to have in hand an actual unopened can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup. Although horrifically passed its best-by date, it wasn’t rancid or anything. Just slightly sour, but you’re sure the preservatives on that can would do you a favor this once. 

You could barely breathe upon settling down on your sleeping bag. The buttons on your cargos digging into your inflated stomach, in which you hastily undid once you’re entirely submerged in the parachute-like material. You huffed. Burped and earned an irritated grunt by none other than Joel Miller. Then let the chirping of crickets and rustling of leaves create a peaceful symphony to lull you to sleep. Gentle summer breeze carried the scent of pine and wildflowers, invigorating your senses. And you’re gone in just a split second.

It felt like being coddled by nature itself, as corny as it sounded. What you didn’t expect was to be startled awake when the moonlight’s still as bright as ever. A light fuck escaped your lips. Irritated was what you are. You’re as aware as can be, ears tuned in to whatever it is that posed a threat to your goodnight sleep. But nothing came up. Just the occasional hoot of an owl, distant calls from coyotes, and what seemed to be woodland creatures rustling around the thick bushes. 

Maybe it’s just your terrible paranoia cruising. Maybe you’re starting to hallucinate from fatigue, or maybe it’s just some stupid squirrel in the branches. You shuffled in your cocoon of a sleeping bag before turning ever so slightly to face Joel’s side. To face where Joel Miller, your irritating companion, is supposed to rest. Though for the first time in history, his absence crushed your heart.

You were terrified. Eyes wide and round as you stared in disbelief.

He was gone.

You scrambled to your feet. Taking unlevelled steps towards his side of the camp, you could feel your chest tighten at the confirmation of his disappearance. He wasn’t there no matter how many times you flipped his sleeping bag front to back.

Has he deserted you? Did he finally get tired of you? Were you being way too bratty today? You didn’t think you’d be this distressed at the absence of someone you hated with a passion, but here you were, waterline overrun by stray tears threatening to spill out at any given time. So weak and helpless, it’s pathetic.

Was that a moan? 

You froze, as still as you could be, trying to listen intently if the sound decided to repeat itself. It did. This time you could make out what it sounded like: guttural, low, and indistinct. The way your face contorted was comical to say the least. At this point, your mind started to race with all the creative questions. Was it an animal? A person in distress? Oh, or is it something more sinister and dangerous? You didn’t have your gun on you so it’d be obvious suicide if you went on to pursue, wouldn’t it?

This is how people died in horror movies

You knew that and a part of your youthful curiosity (the chunk Tess hated so much) made you take another step forward towards the general direction. The puddle you stepped on rippled and splashed. Your wary eyes dart around, scanning the surrounding area for any signs of movement.

There was nothing of course. Just the waving branches that’s starting to make you feel a little disoriented and claustrophobic. All you could hear was your own ragged breathing above the low groan that once again was being emitted from behind the tree line. You swore it sounded more human-like the more you tuned in.

Dry branches crackled and broke underneath the heavy soles of your boots, making you cringe inwardly at the thought that someone must’ve noticed your moves by now. This is far beyond stupid you decide. You should've prepared an eulogy by now. Maybe even a few stems of the lovely aster you enjoyed so much. If this was a serial killer lurking underneath your shadows, your funeral was right around the corner. But it wasn’t. What made the noise wasn’t a stray squirrel, nor was it a stray clicker. It was Joel fucking Miller. 

"Joel?"

His name slipped out of your tongue like melted butter; unstoppable and out of instinct. He's looked at you multiple times during your stays in Tess' flat. Sometimes with gentle aloofness and other times with what you chalked up to be disgust or even disdain, and you'd always cater to his glares with your incredulous grin. This time it was.. different.

His pupils were large— larger than what you think was humanly possible with it almost swallowing the entirety of his irises. A humorous part of your brain wondered if he was turning into some sort of werewolf because of the full moon, if he'd pounce on you with his furry claws.

Your running thoughts made you steer away from what's actually presented in front of you. The more that you look at it, he looked somewhat.. pained. He's never looked pained before, not when a bullet lodged in precisely behind his arteries or even when an upset customer drove a rusty knife down his side. Joel's been annoyingly tough. But now he's visibly drenched in sweat, face adorned with a shade of crimson, while he shivered and groaned against the base of a tree. This was odd. You slowly crouched over to his side, but your attempts were futile when he's waving his arms in your direction as if shooing a dog away.

You frowned. He rolled to his side, trying to avoid your incoming slaught of confrontation.

"Were you shot?"

"No."

"Were you clawed by a bear?"

"No."

"Are we going to play 20 questions or are you going to let me help you?"

He turned slightly, just enough so that he could finally see the irritation weaved through your expression. Joel then grumbled something about how you shouldn't be out here and that it's better to get back in your sleeping bag. You ignored him, as always, inching even closer to see what he's up to.

Stubbornness runs deep in your blood and you weren't going to let him die out here in the woods when you could barely read a map by itself. You didn't even know how to determine where North is. To simply put it, you'd die without him standing up straight, whether in this unruly jungle or under the gun of Tess' customer.

"Your mushrooms are poisonous," he accused sternly, boring his deep brown eyes into yours. 

"No. It's not. I'm fine and well, so it must be a you problem mister," you probed your fingers into his tough chest, not accepting any sort of insult to your own specialty. "Fuck, are you having some sort of heart attack?"

"I'm not. I'm just.. oh god," he stifled his groans with his palm. Now that you're finally seeing him in a better light, it looked like he was.. palming himself through the thick fabric of his tight jeans. Was he rocking into his own palm? Or was it just your perverted imaginations playing tricks on your silly little mind?

Your stomach lurched at the possibility, then a curl of disgust had you pressing your lips together into a thin line. This is your time to back away. He gave you that chance a while ago and you should've let your curiosity lay low. He was your goddamn mentor and worse, Tess' partner, it'd be wrong to see him in this state. But isn't it your responsibility for inflicting this kind of torment? It's your idea to harvest the mushrooms. You're dealing with some twisted version of Schrödinger's cat where no good options are presented in front of you. It's a moral dilemma.

"Are you?" you squeaked. "Are you masturbating?"

"No. Just get back to.. oh."

"Do ya need help?"

He looked at you like you're his inferno. The one that's going to drag him straight to hell from your sweet sweet words. God, he shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be looking down your loose tank top like some old geezer, you're probably twenty years his junior and he's here rubbing his inconvenience away at your expense. You didn't even know what you're offering. Did you even know what he's like?

"Please, just. You're going to regret it, sweetheart."

"How would you know?"

"I'm like old enough.. fuck.. to be your dad or something. You should just go. Tess is gonna kill me if she knew."

"Joel, this is my fault," you persisted, eyes bright with a sense of genuine worry.

Joel's jaw clenched hard at your enticing offer, a bead of sweat dribbled down the side of his temple nervously. He looked like he was struggling to pull out a coherent reason as to why this shouldn't happen. Why he shouldn't be the one to defile your innocence and corrupt you with his bloody hands. Nothing came out though, just a brief desperate grunt. 

You swallowed thickly, before taking his lack of an answer as a sign of encouragement. Your hands moved painfully slow. As if waiting to see whether he'd push your hands away or try to stop you in any way, but he never did. Not even when you touched the damp denim clinging onto his bare skin, gently as if he's made of porcelain.

You've never.. done this which frankly explained the awkward touches you're prone to do, or the look in your eyes that further emphasized the fact that you had no idea what you're doing. Aside from the scarce pornographic magazine stashed in your orphanage's library, there wasn't any sort of guidance as to how you'd navigate your sexual life. But you’re almost sure that this was a good start from the way his scrunched up eyebrows start to untangle at your touch. 

With that in mind, you traced over the shape of his confined cock, before settling on the damp tip leaking over his jeans. It felt warm and somewhat foreign. You circled over the spot several times, encouraged by his low groans. Did he feel good?

"Fuck. Okay. You wanna help me out and be a good girl?" he rasped, finally grasping your hand with his calloused fingers to get you even closer to where he wanted you. He guided you eagerly. All voices of reason vanished in his head.

You weren’t able to say anything. It felt like you're drowning in his existence; the oak-like smell of his flannel, the rough syllables he uttered, and god that terribly persuasive grin he had on. He's secretly smug about this and you knew it.

"Come here," he beckoned you to come closer and so you did, without a single complaint like what your chatty mouth is used to. You're so quiet and pliant– something he's been wishing for from the start of your journey. Joel feverishly pulled you back onto his lap, pressing his hardened front onto the thick fabric of your cargo pants. 

You yelped. He let out a soft mumble of your name. His hips stuttered at the new sensation. He's more than ready to feel you from the inside, get wrapped up in your velvety walls, but the thought of Tess had him pulling on his reins. "Listen. I'm not– oh.. I'm not going to ruin you, okay? Just gonna.. Just gonna use your thighs."

Thighs? What’s that supposed to mean? Your clueless expression had him shudder in anticipation. You’re so cute and perfect to corrupt. It’s definitely not the first time he thought of you in that manner. He secretly loved each and every one of your bickering games, it riled him up beneath all the cold shoulder facade. 

Without further warning, Joel manhandled you with his strong arms. You let out a strained gasp as he towered over you, the ground hard against your back. Heat and adrenaline ran through your veins at the sight of his concentrated eyes. He looked determined to go through with this, no matter the consequences.

He took in all of you, not with his touches, just with the soft brown pupils he’s blessed with. You knew that he wasn’t going to be all sweet and lovely, although you silently wished he’d be a little gentler when he pulled your cargos off. You’d wish for him to tell you how pretty you are and how much you meant to him, because as fucked up as it was, you’ve always wanted him to like you. The infatuation was cliché and stupid, but you could never have enough.

Joel was quick to fold you in half, holding your legs up by the underside of your thighs as he observed. A warm palm hovering over your throbbing cunt extinguished any last traces of your desire to rebel; the heat between your thighs only became worse at his nimble fingers dragging along your panties. Out of a need for more, you rubbed your thighs together and tried your best to buck into his touch with a shaky breath. 

“I’m not a good guy,” Joel trailed off while he busied himself unbuckling his belt, the sound of the leather sliding out his jean loops ignited a fire within you. “Fuckin’ killed so many people. Stole their things and ran.”

“Do you.. oh.. do you still want to go through with this, sweetheart?”

The nickname was quick to send goosebumps down your back. He’s driving you insane and he had the audacity to ask these questions. He should’ve just seen how drenched you are beneath the scant excuse of panties. You nodded breathlessly and god was it a sight to watch his moral beliefs crumble apart at your confirmation.

“Keep your thighs together, girl,” he ordered briefly, nails digging into your plush thighs as he finally freed his cock. It’s feverishly hot against your skin and drooling with a copious amount of precum, you could even feel the head teasingly poke onto your clothed slit. You shuddered and clenched around nothing at the sensation. “Please.”

“God. Such a good girl are you?” he managed to find the time to tease you as he slid between your thighs, looking down you could see the flushed bulbous head twitching with need. Joel let out a groan he's been holding on to for a long time, even just having your plush thighs squeezing him was enough to send jolts of pleasure through every part of his aching body. 

He started to thrust his hips at a slow pace; drawing them back slowly and pushing them forward with enough force to knock you back onto the tree trunk each time. Your heartbeat grew wild in your ribcage, hard and fast as he relished in the feeling of you. You weren’t sure of what the feeling was, but you could feel your clit pulse at the friction his cock made everytime it slipped through.

You admired the color of his tip which reminded you of a wild salmon, slightly pink with tinges of nudes, spilling so much of that thick milky substance which quickly coats the insides of your thighs. What a sight it was to be beneath Joel Miller. Your past self would’ve probably envied you for getting so lucky, whimpering and gasping for air as he held you with an iron grip. It felt so good, you’re at a loss for words. All those nights spent pining over him and spreading your pretty pussy to the mere thought of him is finally paid for.

“Feel good, girl?

He granted you a form of reprieve when his fingers finally pulled your panties aside to quickly find your clit and tease it in tight circles. His calloused fingers provided such good ridges to grind yourself onto. The sound that’s spilling out of your lips was embarrassing, almost pitiful, but it seemed that with each and every whimper Joel looked even more pleased. The expression on his face was sinful by itself. You could only imagine how foul this scenery was from a third person point of view.

“So good to me, shit, where did that pretty mouth of yours disappear?”

He bucked even faster, and so did you, eager to chase after the euphoric friction one another provided. The coil finally broke at his last press against your needy clit. You whimpered, an airy sound as your cunt clenched frantically around nothing, globs of white leaking right through your panties and onto the dried up leaves underneath. 

Joel let out a smooth chuckle at the sight, dutifully rubbing circles onto your clit as he reached his high. Ribbons of white spurt out unconditionally. There was so much you wondered when his last release was. Your tank top was drenched and so were your thighs. The sheer obscenity had you buckling onto him. You felt hot, over-sensitive, and wrong. 

Realization sunk into you as he pulled away and settled to your side.

“No speaking of this,” you murmured, still in a trance of blissful pleasure.

“Yes, ma’am.”

His chuckle resonated, only to mingle with your own.

[thewinchestah]

@markster666 opened pandora's box. i need to tell all my silly alastor is an old man headcanons

since we don't know how much of contemporary history Alastor actually knows, i love to imagine him being completely stunned and flabbergasted, sometimes offended with modernity

he hates modern kitchen appliances. Like he has pure hatred for tvs, this man has nothing but wrath inside his undead heart for air fryers.

Angel showing him the music video for WAP and the spark on Alastor's eyes slowly dwindling as he understand the lyrics and is introduced to twerking

veganism. Vegan meat. Someone handed him an air fryerd cooked soy nugget and he just lost it

explaining the space race to alastor. "they sent a monkey to space" "mankind walked on the moon"

just praking alastor in general with history facts that he didn't witness like running to the hotel lobby and screaming "SOME SINNER JUST SHOWED UP AND SAID THEY KILLED THE FUCKING PRESIDENT asdhjh and it's JFK

I>Really< like the idea of alastor being scared of communism

i know i also would be murdered on the spot i just wanna go to him and say "the soviets are coming, that's right Alastor, the Red Army just joined forces with heaven, the united states is now part of the USSR and they are coming for hell next"

there's a group of teenangers staying in the hotel, all of them got a terminal case of "regina george syndrome" and they drag Al through filth. He doesn't understand a thing and stays there "i'm a what now 😀​😀​😀​

he has been called "bootleg Mr. Darcy" or "ginger voldermot" and "great gatsby" at least once by younger sinners

alastor trying to understand the concept of emojis

just singing "radio gaga by queen" to him

someone using therapy speak on Alastor and his eyes start twitching

Everyone buys into the collective joke that the musical hamilton is actually cannonically united states history to drive him to insanity. Specially everything related to Lin Manuel Miranda

Now the hotel is crowded i think he needs to host an in-house radio show where ppl need insane modern headlines to him and he needs to guess if they are true or not. like "A Japanese man spends 2 Million Yen to become a dog"

. ALL THE FLORIDA MAN HEADLINES "Florida man once arrested for fighting drag queen with tiki torch runs for mayor" "Florida man insists syringes pulled from rectum aren’t his"

someone makes a deal with him so he's now contractually obligated to react to every episode of "keeping up with the kardashians" live on his radio shpw

AJSDHASJDHJSDH I HAVE SO MAY MORE. HE'S SO PETTY. He's totally that uncle that goes "we used to be a proper country"

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 1

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter One: Vermont

[ Series Masterlist ][ Next Chapter ]

Series Summary: In her time tramping across the United States, Charlie Wanderlust has found life on the road to be challenging, but rewarding. When she makes enemies with a powerful figure, a bounty is put out for her capture. Din Djarin, a long-haul trucker and occasional bounty hunter, takes the job as a means to gain financial stability. Their paths cross, and as a result, the winding route of their lives are forever altered.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 3.3k+

Content / Warnings: modern-day au, alternating pov, second person pov, slow burn, vagabond ofc, dog grogu, enemies to lovers, bounty hunting, violence, swearing, truckers

Notes: Heeeeyyyy buddy. Rated explicit because the whole series is just gonna go under that umbrella, I don't care to get into nitty-gritty of rating systems with each chapter lmfao but it will eventually be explicit. I made a Spotify playlist for the series and cross-posted on AO3 (un: glitter_deity), links to both are on the masterlist! OK BIG KISSES HAVE FUN!

Charlie’s Rules for Living on the Road, RULE #3: Keep your wits about you. 

The tiny bar you’re in is shabby and crowded. All-American beer signs reflect red white and blue off the nicked-up mahogany bar top that’s so sticky and rich it reminds you of maple syrup. Fitting, considering you’re in Vermont, of all places. 

It reeks of expired hand sanitizer. A strange combination of rubbing alcohol and rotting fruit that your nose doesn’t really know how to sort, but you just know you hate it. Thought it would be worth gagging through, but apparently not. 

Despite how crowded the small dance floor was during your set, the tips were a fucking joke. Sixteen dollars. 

Anyway, Rule #3. 

The Paul Bunyan-esque bartender who agreed to let you play for tips must recognize that his patrons are cheapskates, because he approaches you from behind the bar and says, “Tough luck. Want me to make you a drink?” 

“I’ll take some water.” 

“Can make something harder if ya want. On the house,” he offers, pressing his wide palms against the bar.

“How about,” you click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, then tilt your head at the hard plastic menu display standing erect between his splayed hands, “some mozzarella sticks?” 

He raises a thick reddish-brown eyebrow at you, “Sure.” 

A satisfied smile spreads across your face and you lean against the bar, propping your chin up on your fist, “You’re a lifesaver. What’s your name?” 

“Jim,” he scoops ice into a tall glass and sprays water into it. 

A man wearing tawny carhartt overalls and a blaze orange stocking cap approaches the bar. Jim tosses a cardboard coaster in front of you and sets your water glass down, then ambles over to take his order. He tends to a few more customers and you surreptitiously size up their wallets. 

Once the demand for his attention wanes, Jim slides a parchment paper-lined basket of sizzling mozzarella sticks across the bar to you. 

“You’re a fucking saint, Jim, thank you,” you crack one open, revealing the gooey, cream-colored innards. Steam bursts from the chasm and scalds your fingertips. 

When you hiss and drop it, Jim chuckles, “Careful, they’re hot.”

“Thanks for the warning,” you tease, flashing a playful smile. 

He pulls up the sleeves of his heavyweight green and black flannel, “So what’s your deal, where you from?”

“I’m from everywhere, and nowhere,” you sigh, then meet his unamused dark eyes and explain, “Kind of a roamer. I’ve been tramping around the country for a while.” 

“All by yourself?” Jim raises his eyebrows, and when you nod he frowns, “Ain’t that kinda dangerous?” 

“Nothin’ I can’t handle. Get to meet all kinds of people, see all kinds of places. Always an adventure. It’s real living.” 

“And how long you been doin’ this?” 

“A few years now,” you answer, poking at the busted mozzarella stick to test its warmth, “Are you from the area?” 

“Born ‘n’ raised,” he looks around the bar, surveying the faces he must have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

“Do you like it?” you pinch off a piece of the fried food and pop it into your mouth. 

“Ain’t too bad,” he shrugs, “It’s familiar, ya know. It’s my home.” 

You hum in acknowledgment as you swallow your food, then press your elbows into the bar and lean forward, “Ever think of leaving it all behind? Seeing what’s out there?” 

Jim shakes his head and chuckles, “No ma’am, that’s not for me.” 

“Why not?”

“You’re just a curious thing, ain’t ya?”

Before you can retort, Jim is flagged down by another thirsty patron. You scarf down the greasy, scorching hot mozzarella sticks as he makes more drinks, then you push the bar stool out and call over to him, “Hey, can I leave my stuff here while I use the bathroom?” 

He glances up at you and nods in the affirmative. 

On your way back to the bar after your bathroom break, you stroll by a stack of heavy winter jackets sitting unattended at a table. It’s been on your radar since a group of four tossed them down about an hour ago. Since then, the jackets have only been revisited when their owners found their beer pitcher dry and in need of a refill. You couldn’t help but notice the sea of green inside one woman’s wallet before she returned it to its (terrible) hiding place. 

RULE #8: Take care of yourself. 

You squint up at a sign on the wall while your hand plunges into the pile of jackets. Your fingers brush up against the metal clasp of a wallet. You unfasten it and feel around for two bills, slipping them up your sleeve before walking away.

Adrenaline thuds through your heart, flooding your body with a weightless, buzzing energy. No matter how many times you’ve stolen, it’s still a rush. 

When you return to your seat, you heave your rucksack over your shoulders, then your guitar strap, adjusting it until the guitar is safely fastened at your back. 

“Taking off?” Jim asks as he clears your empty food basket from the bar. 

“I suppose,” you meet his gaze and flash him a cordial smile, “Gonna see if I can find a place to set up camp.” 

“You’re not sleeping outside, are ya?” he frowns, “Gonna drop below freezing overnight.” 

You shrug, “I’ll be fine.”

“Aww hell, I can’t let you do that,” he protests, then ushers you closer, “Tell ya what—There’s an empty apartment upstairs, why don’t you sleep up there? No furniture, but I figure you have a sleeping bag or something, yeah?” 

You search his face, trying to read his intentions and determine whether or not this is a safe offer to take. 

He must recognize your hesitation, because he adds, “I’ll give you the key, you can deadbolt it from the inside. Just leave it unlocked in the morning, ok?” 

“Really?” your eyebrows press together, “That would be… fucking amazing, actually.” 

He tugs a key ring from his front pocket and wrestles one of the keys off, then slides it across the bar to you, “First unit around the corner. Don’t make me regret it, ya hear?” 

Din slides his pen into the logbook’s spiraled spine and tosses it onto the empty passenger’s seat. He taps the tablet mounted on his dash and pulls up the load board, surveying available pickups in the area. 

After factoring in fuel prices and time on the road, he determines that none of them have a particularly high net gain. Not enough to take his 1999 Peterbilt 379 in for the repairs it so desperately needs, anyway. 

With a dissatisfied sigh, he pulls the cell phone from his pocket and dials Karga. 

“Din, my old friend, to what do I owe the pleasure?” the man’s jovial voice booms through the speaker. 

“Do you have anything in New England?”

Karga hums to himself. Din hears a few computer mouse clicks and the rapid clack clack clack of a keyboard, then Karga responds, “Let’s see here, I have a few bail jumpers, nonviolent offenses, in Maine, New Hampshire…”

“How much?”

“Five thousand for Maine, ten thousand for New Hampshire.”

“Anything bigger?” 

More humming, some clicks, then, “Ah! Look here, there’s a private bounty, last seen along I-89 in Vermont. Deliver dead or alive to Portland.”

“Portland, Maine?” 

“Oregon.”

“That’s too far.”

“It pays one-hundred fifty thousand.” 

Din raises his eyebrows. He’s silent as he considers this. His truck is in a tenuous state, but if he can make it there, he could get every repair needed. Hell, he could buy a whole new truck and still have excess money to donate to The Academy. 

“I’ll take it.” 

After hanging up, Din gets a new email notification on the mounted tablet. He leans forward and opens the message from Karga listing the details of the bounty.

Name: Charlie Wanderlust  DOB: Unknown, assumed to be aged mid-to-late twenties  Race: White Sex: Female Height: Estimated between 5’0” and 5’4” Weight: Estimated between 130 and 160 lbs Hair color: Blonde Eye color: Brown  Last known location: Near Williston, VT, Travel Plaza of I-89 10/14. Prior possible sightings: near Londonderry, NH, RMZ Truck Stop off I-93 10/12; near Newburgh, NY, Pilot Travel Center off I-84 10/8. 

Included are blurry CCTV stills of a petite woman, dressed head-to-toe in black, face mostly concealed by a bandana, stringy white blonde hair spilling down her back from beneath a beanie. The stills appear to be taken in some kind of warehouse, and show the subject pointing a handgun directly at a man whose hands are raised behind his head.

Another collection of photos, much clearer than the shoddy CCTV stills, show the target on her tiptoes, talking to a trucker through his rolled-down window. The snapshots depict them trading a plastic baggie and cash. A bloated dark green rucksack hangs off her back, and an acoustic guitar strap spans her chest, leaving the instrument hanging upside down, flush against one side of the sack. 

Din observes her profile and notes the pointed chin and hooked nose as distinguishing features that will make her easy to spot. He surmises that she’s using an alias, because there’s no way that’s a real name. Her posture and trigger discipline in the CCTV stills tells him that she boasts familiarity with gun safety, and is probably armed. She’s backpacking, likely hitching rides with, and selling drugs to, truckers.

When he pulls up a map on the tablet’s screen and traces the path between the sighting locations, he notices she’s trending north. Probably trying to cross the Canadian border, considering most bounty hunters won’t find the difficulties that would come with re-entering the United States worth it. Try explaining to the border patrol why a pretty blonde woman is being held against her will. That will go well. 

He zooms in on truck stops and gas stations further along I-89. The stretch of road he wants to search is approximately 200 miles away. It will take 3 hours to get there, maybe less. She doesn’t seem to be moving at a particularly fast rate, but her trajectory indicates she’s close to Canada. Probably only needs to hitch one or two more rides to get to the border. 

Din glances over his shoulder into the sleeper cab, at the wrinkly, white, satellite-eared French bulldog sitting at attention on his bed, “What do you think? Should we go catch a bad guy?” 

The dog tilts his head in response. 

“Come on, boy,” Din pats the passenger’s seat, then the dog hops off the bed in favor of the front seat. 

At 7 AM, just as you’re rolling your sleeping bag up, a knock sounds at the door, then the doorknob jiggles. 

You jump to your feet and approach the noise, hollering, “Yeah?” 

“It’s Jim.”

You unlock the door and swing it open to find the lumberjack bartender standing there with a steaming styrofoam cup in each hand. He’s wearing a new flavor of flannel long sleeve, this one checkered black and red, tucked into his dark blue jeans. His reddish brown hair is damp and slicked back, pale skin tinged pink by the cool air. Or rosacea. Or both. 

“Good morning,” you greet and step back to let him cross the threshold, closing the door behind him. The thuds of his heavy leather boots echo across the barebones efficiency apartment. 

“I got you a coffee,” he says and sets one of the cups on the kitchen counter. 

“Thank you so much, Jim,” you smile and meet his eyes. In the bright light of morning, they gleam a rich golden brown that feels warm and inviting. You drop your gaze and tuck a long strand of blonde hair behind your ear, then clear your throat before returning to your sleeping bag. 

As you roll it up, he tells you, “Figured I’d stop by and make sure everything went ok last night. You takin’ off this morning, then?” 

“That’s what it looks like,” you tie your sleeping bag tight with practiced efficiency, shove it into your pack, then zip it closed while muttering, “On the road again.” 

“Need anything else before ya go?” 

This man’s kindness and generosity is almost overwhelming. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s smitten with you. A concept that curdles your heartstrings.   

“Um… well,” you sigh and raise your eyes to meet his, “If you’re offering, I could use a ride to the truck stop off I-89.”

“Sure thing,” he grins, the apples of his cheeks pushing his eyes into crescents, “Ready to go now, or you wanna get some breakfast first?” 

“I’m ready,” you stand with a grunt and pull on your coat. He watches you do this, and when you glance up at him, he looks away and strokes his bushy beard, then takes a sip of coffee. 

Jim insists on carrying your bag out to his black pickup truck. You follow behind him, coffee in one hand, neck of your guitar in the other. The ride to Jolley Truck Stop is accompanied by a Sunday morning country music segment dedicated to Christian songs of the genre. The trees are all ripe with autumn colors, their leaves a gorgeous array of reds and oranges. 

“It’s so beautiful this time of year,” you comment as you watch the scenery go by, “Look at that foliage.”

Jim chuckles, “We have a name for the types of folks comin’ around here to look at the trees in fall.” 

“What’s that?”

“Leaf lickers.”

You swing your head over to look at Jim, who’s sporting an amused grin, then start laughing, “Leaf? Lickers?”

He snorts and nods, “Yes ma’am.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” you shake your head and look out the window again, “Have any exciting plans for the rest of the day?”

“Church, then a Patriots game,” he answers, “Where do you think the day’ll take you, Miss Charlie?” 

“Hopefully to Canada,” you murmur, “But we’ll see. Rule number six of living on the road: Embrace change.” 

“Good rule to live by,” Jim responds, flicking on his blinker to turn into the truck stop, “I’ll have to try that out for myself.” 

“You should, Jim,” you cast a warm smile his way, “Really, I mean it. There’s more to life than Milton. I think you’d like it out there.” 

When his truck comes to a stop, he shifts into park, keeping an eye on you as you open the passenger’s side door and hop out. 

You grab your rucksack and guitar, then tell him, “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I wish you the best of luck on all your future journeys, Jim.” 

“It was nice meeting you, Charlie,” he nods and gives you a wistful smile. 

With this, you slam the door shut and approach the sidewalk next to the truck stop, then take a moment to organize your belongings. After verifying you have all the things you need in the most accessible locations, you secure your rucksack and guitar on your back. Jim’s truck rumbles in idle for a while, but you don’t turn around until you hear him pull away. 

RULE #9: Do not get attached. 

Din is 5 miles out from the last place on his list, Jolleys Truck Stop, when the CB radio crackles to life. 

A voice cuts through, “Anyone see that blondie wandering around at Jolleys? Rusty Crawler, Over.”

“With the guitar? Interstate Blackbeard, Over.” 

Din’s heart skips and his spine straightens. 

“Aye-firmative, Blackbeard. She a lot lizard er what?” 

“Negative, Rusty, she has party favors.” 

He picks up his mic and asks, “Do you have eyes on her, Rusty Crawler? 38-91, over.”

“Do I ever, 38-91, wheeew,” the man jests. 

Din looks over at the dog, who was jolted awake by the radio. He starts panting, his buggy black eyes darting around the cab, little nub of a tail wiggling with excitement. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in question to his companion. 

“Boof.”

“Good,” Din chuckles in response, then turns his eyes back to the road.

You knock on the red Freightliner’s window and squint up at the driver as he rolls his window down, “Hey there. Are you looking for a west coast turnaround?” 

He grins and shakes his head, “No, darlin’, but I reckon I’m lookin for a friend if you’re offerin’ your company.” 

“Not on the table, I’m afraid,” you crinkle your nose and wave, “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Same goes for you, pretty girl,” he hollers at your back as you walk further down the row of idling rigs. An intuitive shiver runs down your spine; you suspect the man’s foul vibes are at fault. 

There’s a newcomer in the lineup: an old, silver Peterbilt, shiny with chrome details. The driver is wearing a black baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, but seems to be looking in your direction, so you wave. 

He waves back. 

As you draw near, he opens the driver’s side door and hops out of the cab. He’s broad-shouldered and tall. The sleeves of his black crewneck sweater pull taut around his chest and biceps. His posture is impeccable, his steps metered, and you’re immediately struck by the assertive energy radiating off him in waves. 

Another shiver creeps along your backbone. And it’s just an off kind of feeling that gives you pause, but you stop in your tracks. 

RULE #2: Listen to your gut. 

He puts one palm up towards you in a gesture of peace and says, “Charlie Wanderlust—”

“How do you know my name?” 

Your eyes flick to your distorted reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. The hair back of your neck stands at attention. You take a cautious backwards step. 

“I can bring you in warm,” he slides a gloved hand to the back of his cargo pants, “or I can bring you in cold.” 

Static booms in your chest. Your stomach plummets to the asphalt beneath your feet, and you scoff, “Fuck you, man, what the fuck are you talking about?” 

He tilts his head, as if to mock your feigned ignorance. 

A dog barks.

It pulls his attention away for just a second, but it’s long enough for you to turn and bolt in the opposite direction. 

All you can hear is your ragged breath and blood whooshing behind your ears and boots pounding against the pavement. 

Not just your boots. 

His, too. 

They get closer with every beat. 

A tug on your rucksack makes your heart gallop. You yelp and duck between two semi-trucks, pushing yourself as hard and fast as your legs can go. You reach the end of the rumbling trailer corridor and glance over your shoulder, only to find he’s not there. 

That moment is enough to blind you. 

It’s like you hit a wall, he’s just that fucking solid. 

You bounce off of him, and before you realize what’s happening, he’s slamming your face against a trailer door. His thick fingers tangle in your hair and close into a fist. 

“Fuck, that fucking hurts! What the fuck is your problem?!” you wail, thrashing in resistance as he rips off your guitar and tosses it to the ground with a twangy thunk that breaks your heart.

“Hey!” you bellow, “Be fucking careful with that!” 

The man strips your rucksack off next, dropping it at your feet. He grabs one wrist, pinching a handcuff around it, then the other.

“Stay there,” he pants, then picks all your worldly possessions off the ground and slings them onto his shoulders. 

He yanks the chain of the handcuffs, sending you stumbling back a few steps. You steady yourself, only for him to push you forward and throw you off balance again. Your vision goes red with anger. 

“Fuck you,” you spit through gritted teeth, “Fucking asshole.” 

He doesn’t say anything in response, just presses his hand between your shoulder blades and prods you onward. 

Rage bubbles between the layers of your skin. Every single insult in the book simmers at the back of your throat, but all that comes out is a strained growl. 

Then you put one foot in front of the other and let him lead you to your fate. 

[ Next Chapter ]

[rockofeye]

the hell is going on with these folks (and the cat accusation is downright insane): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvZTr3F_YZI

This is purposefully targeted hate speech and propaganda, and it is not new to the US political field. This is part of the racist Great Replacement conspiracy theory, and the same statements have historically been said about folks immigrating for Asian countries, from the Middle East, and even folks coming from Central and South America. I hope it's no longer a common thing said, but there were racist 'jokes' when I was young that if you went to a Chinese restaurant, you were getting cat for dinner.

These are tactics attempting to demonize an extremely vulnerable and marginalized community in the same manner that Jews and other 'undesirable' groups were demonized at the end of the Weimar Republic as the Third Reich rose in Germany. This is a tool of a political party that is trying to seize power by fearmongering, which requires a scapegoat to be successful. Recently arrived Haitians are that scapegoat, and it's dangerous.

That video is really sad, and it's a masterclass in how racism is both a class issue and is used as a tool to divide. The statements about how recently arrived folks supposedly get so much money for the government, but we can't...this is manipulating working class, blue collar workers, and folks living at or under the poverty line, and it is exactly the tactics used in the building of race and racism that the United States was founded on. Instead of white folks who fall into working class, blue collar, or poverty categories realizing that the government is the problem in that basic needs of every day persons are absolutely ignored under our so-called democracy, they are being told that it is the people who are leaving a literal war zone to try and stay alive who are the problem. At base, racism is capitalist divide-and-conquer; if working class/blue collar/poverty level white folks united with Black folks, immigrants, and those seeking asylum, this country would be on it's knees...but instead, capitalism has manipulated vulnerable citizens to believe that outsiders are the problem with claims that are absolutely out of hand

Some of this is lack of education and critical thinking skills; basic research can show people that what people claim as fact is not at all true. People who are arriving from the border or arriving via the Biden parole program are in the United States legally but honestly...who fucking cares? It is a factual inaccuracy to believe that individuals who are not citizens and/or have not passed the 5 year mark if they are legal permanent residents have access to federal benefits earmarked for citizens or folks with sufficient residency. They do not qualify for SNAP, most Medicaid, social security, federal financial aid, and on and on. When they work, they pay taxes but they do not reap the benefits--there are no tax refunds and they do not benefit from social security, which means even if they work for 30 years in the US on a work permit, they can never access social security retirement benefits.

The rest is political strategy, wag-the-dog style. This bluster distracts from the fact that the Republican candidate is a fucking lunatic who cannot string together a single coherent thought and who is able to be provoked to anger with a single side eye. This is a distraction to remove pressure and attention.

Moreover, if it was true that recently arrived Haitians were left to steal domestic pets or wild living birds to survive, the shame is on our hands, as US citizens, for allowing people to starve when there is so much food available. How would a country with one of the highest GDPs allow people fleeing terror to be reduced to stealing pets to eat? That would be disgusting and a terrible indictment of who we are as a country, not that many of us don't already see it.

The other statements about Haitians being filthy etc are just poorly informed or purposefully aimed to be harmful. Anyone who has lived with or around Haitians in any significant way knows how a Haitian home is kept. Anyone who has spent any significant time with Haitians understands how, even if someone is living in poverty with nothing, there is still pride in themselves and how they live...and that is a huge reason, all other things aside, why folks are not out stealing Fluffy to have dinner. Those things are without pride, and folks would rather starve.

There is also the purposeful misunderstanding of how immigrants acclimate to a new place. Folks coming here from the border or via the Biden program are on pins and needles because they know their situation is wobbly, and they are smart. No one is going to be knowingly acting in a way that is going to upset where they live or who they live around, and Haitian culture contains nothing that would be super out of the ordinary in the US.

I am glad the reporter spoke to local Haitians and made the effort to get accurate translations of what folks were saying. How some questions were answered gives a clear picture to folks who know that they know they are under a microscope, both in the US and with the situation in Haiti; did you catch how, when questioned about gangs and violence, the one guy knew nothing about nobody? That's not accidental.

This will also target Vodou and Haitian vodouizan as well. I have already seen commentary on social media about how Haitians who are eating all these animals--dogs, cats, ducks, rats, etc--and doing 'rituals' with the remains. This is a dangerous and slippery slope, particularly if the party supporting these statements retakes the White House.

So...pay attention. This is a masterclass in the deployment of classism and racism to create distractions ahead of an election that feels very important to many people. Don't let them control your attention.

[redjennies]

i'm going to start taking screenshots of "Things Liberals (yes, liberals. if you don't want to be called a duck, don't quack like one.) Say On Those Vote Blue No Matter What Posts" so y'all understand that I'm not just angry at the posts themselves. this not me telling you "rah rah, i'm your preconceived notion of an anarchist. no, don't vote blue! i hate democracy and sunshine and rainbows and love bombs and chaos!" I mean all of that is true, obviously, (/joke) but that's not why I'm saying it. I'm saying it because I'm exhausted because every single one of them inevitably features some borderline American propaganda nonsense like this in the replies that y'all are reblogging entirely uncritically:

truly! how fucking naive do you have to be to sincerely believe that Joe Biden is actually a secret ally in this? "advocating for justice and peace behind the scenes." I'm sorry but what? perhaps he will bring peace, though i suspect in the same way Henry Kissinger was called a "peacemaker," but justice? when has the United States ever been an instrument of justice? this is at best, a child's delusion that there are, in fact, good men in the government or at worst, the most cynical propaganda, and I must laugh to keep from screaming. tell of the United State's desire for justice to the people of near any other country, and they will laugh and scream at you, too. I will say this: in the matter of genocide, there is no difference between a man who calls for it in public and a man who decries it in public but still sends financial and military aid to those who commit genocide. there is no "just a dash of" genocide, and there are no bonus points for loyalty when the dead are still dead.

vote for Biden. I probably will tick the box, too, even though it really makes no difference in the state of Tennessee, but do not lie to yourselves. what you are saying is that you do not want to suffer under Trump and the Republican's policies and that Trump will make things even worse both in the US and through foreign policy, and that is not an inaccurate statement. you are saying that it will be easier to protest Biden than protest Trump, and that's not an inaccurate statement either. I'm not going to tell you it's all okay because you don't have a choice, that you're still a good person and the dead understand, absolving you of everything, but I am saying not to lie to yourself and others just so you can placate your need to feel good about yourself. I'm saying that when you vote for Biden, you should feel it. you should grapple with this double consciousness you exist under and feel repulsed by it. you should hate Joe Biden and the empire of this the United States, that has already committed and aided in many genocides and needless wars before this. you should do it, but not for a second should it feel like you're doing the right thing, proud of your contribution to American "democracy," as you stick your head in the sand.

[imdoingsortagay]

Be good for me

Summary: Weeks of the older woman avoiding her at all costs throughout the compound and Wanda is met with a very surprising view when going to confront her.

a/n: first character x character fic in a while , the last one was Killing Eve related which ouch

smut below the cut so 18+

Wanda is 20 ish in this fic while Natasha is around early 30w

It had only been about a year since the young woman had been brought from her home country to the United States. Now entering her 20s as as avengers and happy just to be anywhere that wasn’t her past

Most of her teammates had been as nice as possible to her, mostly Thor as he knew sort of what she was going through. Steve would check up on her every once in a while to see how she was doing while the rest would only say hi to her during meetings and team training.

Then there was Natasha.

The older woman never seemed to make any effort to get to know Wanda, not even saying hi in meetings and choosing to train with Clint before she even woke up. She understood a bit why Natasha would be careful after the events of recently.

What Wanda didn't know was that Natasha had long forgotten about the events of Sokovia after talking it out with Clint. Natasha had developed a crush on her fellow teammate.

It might have been due to the loneliness of not having a partner but after a couple of months of training a bit with Wanda, the older woman would blush when she saw the brunette go at it with one of the guys on the team. She felt kind of silly blushing when Wanda would easily pin Bruce onto the mat and her mind would go all over the place with thoughts about Wanda pinning her down like that in her bedroom, just the two of them without anyone interrupting them.

From then point on, Natasha made it a goal to avoid the younger woman at all costs. It worked so far but she could sense that Wanda was questioning why her teammate wasn't talking to her like the rest of the team was.

Like today when Natasha had seen Wanda in the kitchen with Thor, making some of her comfort soup for the god of thunder who was hungry.

Wanda sporting her usual attire of a sleeveless t shirt to show off her arms. Ripped jeans with some boots to compliment the look send Natasha over the edge at how pretty she looked.

Wanda and Thor too busy in the food talk until the redhead made a little noise that Wanda could only assume was a whine before she left the kitchen and make a run to her room.

Natasha could never figure out why the woman doing the simplest things make her go crazy.

“ is lady Natasha okay ?” Thor asks the redhead in front of him. All Wanda can do is shrug before continuing the cooking lesson between the 2 of them. She wanted to go and check up on Wanda but had a long way to go before she was finished with the recipe in hand. She's made this recipe before, no problem for her to cut some corners to make it quickly.

As the younger woman quickly finished the soup, Natasha returned to her room without a trace, throwing herself in her bed and huffing in frustration.

She's the Black Widow for crying out loud!

She has never acted like this in a long time for someone, not even when she first met Bruce, that crush not lasting too long. Her mind goes into thinking about Wanda like usual.

The way she smiles when someone says a joke, her kindness to anyone new she meets, her long brunette hair that must smell like daisies, and so on. The more she thinks about her fellow teammate, the more her thoughts become impure.

Natasha thinks about the younger woman on top of her, praising her for being good for her. Wanda fucking her with the rings she has on, eating out the woman like she's a goddess. Before she knows it, Natasha's right-hand goes to her boob, groping it like she imagines Wanda would. Luckily for Natasha, the rooms were sound proof so she didn't have to worry about anyone in the rooms next to her hearing her moans.

She can feel herself get wet with every dirty thought that passes her mind. She quickly takes off her shirt and pants, leaving just her undergarment on and wastes no time on running two of her fingers through her folds.

" I can't believe I'm wet for her," Natasha says to herself as she continues to tease herself. Unknown to the redhead who was fucking herself in the moment, Wanda had just finished the recipe and was on her way to take it to Natasha.

She wanted to get to the root of this problem once and for all. Wanda thinks to herself what she's going to tell Natasha when she gets to her room. not having anything prepared beforehand. When she does get to her room, Wanda knocks on the door a couple of times wondering if she was there.

She tries again before deciding to open the door a bit to see if she's okay. What Wanda doesn't expect is to see Natasha on top of her bed, with a hand inside her underwear while her other is pinching at her nipples.

" Natasha!" Wanda exclaims before covering her eyes, too afraid to see the woman in front of her.

" What are you doing here?" Natasha asks as she composes herself, trying so hard to act like her scary and intimidating self. Hard to do when she's just in her underwear.

" I wanted to talk to you about why you keep avoiding me but I see you're busy," she pauses," with your own thing".

" For someone with mind-reading powers, I'm surprised you haven't realized what my thoughts have been about," Natasha tells the younger woman who removes her hand from her eyes, opting to not look at the redhead's chest.

" I promised never to do it again Natasha, unless you want me to do it again", she explains as the other woman in the room motions for her to come on her bed.

" You can read my thoughts, honey," she hears the redhead say quietly, Wanda feeling a bit nervous to use her powers on Natasha before she's met with so many dirty and horny thoughts from the woman in front of her.

In that moment, all Wanda can do is immediately start kissing Natasha, her own thoughts also going to what she wants to do to the woman under her.

“ are you gonna be good for me Natasha ?”

“ I will ,” Natasha says as she feels the younger woman’s hands roam her body , until she gets to her soaked panties.

“ prove it to me Natty,” she orders while teasing the older woman’s folds,” prove to me you’ll be good for me “.

“ Wanda please!” The older woman pleads,” I want to be good for you so bad”.

“ good girl Natty ,” Wanda says as she inserts one finger into the older woman’s wet pussy.

“ be good for me and I’ll be good to you baby,” Wanda says as she prepares to give Natasha the time of her life.

[fcntasmas]

it is absolutely hilarious and frustratingly ironic how people outside of the united states will laugh at people in the us about how “gun-crazy and brain washed” the over 300 million people who live here are, when they literally only adopted this sentiment because of the us government’s propaganda lmao. “hey look, this is a democracy! it’s what our citizens wanted!” no. it’s not. it never has been. voter suppression runs rampant in the united states and it’d take two fucking seconds of googling even just “gerrymandering” for people to see that — but i guess it’s funnier to make fun of the people suffering in their country, because they “voted” for it, right?

it’s a lot more fun to mock the people who lose their lives to gun violence, or can’t afford their life-saving medication, or have to fear their rights will be stripped from them at any moment — better not think too hard about how for years, the majority of american citizens have been desperately fighting for change, only to be met by legal suppression. ‘cause if you think about it, then you can’t post your little jokey joke online about how stupid and backwards all americans are, and that would just be awful! and don’t even think about how these laws disproportionately affect marginalized communities and people of color — because then you’d have to look within yourself and examine why you don’t give a shit!

the lack of empathy from some of y’all is ASTOUNDING. but all in the name of a joke, i guess lmfao

[threebooksoneplot]

Three Books One Plot and ✨You✨

Now that our first season has drawn to a close we wanted to share some fun stats with you guys! This is information that was actually cut from our finale for time but, since we're so excited about it, we still wanted to share it with you all. It's been a hell of a year and, like we mentioned in our finale, we never expected for anyone besides us and a small group of friends/acquaintances to care so much about this silly project. But a lot of you cared. More than we thought would.

In fact, we had listeners from 50 countries over the course of the past year. This is what our top ten looks like, at a glance:

Shout out to anyone listening from any of these countries, and extra shout out to anyone listening from any other place in the world, too. (All 40 other countries.) As far as the US goes we weren't too shocked by our top five (California, New York, Pennsylvania, Florida, and Texas are also the top five most populated states) but we were excited to see listeners in forty-five states plus DC. So, to our friends in Alabama, Alaska, North Dakota, Vermont, and Wyoming... we'll get you guys next season. 😉

(more information and fun statistics under the cut!)

What was doubly shocking to us was the idea that not only would we have such a broad reach but that we would chart anywhere. Over the last year we have charted on the book charts of eleven different countries, including the United States. Which is fucking bonkers.

Beyond that, we had some more funky statistics we wanted to share! We truly did give you non-Spotify listeners the short end of the stick sometimes but hey, don't blame us. Blame the apps you listen to and like, maybe bully them on Twitter into providing polls and questions like Spotify does. If that doesn't work, you can always join in on our polls here on Tumblr during the interim between episodes. Next season we'll also be encouraging you guys to answer our episode questions in our ask box here, too. Anything to get more hilarious gems from you since you guys are like, really fucking funny.

But as far as platforms go, here's our breakdown:

If you listen on a different app like Pocket Casts or any other podcast platform, please let us know! We'd love to know how you guys are tuning in.

Not to direct our full attention back toward Spotify for a moment (like we love to do) but here were some fun Spotify-centric stats that are worth mentioning. Mainly because the age statistics make us laugh.

Shoutout to any young-young Gen X-ers that listen and aren't in the 45-59 age range. You guys are the true champions and we adore the fact that your peers just do not fuck with us. Also, in the unlikely chance that any of the less than one percent of Boomers (affectionate) that listen to us also happen to follow us on here, please message us so we can give you the key to a city or something. Because we love you. Sorry that supercentenarian Edward kept being weird and rude about your generation. He sucks for that.

To conclude this fun and informative little wrap-up post I wanted to give the biggest, loudest, and most inappropriate shout out to all our sexy listeners who gave Three Books One Plot a rating or a review!

On Apple Podcasts, we received 8 reviews and 17 ratings, giving us an average of 4.6 stars!

On Spotify, we received 63 ratings, giving us a 4.9 star average!

This fall will bring a new season with a new book, new characters, and new guests. But don't worry, there'll be just as many jokes, bits, ill-advised drinking game rules, and sex tape titles that make G rejoice and Shannon sigh in half-reluctant compliance as before.

We wanted to give a super-special thanks to all of you who have tuned in, and we're so excited to see you guys again for Season Two in September!

[animusiem]

Billboard USA Exclusion Zone Episode 6 (03/18/2023)

Remember two or three weeks ago when I said that there's big rift or differences between Global 200 and Global Excl US chart? Well the rift is getting more obvious when you look at the chart this week where a certain country artist album bombed the Global 200. But, in this chart he only charted one song. Well let's talk about it in detail soon.

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

16. "on the street" by j-hope ft. J Cole

You know J Cole has stated that his career from 2013 onward is always trying to erase "Work Out", his first charting hit, from people's memories because Nas didn't like the song. Well not only is the beat to this song is significantly worse than "Work Out", but you can't even stay on beat. I am not a fan of J Cole and even I'm disappointed in this.

42. "Shorty Party" by Cartel de Santa ft. La Kelly

This sounds like if "Therefore I Am" by Billie Eilish was 50% less good and in Spanish and the song was sung by Pop Smoke.

103. "Last Night" by Morgan Wallen

So I am in this community filled with chart nerds and music reviewers. And the running joke is always that Morgan Wallen, as much as he's one of the biggest artists in America, never charted in Global Excl US chart. Even with the album nuke that happened in Global 200, people expected that the song won't chart. But thanks to Canada and Australia, we have the first Morgan Wallen song to debut.

This song and Morgan Wallen's popularity as a whole has been a contention in the music twitter sphere because he seems to be more popular after the n word incident. This incident brings up the debate of separate the art from the artist. I hate to say it but the whole Morgan Wallen persona has always been that he's drunk asshole. So there's still lingering sense that the incident is him in the song. In Last Night too he talked about a breakup and there's a mentioned of alcohol in it. So yeah you can't really separate the art from the artist here.

But that raise another question, why is his popularity in the United States is massive despite what the stan twitter led you believe. Well the truth is most of the Morgan Wallen's listeners aren't on twitter. They're the silent majority and the silent majority is overall the most powerful listeners in America at least. And also that he has embraced streaming, it created the perfect formula for US popularity but not for worldwide.

This also proves that popular music has become more regionalized thanks to the streaming era. Just look at the stark differences between Hot 100, Canadian Hot 100, UK Official Chart, and Japan Hot 100. Yeah they might have some overlap, but most of the songs that appeared on these charts catered to those regions. This is a stark difference even just from six years ago. Definitely something to keep an eye on.

120. "Mas Rica Que Ayer" by Anuel AA, Mambo Kingz, DJ Lulan

Phew that was a lot that I have to say about Last Night. Thank god after that it'll be brief. This song is just your standard reggaeton from a guy that most Americans knew from his song with 6ix9ine.

148. "El Azul" by Junior H X Peso Pluma

The low end of this song is fucked I'm sorry. It's like there's an earthquake in the middle of a wedding.

165. "Sem Alianca no Dedo" by MC Xenon & Gemeos Da Putaria

This sounds like if Clipping circa their horrorcore era made a Brazilian song and just forgot to mix the vocal properly. Also I heard that most Brazilian songs sampled Say It Right percussion so take that as you will.

176. "Red Ruby Da Sleeze" by Nicki Minaj

You know I think that the record execs from the early 90's that sued De La Soul and Biz Markie had some points you know.

179. "El Merengue" by Marshmello ft. Manuel Turizo

I thought that Marshmello is done ruining genres across the globe? But that Despecha song is popping so here we are.

187. "M.A (Mejores Amigos)" by BM

This song is strange. It's like a mix between reggaeton, corrido, and a hints of EDM there? I'm confused

192. "Numb" by Linkin Park

At least this week's debut ended with one of the best hit songs of the 2000's.

I highly recommend everyone to check out these songs.

[infamous-raven-x]

for the ask game: Hydron and/or Mylene?

> Sexuality hc: Homosexual

> Favorite ships: Hydron/Gus, Hydron/Lync

> Brotp: Hydron/Volt

> Notp: Spectra/Hydron, Mylene/Hydron, Hydron/Volt

> Random hc:

--I'm sure is Hydron survived the explotion he would have been put into a program to regain his sanity.

--Volt would probably have drag him to the lower towns of Vestal to make him humble, but Hydron would have just took pictures of himself in there an hashtag it as "returning to our roots".

--Hydron would have escaped to earth as start in the fresh with the other vexos if they have survived, probably bother Spectra and Mylene on why does he has to follow orthers, Volt would have turn into a more big brother figure to him and teach him how to be humble and walk out of his privilege sincen he is no longer a Prince.

--I really wish to open up my little AU with Fate and summond one of my prince of England just to bother Hydron with "Look at what a true prince is made off!" actitud, and maybe Hydron would grow knowing how to take his status more seriously.

--Hydron would be fan of earth expensive cloths and shoes...

I do see Hydron fighting Spectra over a pair of Louis Vuitton high heels and Spectra winning because he is the boss bitch from the vexos and he would assert domination, Mylene is just there thinking how to get out of the store as if the fucking store didn't have more shoes...

> General opinion:

I see Hydron as does white privileged americans that has to start to live in a country that is not United states and they struggle becuase they think that everyone has to speak english and acept dollars becuase "What do you mean that dollars are not the use as currency?, Aren't like dollars the most important money in the world???"

I would like to see a fic where Hydron learns and tries at least to be friend the Vexos.

> Sexuality hc: Non-Binary/Pansexual

> favorite ships: Mylene/Shadow, Mylene/Mira, Mylene/ Spectra

> Brotp: Mylene/Spectra, Mylene/Volt

> Notp: Mylene/Hydron, Mylene/Volt

> Random hc:

--Mylene is open minded, she just use the pronouns She/Her put of courtesy because she thinks that everyone is stupid and they wouldn't even try to remember her pronouns.

In fact, I do think Spectra, Volt and Shadow do use the They/Them to refere to Mylene, some times they just call them by there name since Mylene does have a issue with there name.

--She would love the european culture and italian food, I don't know why but her armor type of dress makes me think that Mylene would like the cultures of europe.

--Mylene is into BDSM, and she is mature enough to state that she just like sex, so she has a reputation of hurting the sex partners she had Spectra tried but ge didn't liked that, Shadow is like "Jokes on you i'm into that shit!"

--There's a say inside the Vexos, If you need some sex stuff or toys you should ask Mylene

Not me looking at Mylene like she would be the owner of a Sex shop but yes

--Mylene is mad becuase Spectra stole her lipsticks and Shadow her nailpolish.

--She would trust Gus or Volt on making the food for everyone.

--If she has to trust someone from the battlebrawlers she would choose Shun or Alice.

--Mylene 🤝Sellon

> General opinion:

Mylene is like that girl that you see her walking and you know that she is the definition of Girl boss, Gate keeper, Gaslight, I mean she has her issues like Spectra but I truly believe that Mylene would be a hard worker woman that would put on the paper of the absolute boss and make shit work because she knows how to play team even if she does things out of her porpuses.

>>>Ask me the name name of characters and I will answer!

[jeaninthephilippines]

American Comforts

In the weeks after visiting the Philippines, I'd been posting about the trip and my reflections. Now when I bump into people in person, they express how much they love those posts. I've stopped a bit from feeling self conscious after my friend Ian made a joke that I kept these philosophical posts coming. Writing that now, makes me reflect how easy it is for me to suppress my joy at the expense of making others happy. Something I am always working on.

One of the first things my close friend Nicole said when I returned was "Welcome back to our shit country." That's when I wanted all these observations to spill out of me: hold on, you and I are so steeped in privilege, we can't even see it in our own lives. We have the privilege to complain. We have to privilege to voice those complaints. We have privilege to press our idealogies onto everyone, consent, curious, or neither. We have privilege to make assumptions long before engaging in discourse.

And that's what hurt me the most during my visit, was learning the repercussions of my privilege and blind spots in the way that I lived, in how I grew up, and confronting my ignorance over the things people endure in their reality.

Poverty comes in all shapes and sizes: mind, body, environment, and perception. Even the poorest person America still has so much more than someone outside of the United States because of access to the following things: pantries, roads, programs, mail, social security, and healthcare (paid or not).

Poverty in the Philippines is mitigated by 2 approaches: access to family support and/or everything can be a job. There are Filipinos who do beg for money or food, but if they can be given a job instead (no matter how small or short), they're going to opt for that and be dedicated to showing up where money shows up. There is a level of loyalty to that service.

I am writing this post because when I think back to all the times I felt uncomfortable, I was confronting my privilege as an American. I don't want to forget the divide that lived inside me.

Here is that list:

Roads with clear lanes. People cut in and out of lanes most times without a signal. Often it is congested with motorcycles weaving with no fucks to give because they can.

Traffic lights at intersections. Sometimes a 4 way stop works, but most times, you just pray you're not caught in a collision.

More than 1 sizable napkin. When I was growing up, I don't remember using napkins a lot growing up in Guam. So when I moved to the US, I thought it was peculiar we always got napkins. Now, when eating in the Philippines, imagine a regular napkin the US and chopping those four times down just for one person's use. This was the most telling about privilege and comforts normally going unnoticed.

Covered sewage on your street. Walking to zumba, I would gag all the time when to the right of me, I could smell the sewage with the exposed drainage.

Water pressure in the bathroom or flushable toilet. I dreaded using the bathroom as a kid because it was a hole in the ground that you had to throw water in and the whole family had to use it. When I visited last, I was happy to see American toliets. You'd be lucky if two people could consecutively use the bathroom after each other because the water pressure is so low that it takes a while for the tank to fill up. So sit with your tummy hurting to use it next.

The size of a stall. I am considered tall and large, so my knees typically touched the door.

Having all your teeth. Many people don't have access to dental care or education, so they lose their teeth. It's not their fault. I have mine because of my parents' insurance and access to dental education when I was in Elementary from the military base nearby in Guam.

Not having diabetes or hypertension due to diet, stress, and genetics. Many folks in zumba who are seniors have these. Hell I too. But in a world that doesn't really account for mental health, ailments show up in other places due to over consumption of high sodium, high sugary foods. I am only privvy to this education after 2 decades of Weight Watchers education.

Smooth roads. Potholes and bumps are a testimony to the non trickle down effect of government money and no taxes. Based on the wealth of a family that owns that part of the province will depend on whether those roads will be good.

Parking. Most people still shop in person recreationally and religiously for work, so most parking especially past the opening hour will be occupied. Good luck with not finding any overflow parking or parking garages.

Helmets for all passengers. I asked my mom about little kids without helmets or multiple people in the tricycles and motorcycles. She said not everyone has money to buy those things.

Strollers. People carry their babies because public transportation on the jeepney and buses don't really have compartments to store those when commuting.

Roaming areas of a city without a fee. We'd come up to a toll here and there. My mom would have a little sensor deduct money from her car. I imagined other commuters counting pesos to get to where they need to go.

Being able to drive (ok driving is suchhhhh a privilege). Not everyone has money for a car. Not every car is insured. Some people have drivers, but most people take a tricycle, walk or carpool.

Having food every day. I think it's about roughly $2-5 to feed an entire family, but most families don't even have that much money and it's more likely $.80 instead which causes a lot of malnourishment to make ends meet.

Literacy. While many Filipinos speak English, books and time to read are a luxury. Most books are sealed in plastic to deter free reading. But the National Book Store has greatly reduced its collection of books since I visited in 2003. Most people use phones for entertainment or are just working.

Avocado Mayo. Only regular Mayo, none of that American healthy alternative.

Tuna in Water. Tuna in all types of oil stretches the shelf life, but the sodium will be the cost a person pays.

Ants and bugs roaming and might get your food. There were tiny ants in my mom's kitchen, something I forgot happened a lot while we lived in Guam. If you don't seal your food or leave your food alone for long, the ants win a buffet.

Sidewalks, this is the low list of street needs but it does make for a safe stroll in America.

Community Centers. There's a basketball covered court for multipurpose use like fiestas and games.

Gyms. Most gyms were boutique and barely had parking in a small unit. Imagine a parking lot and then 2 cars parked behind you. You can't just leave whenever.

Clean streets. Strays poop and the likelihood of you stepping in it is very high.

Hot Water. A month of cold showers, hell even having a shower versus a bucket and tabo to throw on myself was a luxury... so the cold temperature I will take.

That's my list for now. Hoping to make my next entry about the hidden benefits of living in the Philippines. These things are a balance.

Thank you for reading!

[weirdestbooks]

Secrecy and Deception Chapter 8

Pan-American Unity (Wattpad | Ao3)

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Event: Rio Treaty 

Location: Rio de Janeiro, State of Rio de Janeiro, Federative Republic of Brazil

Date: September 2, 1947

America was glad he wasn’t the only one with a state whose capital had the same name as the state. It showed that his family was not the only one with lousy naming abilities. 

But that’s not why he was in Brazil. America was here to sign a treaty with his fellow American nations. Despite the delays that came from Argentina and his refusing to get along, they were now all arriving in Brazil here to sign it.

This treaty was a mutual assistance treaty as a safeguard in case an act of aggression threatened the Western Hemisphere. It would most likely be a European threat, either from the Soviet Union or another power-hungry nation. However, this treaty would make it much more likely that America would be tangled in another war, as it said that an attack on one of the signatories of this treaty was an attack on all of them.

This was a far cry from his people’s previous view on alliances and President Washington’s view on alliances. America wondered what President Washington would think of him now.

“I think your dad would be proud of your accomplishments but annoyed that you keep making other nations problems your own,” Rebecca snarked. America sighed, wishing he was in a place where he could tell her off and insist that President Washington was not a father figure to him.

“Don’t worry, I know he wasn’t,” James commented, voice heavy with sarcasm.

America did his best to ignore them. 

The treaty was like a more formal version of the Monroe Doctrine, which had long been in effect for the American nations. It was not the most drastic change to come from World War Two.

There were still many other parts of the treaty that America had to help set up and just signing and leaving wasn’t something he would have the luxury of being able to do. The Organ of Consultation was used to impose sanctions, and emergency measures of self-defense had to be examined by foreign ministers. 

A complicated treaty. 

“My favorite kind of treaty said no one ever,” Caleb joked.

America then entered the room where the treaty would be signed and collapsed in the seat labeled with his name with a sigh.

“Still sleep-deprived?” Cuba asked.

“Moreso than usual. I hate being the world power. Everyone else has too many problems.” America said. Cuba rolled his eyes and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“At least you have Dee.” He muttered, his head turned towards the wall to prevent anyone from reading his lips. America smiled and nodded.

“She’s a lifesaver,” America muttered, carefully watching the countries enter the room.

“And an ass,” Cuba muttered. America held back a laugh right as Panama began walking towards them.

“I think the mother of your child wants visiting rights,” Caleb said in an amused tone.

“United States.” She greeted, her voice clipped.

“Panama.” America responded with a smile, “How are you today?” 

“I want to talk to Zona del Canal de Panamá. I haven’t been able to talk to her since you joined the war.” Panama asked. America nodded. 

“Yes, you can. We can arrange something after the signing. Sorry about keeping you two from seeing each other. It’s just that with the war, the bomb, and my new status, along with everything else that’s gone on since then, I’ve been a bit more protective of my territories and children,” America said. Panama sighed.

“I don’t care about your reasons. I want to see her.” She said. America nodded.

“You will,” America answered. Panama nodded and then walked to her seat.

“Your love life makes great entertainment. I should tell Orange about this.” Cuba commented. America blushed, flustered.

“Oh god, if Cuba thinks that’s bad–”

“Caleb, please shut up. None of us want to think about that,” James muttered, annoyed.

“I’m not in love with Panama! We just had a kid together. And you better not fucking tell him.” America snaped. Cuba laughed.

“Fine. I’ll tell Puerto Rico instead.” He said. America threw his hands in the air, exasperated.

“Well fuck you then. Airing all my dirty laundry like an ass.” America said.

“Please States. If I wanted to air your dirty laundry, I would do much more than tell Puerto Rico about that conversation with Panama.” Cuba said.

“Well, now I’m intrigued as to what exactly Cuba knows about you,” Ecuador said.

“Very embarrassing things,” Cuba said. America’s blush deepened in color. 

“He might have only lived with us for four years, but the States are an effective group of people,” Caleb said, his voice full of amusement.

“It also helps that he still talks to Florida and Rico regularly. Mainly to shit talk New Spain but still,” Rebecca added.

“Wait, why do you know that?”

“Shut up! You promised not to tell!” America said.

“I am also very intrigued,” Mexico said.

“I am as well. I thought this would be boring, but apparently, it was not. I’ve never seen United this red before.” Nicaragua said. America groaned. 

“I hate every single one of you,” America said.

“But not me, right?” Cuba asked with a cheeky grin, reminding me far too much of Florida and that god-awful prank war in 1900. 

“You the most,” America said, pointing at him. Cuba nodded and smiled in satisfaction.

“Good. That means I’ve won the bet with Rico and Zone.” He said. America groaned, blush lessening, knowing that if Cuba made a bet with Puerto Rico and Panama Canal Zone, he also made a bet with Florida.

“I want to ask what the bet is, but I also feel like I might be better off not knowing,” America said. Cuba nodded.

“Good call, States. Now we’ve gotten pretty sidetracked, so I think we should sign the treaty now.” Cuba said. There were groans throughout the room.

“This is much more entertaining, though,” Brazil said.

“It takes like a minute to sign a treaty. It ain't that boring!” America said, ready to move on from the topic.

“It is compared to this,” Haiti said. America flipped him off, causing more laughs.

“Fine. We’ll sign the treaty now to save your ego.” Dominican Republic said.

“She’s my favorite person here now,” America said, pointing at her.

“What about the mother of your child?” 

“CUBA! I SWEAR I WILL FUCKING THROTTLE YOU!”

“Well, that doesn’t inspire a working environment of peace and confidence,” Cuba snarked, prompting a laugh. America groaned, rubbing his face.

Sometimes, the other countries could be worse than his kids.