#Encrypted Whistles
Note
Hey Drake! Smash or Pass, Red Hood?
...why are his classmates like this? Why are they determined to make him throw up? Sure, they don't know that that's his brother, but still!
"Pass! Hard pass! Like. I know no one knows how old he is cause he doesn't take his helmet off, but just from the size of him, he's gotta be... what at least five years older than me? Maybe ten? Also, I'm pretty sure he could look at me, and my spine would spontaneously snap."
Sorry Jason.
7 notes
·
View notes
Photo
A Warning to the Curious (Lawrence Gordon Clark, 1972)
Unfriended: Dark Web (Stephen Susco, 2018)
“The template for the perfect scary story is pretty much set in stone, and it’s unlikely that any technological advancement is going to change that. The ghost tales devised by the Victorian writer M.R. James at the beginning of the 20th century will remain the bedrock for the genre as we know it. [...] [H]e alighted upon and would consistently return to a basic, endlessly reproducible scenario: an antiquarian or scholar, usually fusty, male, and set in his ways, comes into possession of a relic, manuscript or other object of mysterious provenance and great interest, and this item turns out in some way to be haunted and/or coveted by the being who once owned it. [...]
One of the few recent horror movies that gave me the particularly Jamesian pit-of-stomach dread that comes from peeking a little too far below the surface of our seemingly safe everyday existence is 2018’s Unfriended: Dark Web, Stephen Susco’s rigorously conceived sequel to the also impressive yet more predictably moralizing Unfriended (2014). It’s perhaps a film that few would upon first glance consider classical or elegantly shaped, yet Dark Web’s ruthless exploitation of contemporary fears—of losing one’s identity, of being found out, of making one wrong misstep that has everlasting consequences—are firmly rooted in the scary story template. In “Oh Whistle,” the young professor Perkins absconds with an ancient, hieroglyphic-laden whistle he discovers buried in the sand amongst the groynes of a coastal town in eastern England; he later makes the mistake of blowing it. In Unfriended: Dark Web, our ostensible hero Matias (Colin Woodell), pilfers a laptop from a coffee house’s lost and found; it’s not as magical as the strange artifact buried on a rocky shore, but it’s useful for his purposes, and, like Perkins, he definitely should have left it where found it.
As in the classic ghost story, the owners of the object are coming back to claim it—in this case black-hooded figures who might be real, but who appear as staticky, pixellated manifestations of otherworldly evil. Or perhaps underworldly evil: as the title implies, this thing goes deep, man, all the way down to the heavily encrypted world of darknet that has inspired countless contemporary urban legends, here envisioned as a journey to Hades by rowboat, animated with rudimentary, Atari-era graphics. As though they’ve been hit with a fatal computer virus, all of his friends—who have gathered in their respective spaces to partake of “game night”—also are, in a sense, infected by association. The film’s logic is like a less literal Ringu: as soon as one sees the horrifying images, there’s no way back. The excavations of the dark web are essentially files buried deep within our collective subconscious.” — Michael Koresky, A Few Great Pumpkins XIV
#i HAD to make up for my lack of unfriended posts#this is what my brain looks like if u care etc#a warning to the curious#unfriended: dark web#stephen susco#horror#caps#comparatives#w*#found footage
46 notes
·
View notes
Text
Bend, Break
It's been three days since Dooku saved his life, and all Obi-Wan can do now is push until they break. Continuation of Brush, Bend, an AU where Obi-Wan and Dooku desert in favor of exploring their weird, obsessive relationship dynamic. This also (very liberally) fills my Obi-Wan x Dooku YOTP2023 December prompt "moving in together". cw: (mild) sexual content, mentions of abuse and violence. 3k words.
The black clouds hang so low, Obi-Wan can almost split them with the tip of his blade. Not much longer now and it will rain. An icy wind whistles across the bare plains, where nothing, no trees, no grass, breaks through the volcanic rock. Obi-Wan lifts his saber and swings it in a flurry of swift strikes. Far away, the horizon flashes red and orange below the crushing mass of clouds. He slashes at empty air until sweat soaks through his tunic and drips into his eyes, until he is trembling and breathless, and the first cold raindrops pat against the back of his neck.
When he looks up, the lone figure watching him from the terrace turns and melts into the shadows.
Obi-Wan lowers his lightsaber, and the blade, purple like a dying star, extinguishes in a hiss and crackle.
They haven't been warm for days. The ruins offer hardly any protection against the harsh climate, or against each other. What remains of the collapsed tower nestles between the basalt rocks and the leaden sky, and it's cold inside, always too cold; in the morning, a silver sheen of frost covers their blankets. But there is no point in leaving. Out here, on this bleak hunk of a planet, nobody looks for them.
Obi-Wan mounts the hewn stone steps into the room that was once, presumably, the tower’s main hall. Time has chipped away the golden mica on the ornamental carvings, and the ceiling painting has faded beyond recognition. The fireplace takes up most of the back wall, a black mouth spitting sparks and soot. Apart from them, the sole guest who visits is the wind: it barges in through the broken terrace doors, fans the flames, and tugs at Dooku's cloak before it lets up when he doesn’t react. He stands like a statue below the arcades that frame the terrace, his back turned toward Obi-Wan as he stares somewhere into the far distance. Black sheets of rain now curtain off the world beyond.
Obi-Wan slips out of his clammy boots and wiggles his bare toes. Frozen, numb. "Have you eaten yet?"
A cup and a half-empty bottle of wine sit on the table, the glass fogged up with the cold. They look lost among the few pieces of equipment they have salvaged from their ship and arranged into a makeshift command center. Two datapads, the map, a radio—and the encrypted com that has been silent for nearly seventy hours.
Dooku watches the clouds churn and flash along the horizon. "An electromagnetic storm." His voice, though quiet, echoes through the cold hall. "Communication is out. No signal penetrates these clouds."
"She'll find a way to contact us." Obi-Wan throws a broken chair leg into the fire. Ventress is more loyal than he will ever be, a relief as much as it is an inconvenience, and Obi-Wan wonders whether that knowledge doesn't also pester Dooku in quiet, calm hours such as these. "We should eat something. She'd make me berate you if she were here. Let me warm some soup—"
"Leave me."
Slowly, Obi-Wan rises to his feet.
Dooku's back remains turned. Obi-Wan listlessly regards the bottle. "The wine won't help with the pain." But Dooku ignores him with a stubbornness that annoys Obi-Wan more than any rudeness would. He drapes his drenched cape over the mantelpiece. Steam rises as the wool begins to dry. Dooku stares at the storm in stony silence, and Obi-Wan thinks: I could grab the bloody ship, I could fly off and leave you stranded here, but it'd never make you stare at the sky like this, longing for me to come back. He wipes the damp hair from his forehead. "There's no need to worry yet. If the Jedi had captured her, we would know. They would make demands or try to negotiate."
"If the Confederacy had captured her, we would know as well," Dooku says dryly. "We would be under attack already."
"You think Ventress would betray our location?"
"The Confederacy has recently invested considerable resources in the development of new torture droids.”
Obi-Wan rounds the table and joins Dooku below the arcades. "Maybe we should move." His gaze lingers on Dooku's side, but the dark tunic covers any hint of bandages. "How is your wound?"
"Fine." But there's not much privacy when you've been stuck together for three days between walls that no longer have ceilings. In this hollow tower, Obi-Wan can always hear the whisper of Dooku's tired footsteps somewhere, and it's only late at night that he catches him leaning against walls and archways, resting his weight, letting go. This morning, Obi-Wan saw Dooku hunched over the edge of his bed, eyes closed, the hazy light melting on his face, one hand pressed against his stomach as if he was afraid of tearing and falling apart as soon as he stood up.
There's a feverish shine to his eyes now.
Without thinking, Obi-Wan says, "The Jedi would help us."
"The Jedi." Dooku grimaces. The wind has tousled his hair and a few stray strands fall into his eyes. "Always the Jedi. And what do you expect the Jedi to give us? Forgiveness? A pardon for your crimes? Pity and a bowl of hot soup?"
"Protection, I should imagine," Obi-Wan says. "They would at least see to Ventress' safety."
"You are willing to trade her safety for our freedom?"
"What freedom? All we do is run." He gazes out into the pouring rain. In the distance, the mountain peaks float above a sea of darkness. "We have no allies, no supporters. A temporary truce with the Jedi would grant us some respite at least, and a place to lie low. Ventress could reunite with us at the Temple. Once we know she is unharmed, it will be easier to decide on a course."
"So it is Ventress who worries you?" Dooku turns toward him. "Or do you seek to save your own hide?" His black cloak parts and flows like dark, heavy water that Obi-Wan needs only to step into to wash away what remains of him. He wants to. "Bravery and dedication," Dooku says, "those qualities come easy when you believe to be backed by the establishment. But only those who are not afraid to fend for themselves will bring about actual change in this galaxy."
Obi-Wan scoffs. "As if you ever knew what it meant to fend for yourself, Dooku. You only ever made a move when you had something to cushion your leap: a new, comfortable life as a Count, your wealth, your armies, Palpatine's protective hand. Now you have lost all of it and look where it got you. Ex-leader of the Separatists and disgraced Count of Serenno, hiding in a drafty—"
Dooku grabs him by the neck and yanks him close. "Don't insult my intelligence, Obi-Wan," he says, his voice low. His thumb digs into the soft skin behind Obi-Wan's ear. The smell of burnt wood and thunderstorms clings to his cloak; the fabric rustles against the length of Obi-Wan's thigh. He's right here, and Obi-Wan touches his wrist, allowing his fingers to slide into the warmth below the sleeve, where Dooku's pulse is thumping as fast as his.
"I know what you are after," Dooku whispers.
Do you, Obi-Wan wonders, and the thought sends a sudden rush of heat through his body: want; fear.
"It would be such a relief for you if I swallowed your bait." Dooku tightens his grip on his hair and pulls Obi-Wan's head back to gaze down into his face like Obi-Wan once saw a butcher do with a nerf calf to inspect its teeth. "If I took the choice from you and dragged you back to everything you betrayed." This is how he used to hold Obi-Wan after frying or strangling him with the Force, but as the cruelty has grown rare, so have the caresses. Obi-Wan leans in, and the sharp tug at the back of his head eases.
"How you dream of liberation," Dooku murmurs. "You cannot bring yourself to break free from your torn existence. Freedom scares you, but misery has become a familiar comfort. How do you want to cope without it? You are truly lost, Obi-Wan."
"Then so are you, considering we're stuck in the same place." Obi-Wan presses his nails into the tendons on Dooku's wrist.
Dooku smiles and lowers his eyes. The fire pours a river of gold over the left side of his face. "I've seen the color of your blade," he says softly. Obi-Wan feels his touch on his belt, fingers brushing the hilt resting at his thigh. His skin tingles, but he keeps his eyes on Dooku's face, watches the flames paint strange blue shadows along the sharp lines of his nose and under his lashes. "What a shame your lightsaber no longer knows what it is supposed to be," Dooku says, but he can't even begin to imagine how terribly wrong he is. It's not misery Obi-Wan can't do without, but this: the feeling of being hollow and porous, so close to all these fleeting, liquid secrets; gold and shadows and melting light, and Dooku's blood pounding against his fingers.
Outside, rain and wind battle for possession of the tower, for this whole rotten, forsaken planet.
Obi-Wan lays his hand flat on Dooku's chest, pressing against the half-moon scar and his heart: strong and steady, but chained to its own obsessions. Dooku's face is a mask, unmoving except for his slowly drooping eyelids, like he is about to fall asleep. Idly, Obi-Wan brushes the moisture from his cloak. Dooku's body simmers under his palm: warmer than the fire. "The state of my lightsaber doesn't concern me as much as the state of your mind, Dooku," Obi-Wan says. "You've already lost everything. What is left that you're so afraid of losing that you growl and raise your hackles?"
Dooku sighs and lifts his gaze to the vault where nothing is left of the murals that must have once depicted gods and creatures, men and beasts, floating in the skies and glimmering like golden stars. He closes his eyes as if the sight gives him a headache. His grip on Obi-Wan's hair loosens and he caresses it with his fingers instead, carefully combing down the wet strands Obi-Wan is sure stick up in every direction. Dooku bends down toward him; and something caves and swells inside Obi-Wan's chest when Dooku presses his mouth against his sweat-damp forehead. "What you did three days past, during our attempt to seize the droid factory," he hears Dooku murmur into his skin, and his voice floods Obi-Wan like ice water, "you will never do that again."
(What part of it? The taste of Dooku's blood, the smell of his skin, rust and sunlight, and his eyes: wide and dark like liquid amber? The cold tingle of Bacta, the rustle of the gauze? Dooku's limp weight and the faint thump-thump-thump of his heart when Obi-Wan laid his head against his chest? What part of it? The heated discussion in the factory's control room?—how Obi-Wan stormed off, first blinded by rage, then by the sudden detonation, then by something else altogether when he crawled from below the debris and Dooku's bleeding body? What part of it does Dooku want to forget?)
Obi-Wan pushes at him; he needs to see his face.
But Dooku pulls away. "You are not a prisoner.” He retreats behind the table and lowers himself into the chair, the movement stiff and without his usual grace. "If you wish to leave, the door is right there. Although I must warn you: I will not give up the ship without a fight."
Obi-Wan lifts an eyebrow. "You are injured, Dooku."
Dooku pours himself a glass of wine. The cold has tinted the skin beneath his nails an unhealthy, bluish shade. "That should level the field somewhat."
"Going at each other won’t improve my mood, let alone yours."
"Stabbing me in my sleep would be the most efficient strategy, though I wouldn't think you a spineless coward who—"
"Just shut up!" Obi-Wan plants both his hands onto the table, leaning toward Dooku. "Who are you trying to distract with this petty jabber? You cling so desperately to your belief that everything has to be paid in misery and suffering that you’re denying yourself even the slightest bit of—"
"The last thing I need is your pity," Dooku hisses.
"Oh trust me Dooku, I do not feel sorry for you."
Dooku stares at him from over his glass. "Get out."
"I'm not leaving," Obi-Wan blurts out. Dooku keeps staring at him with that dumb face, and the heat rises inside Obi-Wan. It crushes his lungs, pushes against his throat, and his body tingles with the urge to move; shake it off, crawl beneath the table, maybe throw more logs to the fire, or hit Dooku. He swallows. His mouth is so dry that his tongue sticks to his palate like old gauze to a wound. "I'm staying."
Dooku straightens in his chair and raises his chin. "And yet, moments ago, you were entertaining the idea of crawling back to the Jedi."
Obi-Wan clutches the edge of the table. "You know that's not what I said."
"Isn't it?" Dooku samples the wine, his eyes never leaving Obi-Wan's.
"Kindly cease twisting my words, Dooku," Obi-Wan says coldly. "And stop drinking. Are you hoping to make this tower your grave?" He snatches the wine glass from Dooku's hand and downs it himself. The alcohol is bitter on his tongue, but it sends a pleasant burn down his throat.
Dooku's hand snaps up and grips his wrist. Wine spills over Obi-Wan's sleeve; the glass slips from his fingers and shatters onto the floor. Obi-Wan knocks forward, his knuckles grazing Dooku's throat before he braces against the backrest of the chair; it creaks and shudders.
Beneath them, a thousand tiny shards gleam upon the floor, like stars, like teeth.
Dooku has no eyes for the destruction. He is staring up at Obi-Wan, his right leg awkwardly stretched underneath the table to reduce the pressure on his wound. Scabbed scratches litter the left side of his face, and all Obi-Wan can think about are the scars hiding below Dooku's clothes, the ones he put there, the ones Dooku put there for him. He shivers; a gust of wind sweeps under his wet tunic, but Dooku's face is warm when he touches it. Dooku presses into his hand, tentatively, as if still wary whether this will veer into care or cruelty. Obi-Wan exhales soundlessly: don't, he wants to say, don't do this, don't trust this, me, us. He brushes his thumb along the corner of Dooku's mouth.
Dooku closes his eyes, licks his lips. "Obi-Wan ..." he mumbles.
What remains of Obi-Wan's reason burns up in that breathy whisper. He falls forward and crushes Dooku's mouth beneath his. Dooku stiffens, then opens with a groan, and his hands are back in Obi-Wan's hair, both of them, burying into the wet strands, just like Obi-Wan buries himself in Dooku. He sways and falls, or maybe Dooku pulls him; the chair scrapes over the stone tiles as Obi-Wan crawls onto Dooku's lap and wraps himself around his heat, and it's all Obi-Wan has been craving: Dooku's body against his when nobody is watching, because everybody is gone.
Their teeth clash; Dooku angles his head and his fingers clench in Obi-Wan's hair as he kisses back, his breath heavy and wet and his nose pushing against Obi-Wan's cheekbones. The taste of him makes Obi-Wan dizzy. Wine, he thinks, something that is bitter at first but reveals layers of addictive sweetness the more you drink of it. When Dooku gropes at Obi-Wan's back and makes a noise like he's drowning, Obi-Wan's stomach gives a startled twist. He rolls his hips, grinds down until he feels Dooku growing hard beneath him. Dooku breathes wetly into Obi-Wan's neck and groans again; maybe with pleasure, maybe with pain, Obi-Wan doesn't care, and he isn't even sure which possibility arouses him more. He tilts Dooku's chin toward him and pushes his tongue between Dooku's bared teeth into the soft, searing warmth. Dooku's eyes change color like Obi-Wan's saber: they're soot and smoke and embers that swirl in his irises. He keeps them open while they kiss, watches Obi-Wan from below heavy lashes, and it's weird how this sight ignites a giddy heat in Obi-Wan's guts, similar to when he finally sunk that knife into Dooku's chest after weeks of skirting him. This, he thinks, I can still win this, I can still wound you, you feel this too. He slides a hand below Dooku's tunic, runs his fingers along the wound where the skin is hot and swollen, and Dooku moans around Obi-Wan's tongue.
When they part for air, they are both panting like animals. Dooku cups Obi-Wan's face in his large hands and traces the curve of his cheek with his thumbs.
"Stay with me," he breathes against Obi-Wan's mouth; it's barely louder than the wind howling against the tower, but Obi-Wan is close enough to taste his words on his tongue.
"Stay." His mouth grazes Obi-Wan's neck.
"Obi-Wan." He draws him flush against his chest.
Obi-Wan's hand is squished between their abdomens. He presses harder; digs his fingers into Dooku's ribcage, the softness below, and it's all so familiar and yet strange, the same skin he has touched and ripped apart and restitched countless times. He can feel the rise and fall of Dooku's chest and the pulsing heat trapped between his thighs where Obi-Wan straddles him. The blade guard on Dooku's saber stabs into Obi-Wan's stomach.
Obi-Wan drops his head on Dooku's shoulder. Distantly, he realizes that he is warm, almost hot, for the first time in days.
Outside, he can hear it: the last, gentle drip of water as the storm finally dies down.
#star wars fanfiction#obi-wan kenobi#dooku#yotp 2023#obi-wan x dooku#dookuwan#this has been one exiting year in the fandom#seemed appropriate to end it with a bit of spicy goodness about my two favorite idiots#they're allowed to have some good things too#prahacat writes#my ff
25 notes
·
View notes
Text
Another example of something that never happens.....
By Anna Slatz December 22, 2023
CONTENT NOTICE: This article contains explicit references to child sexual abuse, as documented by the Federal Bureau of Investigations during a predator sting. Reader discretion is appreciated.
A transgender pedophile in Vermont has been sentenced to 11 years in federal prison after being caught in a law enforcement sting targeting predators. Scarlet Moon Shadows, also known as Dragongurl69, pleaded guilty to attempting to entice a minor into sexual activity.
As previously reported by Reduxx, Shadows, born Randy Emillion Goodreau, first appeared in federal court last year after being arrested in Albany, New York while trying to meet who he believed to be an 11-year-old girl for sexual abuse.
The incident began after Shadows messaged a social networking account established by the FBI seeking to attract predators. The profile was made to look as though it belonged to a woman in custody of an 11-year-old girl, and included a number of pedophilic “dog whistles” in the biography section. Shadows messaged the account, and, after a brief exchange in which he expressed interest in “teaching” the child sexual acts, the two moved their communications to an encrypted messenger.
Shadows then asked to speak to the child directly, and began messaging with a second undercover agent posing as the girl.
According to an affidavit submitted by Special Agent Jenelle Bringuel, Shadows quickly offered to “date” the girl and introduce her to sexual acts. He also sent the girl several photos of his “breasts,” and plotted how to keep their relationship a secret from the public.
“We can be a real couple when we are home, but in public [kisses] have to be on the cheek. Can probably still hold hands though,” Shadows said, using text-lingo to convey his point to the minor. He continued: “We can kiss on the lips, like at home or in car rides depending how busy traffic is … at home [we] can do whatever you want. We can make love if you want to.”
Approximately one month after beginning to communicate with the undercover agents, Shadows travelled from Vermont to Warren County, New York with the intention of having sex with the child. Shadows was arrested after arriving at a meet-up point, and was found to have had an engagement ring, condoms, and gifts for the child on his person. During questioning, he claimed the sexual texts were nothing more than “roleplaying.”
A psychosexual assessment of Shadows revealed that he was subjected to a viewing test which indicated his interests in juvenile females, adolescent boys, and very young girls. The assessment also revealed that he had a “high interest” in infant females.
A press release put out by the Department of Justice detailing the case referred to Shadows using she / her pronouns and gave no indication that he is male or that he identifies as transgender. According to the DOJ, the investigation was conducted by the FBI and its Child Exploitation Task Force, which includes members of federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies, including the Colonie Police Department and the New York State Police.
In April, Shadows pleaded guilty to Attempted Enticement and Coercion of a Minor. Shadows has been in FBI custody since, with a number of delays occurring during the hearing process. In October, his public defense attorney abruptly dropped his case, citing “conflict of interest,” and the case was put on hold until a new defense attorney could pick up the sentencing negotiations.
On December 20, Shadows was sentenced to 11 years, one year more than the mandatory minimum of 10 years the defense had been seeking.
Shadows was active on Facebook prior to his arrest, and made multiple posts utilizing the trans pride flag and calls to “cherish trans women.” He also uploaded his own poorly-drawn artwork to his account, some of which featured disturbing themes.
In one pen-work picture, Shadows shows what appears to be an older man with a much-smaller girl.
“We will never brake, not even from our darkest sin. The devil is no longer in charge. We are the new rulers of hell,” the picture reads.
Two posts seen on Shadows’ Facebook account.
While it is currently unknown where Shadows will be incarcerated, he will be under the jurisdiction of the federal Bureau of Prisons, which currently has a gender self-identification policy in place for housing transgender inmates.
On January 13 of 2022, the Bureau of Prisons revised its Transgender Offender Manual, which included guidelines previously scrubbed by the Trump administration with respect to gender self-identification for federal inmates. Under the Trump administration, inmates were housed based on biological sex as a sole consideration, but the Biden administration renewed Obama-era guidelines requiring gender identity be considered when making housing assignments.
There are currently 1,500 federal inmates who identify as transgender. According to Keep Prisons Single Sex USA, almost 50% of trans-identified male federal inmates are in custody for sex offences. This is compared to just 11% of the non-trans male federal inmate population.
#usa#Vermont#His birth name is Randy Emillion Goodreau#Why do TIMs give themselves goddess names or stuff like Scarlet Moon Shadows?#An abusive TIM#Not A Woman#NotOurCrimes#the Bureau of Prisons revised its Transgender Offender Manual#KeepPrisonsSingleSex
10 notes
·
View notes
Note
so this is a really divisive and complicated topic to talk about (which is why this ask is so unbearably long), but the furry community is basically the beta version of the trans community. it's why there's a lot of overlap between the two groups. predation, abuse, fetishism, and bigotry run rampant in the community, but they're capable of covering it up really well because a lot of people in the community have a lot of money and influence in tech, and they're really good at damage control and marketing.
before i say anything else though, there's something that is very important to clarify in this topic. not all anthropomorphized art styles are "furry." in fact, the vast majority aren't. but furries obfuscate this, because making claim that any anthro = furry means that a lot more people are furry by definition, and a good deal of them won't want to give up on their interests just because they "technically count as furry." they're not actually furry, furry art is all either fetishistic or directly influenced by fetishistic content, but furries obfuscate that distinction because it's really bad pr, and suckering innocents into defining themselves as furries when they're not is how they lure in people either groom into the fetish (for a bigger market), victimize (usually financially and sexually), or use as their pr faces ("furries aren't degens, look at this 13 year old girl who draws sparkledogs and this 24 year old person with autism with art inspired by vintage children's books illustrations!").
basically, there are a minority of people who genuinely don't have fetishistic intent, and were either coerced into the community under false pretenses of what the community was, or they lost a semantics game and define themselves as "furries" because furries claim that the defining feature of "being a furry" is "liking anthropomorphic animals," even though you can tell there is something distinguishing them from that if you even take a moment to look at the things they produce. the furries then promptly pretend these innocents are the "defining group," or at least neutralize the inherent fetishism in the community, as a way of deflecting criticism, despite the fact that the fetishists are the predominant group (or at least the group that holds the most power over the community).
to simplify it: "furry" is a fetishistic (or at least fetish-inspired, knowingly or not) derivative of art that includes anthropomorphization.
behind the scenes, there's a lot more going on. not just pedophilic fetish art, but there's a surprising amount of legitimate predation on children, as well as a shocking amount of zoophilia. a lot of this is kept quiet through use of encrypted programs like telegram, harassment / deplatforming / blackmail of people from the in-group they suspect might blow the whistle on the whole thing, exertion of digital power (you likely have no idea how many of the people who essentially "run" the internet modern day are furries; it's a lot), and (as mentioned before) disinformation campaigns where they advertise themselves as a "diverse group" of "mostly innocent people."
a lot of the people who separate from the group don't see the worst of it, and most will tell you that they left because they didn't quite "mesh" with the fandom (most people i meet like this are women who cite the highly sexual nature of the group). most of this stuff is only observable if you still have your wits about you but, for whatever reason, end up having the displeasure of speaking to many individuals from the community somewhat often (as you might imagine, this is not a common combination of traits).
they're not shy about talking about their paraphilias. very few of them don't have any. most of them are into things like bdsm, "little" rp, transformation fetish, gender-bender fetish (fetishistic crossdressing and "sissification" are big), raceplay, or humiliation. so far, i've not met a single male furry that didn't have cluster pedophilia, and about half the female furries i've met had cluster paraphilias, too.
they're a little more hesitant about talking about the shady stuff that goes on in their community, if you know the specifics to ask for, though. a lot of times they'll default to "erm, yeah, well, that happens, but, like, not all furries are like that, and bad people exist everywhere." it's not at all reminiscent of the direct-action attitude i've seen in actual marginalized groups when speaking about abusive people within their communities. they focus all their efforts on minimizing the issue or outright excusing it. the only group within the furry community who tried to actually put a stop to the pedophilia that i know of turned out to be a group of nazis. not "oh they're like nazis." literal nazis. there's actually a pretty big population of so-called "nazifurs." digression aside, the point is that the only ones who made any effort to try to actually clean up the pedophiles from the community were literal, actual fascists.
i could go into the worst shit i've seen and heard from the community, but i honestly don't want to get into it too much. i'll say that the accusations of grooming, pedophilia, and bestiality are not at all "singular, rare cases," though. they're in-community issues that the worst of the worst in the community will encourage each other to do and talk about casually with each other. it makes the standard coomer or domestic abuser varieties that are much, much more common in that space seem normal by comparison.
to cap this all off, i'll state a couple simple facts. somewhere between 71 to 85% of furries are male, and between 83 and 90% of furries self-identify as white. information on political views is to be discarded, because no studies like that one that was done on trans individuals (the one that questioned what they believe their political leanings are or what labels they use vs specific questions about beliefs) have been done, as far as i can tell. i don't know about you, but i've never seen a group with this sort of demographic that has been anything other than vile.
Well said.
I dislike Turkey Tom on YouTube but he has a series where he covers the degenerates of certain online cultures and (i think) he's done furries more than once. Needless to say, I understand why you wouldn't want to detail the worst cases out there.
44 notes
·
View notes
Text
Chanced
Jason Todd x f! Reader
explicit ; 5k words ; canon-compliant pwp
Out of all the purveyors of justice in the city, you have the misfortune of being confronted by the one least likely to let you go in one piece.
Or, Gotham's most expendable goon meets her most unorthodox vigilante. At night, of course.
read here on ao3! or read under the cut.
(a/n: forewarning for nonconsensual elements.)
The weather was turning for the worse these days. Having not expected the chill, you forfeited a padded jacket when you left your apartment earlier this afternoon. It has been hours since then, the steel walls of the warehouse you situated yourself in now providing little comfort against the temperature. You suck in a breath and purse your lips hard, willing yourself not to chatter your teeth.
This isn’t ideal. It’s brutal, actually.
You really hadn’t expected these sorts of errands when you applied for a central intelligence side job at the villain job convention some months ago. On paper, it’d clearly been a desk job for hire, so it’s not fair that you’re standing here now in the cold, fiddling with a USB stick in your jacket pocket like some actually important intermediary.
The pay definitely isn’t good enough for this, at the very least.
Only having had this gig for two or so months, you weren’t in a position to complain. So: here you were. The USB stick had arrived to your postbox two days prior, in a nondescript bubble mailer with no return address.
Still, you’d known what it was. You’d been given the assignment electronically through an encrypted message by - likely - a higher-up you’ll never met in-person, to pass the drive on to another middle man.
What the drive contained, however, was utterly beyond your payroll. You were too scared to insert it into your own laptop for fear of the consequences. You don’t ask questions either. You could guess, though. Blueprints. Ransomware. A hit. The list goes on.
It didn’t appease you in any real way, to speculate at the contents of the USB stick; though it killed time just fine. You were standing there for about two hours now, and with the fast encroaching nightfall, came the darkness. Even walking in broad daylight in Gotham was at times daunting, so the idea of returning home, guided only by the puttering street lamps, filled you with genuine unease.
Besides that, you have an early start tomorrow for your real day job. You were terribly overqualified for it but until you could line up a better prospect, your hands were tied for now. Hence, your current side gig of running messages for minor city villains.
Your family wouldn’t be too proud but hey - a girl’s gotta eat. And pay rent. And afford the vices that make this chaos all tolerable.
The wind whistles above you, causing the sheets of steel roofing to creak. Naturally, you glance upward at the slivers of the darkening sky that peeks through, offering some semblance of light into the warehouse besides the light that entered through the two wide door ways on opposite walls.
You stood square in the middle and would regularly pivot your gaze to best see any movement that came from the entrances. Bringing your eyes back down, you pan the walls once more: save for the graffiti and the scrap furniture up against the rusty walls that leaked stuffing, there really wasn’t much scenery to appreciate.
You take your hands out of your jacket, rubbing the palms together. The first hour of waiting had you tense, jumping at every minuscule sound; now, you just wanted someone to show up so you could scurry back home, into the comforting warmth that you came to miss dearly. You were itching for takeout at your favourite cheap eatery but it was probably a better idea to dig into the accumulating leftovers you had in tupperwares back home first.
You ground the rubber front of your shoes into the concrete, bored and tapping away.
“This really isn’t worth it,” you grumble into the air, frowning when you notice the visible puffs of air drawing from your breath. The acoustics were rather nice, to be fair.
“Funny - I was gonna say the same thing.”
Your blood runs cold. Apprehension and relief, wrapped all in one, spikes.
You turn towards the sound in an instant. The glint of red at the entrance to your right, dangerous and foreboding, landing in your peripheral view confirms a fear you hadn’t even truly considered. You feel slightly queasy.
The one standing there was not who you were anticipating, after all. You’re certain he’s not working with your agency.
“You waiting for someone, baby?”
Red Hood steps forward as he asks this, head tilted innocuously to the side. His voice is slightly modulated by the helmet, but not enough to conceal the derisive rumble in his voice. His hands are empty but hover inches away from his holsters which were very much not empty. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
You’re definitely not making it home before complete nightfall.
Your lips feel chapped though your palms sweat. Aren’t there like a dozen heroes working in Gotham? What were the chances of Red Hood noticing you? Jesus fucking Christ, you can’t seem to catch a break.
His unexpected presence has you blanching a little. “Uh, yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“A friend,” you explain lamely, hoping your timidness masquerades as shyness from meeting a well known hero and not guilt. You were expecting some sunglasses-clad man in an ill-fitting suit and a briefcase to shuffle in, not a hero with broad shoulders who could lay you horizontal in a thousand different ways. You didn’t think you were crucial enough to be tracked or tailed by such a figure.
There’s a beat. Until, “Pretty nasty place to meet a friend.”
Your mind draws blank and you shrug in lieu of responding verbally, sending a sheepish and thin smile. You had a cover story, you know you did, you’d formulated it absent-mindedly while on your feet but under this pressure, under his certain gaze, you can’t recall it.
Was it that you’ve a real penchant for exploration? Or that you’re a cinematographer looking for a shooting location? Something along those lines but the opportunity has since passed.
The USB stick in your pocket feels like lead. Whether by the hand of this vigilante or by your employer, you’re not quite sure how you’re going to make it out alive. This sucks. Perhaps it was naive of you to think you could sidestep all direct confrontations with the police and heroes during your time with a dubious central intelligence agency.
He rests a hand on his utility belt. You gulp as you watch it creep towards the side, down his outer thigh to lightly touch the holstered handgun. He clearly knows why you’re here, loitering in a barren warehouse. Maybe not specifically, but enough to know you’re not here for any respectable reason.
(To be fair, sneaking about abandoned warehouses as a whole wasn’t very respectable.)
You can already see it play out in your mind’s eye: Red Hood sticking the cold barrel under your chin, digging through your pockets for the USB stick, leaving your dead body for the police to eventually find. Maybe he’d let you escape with your life if you’d handed over the information wilfully, but that might just mean you’d be punished by much more unsavoury methods by your own employer for such a grievous error.
It’s not like you held much loyalty to your job, after all - you just didn’t want to get waterboarded for ten hours if they found out a hero working under Batman swiped confidential information from you. You could barely afford commute and monthly rent, much less the expenses in running off to another part of the country where no one knows your name. You hear Coast City’s weather at this time of year is pleasant though.
At a loss, you blurt aloud to save the situation. “My boyfriend.”
If anything, this outburst gets his attention. And a couple more seconds of you being alive, which is always pretty nice.
His hand lifts away. With no visible facial expressions to go off from, you can’t tell if he’s genuinely caught off-guard or simply obliging you in your little charade for a little longer. You run your tongue over your bottom lip, racking your brain.
“My boyfriend,” you say, “I mean, I’m supposed to be meeting him, that’s all. I’ll tell him we can’t be here, okay? Sorry.”
He’s only some meters away now - he could overwhelm you in a blink if you tried anything. Him simply tapping you on the head with his fist might even lay you out flat. Still, you take a step back, closer to the other doorway. If you can stall long enough for the second middle man to arrive, that would be all you need to slip away.
“Meeting him here?” he questions. His steps are heavy as he rocks up close. How did he arrive so silently?
“Yeah. We like to - yeah.” We like to… what, exactly? Oh god. You pause to absorb your own words before ducking away, hopefully hiding your own mortification from him.
This is… not great. You’re just babbling now.
You think that perhaps he didn’t hear you this time - or maybe that he was duly horrified - but then a sharp bark of laughter leaves him, a hand coming up to his helmet to where his mouth would be underneath it.
“Shit,” he says, his voice wry. “Who suggested it, you or him?”
You feel faint, barely able to meet his gaze. “Me.” You intended to reply matter of factly, but it came out rising like a question.
“Riiight.”
Your mouth shuts, taken aback at the direction of the conversation led by his obvious disbelief. You know he’s mocking you - stretching out this moot conversation just to humiliate you, some nameless henchman who turned to crime to pay bills. Maybe if you were worth something more, anything, he’d see you as a threat. Evidently not.
Well, you think rather futilely, it was worth a try. At least he could wring some entertainment out of you before he shot you in the head -
“You suggested it? Take a good look at yourself,” he says. His chin juts upward and it’s a rather cocky move, like he’s egging you on to react.
What was that supposed to mean? Though rhetorical, you still find yourself glancing at your attire: it was nondescript all the way down. It’s not like you cared to dress up - who would you even be impressing? Your jacket could benefit from being more insulated though; and you’re surprised he’s trying to poke holes in your cover as opposed to just threatening you with certain death, but you’ll take what you can get.
“Besides,” he continues, “you sounded pretty reluctant earlier.”
Confused, you speak slowly. “Uh. I don’t - listen, I’ll call him right now, and leave. Really. We don’t mean any harm.” You move to take your phone out of your pocket but a levelled glance at you has you pausing.
He swings his head to the side in a lazy shake. Taps his holster. “Hands off.”
“Sorry?” you say.
“I’ll keep you company until he shows, how’s that?” You can nearly envision a smirk under the helmet and something about his goading has your adrenaline pumping. You wonder if you could somehow fish out the USB stick and sneak it somewhere on the dusty concrete or in your tennis shoes. “Maybe me and him can have a little chat too. On why it’s a bad, bad idea to leave your girl alone in a place like this.”
Goddammit. Whoever steps through the doorway next is getting murked right alongside with you apparently.
Shoulders tensing, you weigh your options. You consider weaving further into your cover, saying something like you regularly do this, it’s really not an issue - but for some reason pretending to be a public sex fiend in front of Red Hood was incredibly weird.
“Okay,” you say, helpless. You slip your hands into your jacket pockets, feel for the USB drive, and casually look about the barren warehouse.
A silence ensues. You’re not sure what to do, you’ve never been in this situation before. You don’t know why he’s letting you feign about so long and it scares you.
“You cold?”
“Yeah, a little,” you make out, unsure.
“Might want to move closer to the side. You’re standing in front of the draft.”
You stared at him, though he gave no indication to acknowledge you. “Okay.”
The moment you begin to shift however, stepping towards one of the walls and further into the shadows, you felt wind cutting sharply by your ears as you’re slammed forward, one splayed hand between your shoulder blades.
A shoulder hits the wall before the rest of your front, knocking the air out of you in a wheeze. Your hands came up to block but the force of his shove still stung your palms. The metal wall rattles thunderously.
You draw your head back in time, but your jaw still gets clipped slightly by the rough wall when you turn your cheek. You might be bleeding. Sharp pain shoots up yours arms as he twists them behind your back and pushes you with his entire body. Panic rises up your throat and a low, pained moan draws out of you.
“Did I hurt you? Sorry, baby, but I have to be thorough.”
A solid steel-toed boot wedges itself between your legs, forcing them apart. Eclipsed by the shadows behind you, Red Hood looms powerfully. What did you do to deserve this treatment?
“It’s a thumb drive, right?” he prompts, cutting to the chase with his helmet right by your hair. “Just tell me where it is and I’ll leave you alone. No harm no foul.”
“I don’t know,” you say, trying to keep your voice even. “Please, you have the wrong person.”
In the scuffle, you dropped the USB and it landed conveniently under the skirt of a sagging couch to your left, only visible at your angle near the wall. Your neck is damp with sweat. If you could just kick it further in, you might be able to convince him you really were innocent after all.
“Uh huh,” he says in the same disbelieving tone as before. Unimpressed and losing patience, he shifts his grip so that he held both your wrists tightly with one hand, pinning you against the wall, so that he might use his free hand to slide up your body.
There is the rustling of fabric as he sticks his hand into your jacket pockets and feels about, before coming up empty. “Hm.” Shifting gears, he turns his attention down to your pants and thumbs your pockets - and you jump when his knuckles graze your butt. He palms your ass instead of filing methodically through your back pockets.
“Still not talking?”
“There’s nothing to say,” you say, getting cut at the end when he abruptly slips under your light jacket and atop your shirt, spreading his fingers on your midsection. You shiver.
Rough, worn leather finds your skin, and in doing so, he hitches your shirt up along with your half-unzipped jacket, introducing it to the cold air. Goosebumps erupt across your arms and you repress a sharp breath.
What should be a frightening pat-down strangely has a heat forming in the pit of your stomach, turning fiercer when his hand cups you. You finally gasp aloud when he gently squeezes the soft flesh, leather rubbing against your nipple.
Your nipples harden almost immediately to the cold but he still rolls them with the pads of his fingers, almost soothingly. This is definitely not standard procedure in finding an object on your person.
“No bra?” he mutters. As if rendered curious by your lack of chest support, he pushes your shirt up further to gain access to your other breast, also kneading it briefly in one gloved hand. He stops. “Guess you weren’t lying about the public fucking.”
What, can’t a person just go bra-less when they wanted to? When he goes quiet this time, you become aware of your heavy breathing, intensive and trembling. Embarrassment swells in you despite the threat of your livelihood dangling.
“Umm,” you croak, abashed. Then, clearing your throat, “I think you see I don’t have what you’re looking for, so…”
“Ehh,” says Red Hood mildly. “I wouldn’t say that.”
You’re not given time to think.
There’s no resistance from you when he grabs yours hips and slams them flush back against his solid legs. Instinctively, your arms fly out forward to support yourself against the wall as you’re arched back on him. Your mind spins wildly, unable to keep up as gloved fingers press into the fabric of your clothes, into your flesh.
“But you’re a hero,” you say in another abrupt gasp, pitching almost hysterical when you realise what he’s implying.
And he’s sneering, audibly, when he replies, “Aw, baby, it’s so nice you think I’m a hero.”
“I’ll expose you online - I’ll go to the police,” you say. “I’ll fucking do it.”
His grip on you tightens painfully. “Don’t you know who I am? Like anything you say would make waves."
Your eyes widen. You pull your hands from the wall to claw at his wrists, but it’s as futile as you’d thought it was to be. “Hold on, please,” you insist, switching gears, “I’ll give you what you want, just -”
You could feel him behind you, the firm press against his crotch unavoidable no matter how you struggled. And he ran unbearably hot. “Sure you will.” You heard the click of metal as he unbuckled his utility belt. You’re not surprised it has come to this. You’ve heard of Red Hood and his penchant for the less upstanding methods of pursuing justice.
This seemed to be in line with his character.
There was nowhere to go. If you could somehow tug yourself out of his grip, there was nothing holding him back from shooting you between the shoulder blades as you made your escape.
You’re not as physically adept (you had a desk job for godssake) so you were subjected to hanging your head low as he tugged your pants down, resting your forearms on the wall. Though he did the bare minimum in unzipping your fly, your pants naturally fell to the dusty ground, exposing the full length of your legs.
He stayed quiet as he hooked his thumb under the band of your panties. With your eyes downcast, you notice that he’d taken the glove off the hand that was currently skimming your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He pushed your panties down and gravity eases it to your knees. His other hand remained securely at your opposite hip.
When his large hand slides to your front, callused fingers coming down between your legs, you can’t help but wonder if this had been his plan the moment he laid eyes on you and decided to fuck around for the fun of it; or if this had been a spur of the moment sort of ordeal, occurring to him when he had you caged against the wall. Did it even matter? You were determined to not react.
He barely even began to trace your slit with his middle and ring finger, barely even sinking the pads of them between your folds when he pauses.
Having nothing else to distract you from the breaching sensation, you double down on it, desperately willing your body to resist. His once cold fingers warm up quickly, regulating with your body heat.
It takes a heartbeat to realise he is speaking to you. “You’re already wet.”
“No,” you reply, hoarse. You don’t know why you do - you shouldn’t be talking back at all - but it looks like you’ve still some sliver of pride.
“Yeah, you are.” He leans forward, firm chest bumping against your back, the thin jacket not much of a barrier at all. The metal helmet brushes against your hair. His fingers sink back into you, deeper this time, and when he withdraws a knuckle’s length, you can feel the wet squelch before you even hear it. You want to cry out but relent in a silent shudder. “Are you wet for me, baby? Don’t worry, I won’t tell your boyfriend.”
“Stop it.”
“You like this shit,” Red Hood states, almost haughty. “It turns you on.”
“No, you’re wrong,” you say with a shake of your head; you try pushing away from him. He hardly heeds you.
“Am I?” His thumb strokes your sensitive clit and you snap your head away from his sight. Tears prick your eyes and there’s something horrible building up inside you that wants him to continue.
His hands were large to begin with but when his fingers finally reenter you, scissoring slowly to test your limits, you can’t help but whimper.
“A pretty thing like you into fucking in dirty places. God, your man’s lucky.”
You’ve an inkling he knows the boyfriend thing is just a cover, but you groan all the same, the noise escaping out a clamped jaw.
The ensuing silence is unbearable, void of anything but the noises coming from your body. A shiver overwhelms you, running fast up your spine when he gives your clit unexpected attention again. You want to cry. You are going to cry; you squeeze your eyes shut.
You clench around Red Hood’s fingers and this does not escape him. As if in response, he squeezes your breast unceremoniously.
“Yeah, yeah, I got you,” Red Hood replies, his voice surprisingly breathless.
His hand comes away sticky, knuckles glistening, wiping against the skin of your inner thigh. Then, stripping you of your jacket with certain urgency, he spins you around by the shoulder and takes your head in his gloved hand. Unmoving fingers fan across your jaw, thumb on your cheek.
“Open,” he instructs. “And don’t bite.”
Your lips close around his damp fingers, hot tongue running along his callused fingertips. The red mask is indecipherable: you’re unsure whether he’s getting anything out of this or that he simply wants to humiliate you. Maybe a bit of both. In any case, he never turns his head away. Are his eyes closed? Or is he committing this to memory, of your hollowed cheeks and wide, glassy eyes?
You too do not look away, much too scared to glance downward and catch the glimpse of his arousal tenting against dark tacts.
The hand on your chin relaxes when it becomes clear you aren’t about to wriggle free. You could though, and it might even be easy - but your shoes are deadweights and escaping into the Gotham air cannot be much safer.
You clean yourself off his fingers, sucking and licking gingerly until he pulls away.
“Turn around for me.”
When he shimmies his tactical pants down, you don’t see anything but you hear the shuffle of clothes, the tinkling of the belt, and you feel the firm, hot length of his cock abruptly press against your backside.
He adjusts himself, dragging it down against your slit and rubbing, spreading your wet heat across himself. You don’t know what to think, knowing that he was already fully erect, spilling pre-come at the thought of fucking you.
Against your will, you begin to ache for him, a sharp emptiness balling up in your core that wanted to be filled. Malleable like putty, you think he could slam right into you with no problem. In fact, it would be delicious, the force, the feel of his body boxing you in, taking you without grievance or care.
Surprisingly, he takes his time. You don’t demur: you get what you wish for in due time.
The moan you let out between your teeth when the throbbing head of his cock breaches your entrance was unstoppable. It would be embarrassing had he not also let out a low noise of his own as he stretches you. “Fuck,” he hisses.
Once he’d positioned himself correctly, he inched into you slow, revelling in the tight heat. You, on the other hand, felt full, his cock satisfying the burning ache you had just moments ago. The slow stretch makes you quiver, keeping a breath in your chest.
The moment of quietude is startled violently when his hand unexpectedly grabs at the base of your nape, not high enough to asphyxiate yet still hard enough to communicate danger. While fully hilted, he rolls his hips. He drags back briefly before snapping into you with enthusiasm.
You felt as though you’d bite your tongue if you continued to keep your teeth gritted but the moment you relaxed your jaw, a panting moan escaped. “Oh god,” you let out.
His hips slam. “Yeah? That good?”
Your noises apparently encourage him: he fucks you hard, bruising vices on your hips, and gradually you lean further downward, your own hands sliding down the wall for purchase. The abrasive, frigid concrete is rough on your forearms and knees when you get down.
He follows suit, lowering himself to one knee. He at least has the graciousness to pull out momentarily as you got to the floor, his cock bouncing heavily just by your entrance, coarse pubic hair rasping at your skin. When he slides back into your warmth, there’s no resistance whatsoever, your body in complete compliance.
In the corner of your eyes, the kicked USB is just right there, to your left and slightly under the dusty furniture. There is no way he cannot see it from this angle, but he pays it no mind.
“God, what if your man walks in on us, huh?” he grits out, between breaths. “I guess I could let him watch for a bit.”
The shift in position pushes his cock to reach a new depth, pistoning in and out of you with such fervor that you arched your back to keep from being sent forward. You were entirely at his mercy now.
His deep strokes sends zips up your spine. He seems to fill you up completely, as if with every thrust, the head of his cock meets just bare of your cervix. The helmet does a good job at concealing his breathing, but every once in a while, over the visceral wet noises of his cock burying into you and the smack of his balls against your skin, you can faintly hear a low groan.
When he stills for a split second and breaks the pace, your body moves faster than your mind - and you roll your hips back to hilt yourself like you’re keen.
“Want me to continue?” he asks. “Tell me you want it and I’ll get you off.” A hand slides from gripping your hip to your ass, palming it.
“Ngh,” you return, lamely. It’s not enough of an answer.
“What’s that?” He yanks out fast and it leaves your cunt aching sharply again.
You should jerk a thumb over to the USB drive and tell him to go fuck himself or just shoot you or some combination of this.
“Don’t think so hard, just tell me,” his voice comes out like a modulated purr, rumbly and arrogant. God, he’s so fucking aggravating, insidious even -
“Yes,” you say in a cry.
The effect is instantaneous. He ruts into you like an animal, like he doesn’t want you to forget the searing effect of his cock as it slides into you. Fast and aggressive in the way only a man of his athleticism can be, you are left to lower your head to the floor and raise your hips high for him to violate, biting your bottom lip to keep from drooling. The ruthless barrelling as his mode of acquainting with your insides is thrilling; he wants to coax you to scream.
Eerily enough, you and him nearly come at the same time. Unable to stop your tensing, your hands ball up into fists and you give into your feelings: your insides flutter, the muscles contracting and consequently squeezing his cock. His pace slows dramatically as if to savour the vibrations, drawing out into long and deep strokes.
The build up falls from a terrible crescendo and your knees have liquified; he keeps you upright.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
He hardly gives you a heads up when he comes, which is more than you can say, but his fingers dig as a forewarning when he bottoms out. It’s likely your orgasm brings his over the finish line.
His cock, heavy and engorged, twitches twice and spurts a hot, wet mess deep inside you. You imagine his expression: his eyes rolling back or maybe clamping shut; his teeth gritted or slightly parted in a pant. You don’t even have time to protest. He strokes your skin as he does, almost affectionately.
As always, your body betrays you: you squeeze without thinking just as he backs up like you want to keep him there. You feel insatiable: you want him in you all the time. He chuckles faintly.
He gives short thrusts as if to wring out the very last drops and you try not to think about the warmth filling your core now, the presence of him imprinted inside your body. It makes you flush. Were you insane for enjoying this?
He doesn’t seem to be going through the same mental turmoil.
The very moment he withdraws his softening cock from your body, thick come drips, sliding hotly down your inner thigh. His absence leaves your entrance pulsing, effectively squeezing out more of the mess.
You think that’s the end of it and go to stand upright when you feel his hand grip an ass cheek and without warning, spread your entrance further open with a thumb. “Aagh,” you can’t help but whine at the feel of come spilling out.
It didn’t help that he was most definitely watching the whole affair of his come dripping from your pleasantly sore entrance. A sizeable glob splatters on the concrete between your knees, just missing the pants around your ankles.
“You with me?” Red Hood hums.
You nod. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Sweet,” he says, all casual. “So. What’re we thinking for dinner.”
Like that, the curtains close.
You sigh petulantly, reaching back and slapping his hand away. This is no place to rest in a post-orgasm haze anyway. Pulling yourself upright and yank your pants back up your waist. Hands on your waist, you twist about violently. A very satisfying crack resounds from your body.
“I dunno,” you say, pinching your jacket up and dusting it. “Are we going to your place or mine? Also, god, you talk a lot.”
“Hey, you said you wanted realism. I gave it to you,” he says, getting to his feet. Jason unclasps his helmet from the back, yanking it off in one go. “Anticipation helps the scene.” He shakes his head, unsticking sweaty bangs from his forehead before pushing it all back with his hand.
“Three hours,” you say for emphasis, though there’s no bite. “It’s cold.”
You do appreciate Jason for obliging you in this scenario. When you first suggested it in a sort of half-joking manner, you certainly hadn’t expected Jason to take you seriously.
Nor had you expected him to whip out his acting chops like this. It was all rather impressive and seeing him with you now at the end of the scene, cheeks flushed and orgasm attained, you couldn’t really be mad.
“What was in this thing anyway? Looks ancient.” He steps away to lean over, picking the grimy thumb drive from the ground.
“Ehh. Probably used it to transfer some files when I bought my laptop.” You purse your lips. “Just last year, I guess.”
“Ugh, so boring. Wanna film something and stick it in this?”
A scoff leaves you, nabbing the small drive from him and shoving it away. “Dinner first,” you say.
Pivoting around, you make for the exit. Jason stops you, wrangling you with a hand on your back, and pushes you back towards him. Dipping forward, Jason captures your mouth in a languid kiss. It is like all the aggression has dissipated, leaving behind the dregs of something more substantial. Warmly, you lean into him. His eyes glitter when you pull apart.
“Your boyfriend’s pretty nice,” he says. “Wouldn't you say?”
“Yeah. I guess he is.”
#jason todd x reader#red hood x reader#jason todd imagines#dc x reader#dynamites writes#WHEW i'm back baby *crickets chirp*
191 notes
·
View notes
Text
The EARNT IT Act did not earn my support.
It, essentially, is made to restrict Section 230, a law saying that companies aren't liable for any kind of social media posts, unless they are illegal to be sharing in the first place (So this act is not only bad at the thing it will be used for, it's also utterly useless, since CSAM is already illegal on a federal level).
It takes away encryption tools through threats of liability (so everyone is susceptible to being spied on by corporations and the government if the bill passes), and it may make companies less likely to actually do anything about CSAM, since admitting to having such content, or not having the right restrictions, could lead to massive liability for companies. Or it could lead to mass censorship of anything related to sex (Even if it is law-abiding), due to a company fearing such liability if they aren't (and likely won't be) aware of any users sharing CSAM through their social platforms.
On the topic of law enforcement: Because information is being collected by coercion from the state, it could lead to these companies becoming influenced in finding and reporting actual CSAM, meaning that it would then become state action, making it inadmissible to use in court, meaning that the predator could post as much CSAM as they want on an influenced platform, keep all other public records clean as whistle, and get away with it because of the identification of it being CSAM is decided as state action due to it's influence from government actors, and therefore argued to be inadmissible for court use.
Plus: This will all be led by a commission that is unelected, and the bill has been condemned by both LGBTQ+ and Human Rights organizations.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I have linked a petition that aims to stop this bill. I'm not sure if I would be taken seriously by my representative and senators, because I would be a stuttering wreck on the phone with them, or actively sound like a telemarketer from me reading a call script (I also don't know how a letter from me to any senators would be treated if it reached their desk). If there is any other way I can help fight the bill, please tell me.
Edit: I just emailed one of my senators. Oh yeah and grammar.
Edit 2: Both Senators are emailed and I'm pretty sure all grammar is correct now. But I did not copy my messages down, so I can't email them every day. But good news: The bill is in a committee now, and there's pretty much only a 25% chance that this will go to the senate (woo! Yay!) But keep on contacting your senators and reps, we don't want them to think that we support this bill when we actually don't.
I'm very late to this (but there is still time to fight the bill), but since I am someone who uses the internet constantly, I would be heavily affected by this bill, and much of my personal information (including information about my debit account) could be leaked if someone were to figure out how to get into a backdoor made for law enforcement.
23 notes
·
View notes
Note
I keep imagining the face of ultra magnus and Alpha trion in "de-extinction Au"
Ultra Magnus is having a helluva time. The autobots naturally knew that eventually their energy vault would run dry, but they honestly thought they'd have killed off all the decepticons and retrieved the Allspark far before that happened. Old UM has no one to blame but himself (well, and the rest of the council that voted to yeet the literal soul of their planet into deep space but yk), so he's trying to handle this with grace and dignity. Cleaning up the consequences of his own actions without complaint, though he's certainly not happy about having to rely on the the very people he fought so hard to berid of
As for Alpha Trion 👀 his story's actually gonna take a sharp turn. This is TFA, and as far as I'm concerned, AT is the AT. One of the original 13 Primes, god of knowledge, the whole shebang. But! He's still on Cybertron, not at all bothered by uhhh Literally Everything. TFA Cybertron is a nightmarish dystopia if you peel back the pretty colors and bells and whistles.
So, hear me out 👀 in typical Alpha Trion fashion after the Quintessential War, he was the only one of his siblings still standing. The divine law banning divine intervention was set into place to avoid such a catastrophe again, and though he missed his siblings greatly, he knew he couldn't just abandon the mortal world. Cybertron was in disarray after the fighting, all their mortal creations reeling and society reduced to rubble. He wasn't able to help them with his power as a god as per the new law, so instead, he gave himself a new body. A mortal body, with his immortal spark and memories still in tact but with his abilities sealed away. He helped them rebuild and took care of them as best he could, and tried to steer them in the right direction. But with the Quintessons' cruelty tainting them and with their Primes no longer able to answer their prayers, Cybertron took a turn for the worst. He was helpless to stop them as they started down a dark path of oppression and disenfranchisement, hatred and greed ruling their decisions rather than compassion or love.
By the time the war started he was already on the council, and was vehemently against any violent conflict: fighting only breeds more strife, and killing each other won't solve anything. He had quite a bit of sway, as the eldest on the panel and a beloved public figure to boot. So, in true TFA autobot fashion, the senate made the decision to shut him down in the best way they could.
Alpha Trion traded a lot of things when he took up his mortal body, giving up his power and invulnerability. He became weak to mortal threats, to sickness and injury and even manipulation. The senate knew they couldn't kill him, they needed him and his influence alive, so they turned to shadowplay and mnemosurgery to alter his personality and perception. And because he was a mortal in all but spark, it worked.
When the de-extinction plot comes into play, I'd argue roughly half of the council members are shadowplayed puppets, perfect zombies to rule over the autobot population and keep their pristine machine running at maximum efficiency. One of Megatron's demands for the surrogacy program was a complete ban on such barbaric practices, in addition to the reversal of any shadowplay or empurata to the best of their ability, for every victim. Anyone that had ever gone under the knife to be "fixed" was to have their previous selves restored as well as they could be. There's a heavily encrypted database only the Magnus and the single top surgeon for each field are privy to, a list of everyone they've ever had to edit so they can routinely screen them and make sure they're still functioning properly.
That's how it's revealed that the majority of their senators have been changed, as well as roughly 20% of the active elite guard. It's rampant, 1 in 5 mecha meant to serve and protect and keep the government running aren't even really themselves. It's appalling, honestly, and most of them don't even know they were changed. That's the ugliest truth about mnemosurgery and shadowplay: if a job is done cleanly, the victim will never even be aware that they were hurt in the first place.
When Alpha Trion emerges from anesthesia after his corrective operation, it hits him all at once, all the millions of years he spent under their control and all the atrocities he'd sat back to passively witness, and he's horrified. Furious. Cybertronians have fallen so far from grace he barely recognizes them anymore, and... he doesn't think he wants to dwell amongst them any longer.
5 notes
·
View notes
Note
💖
((A fellow multimuse writer @rex-rp
My God, talk about a person who contains multitudes! Every character of theirs is amazing to interact with! And it's also nice to chat to a fellow Brit because I somehow never seem to run into any.))
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
yeehaw!! (more of that collaboration with @chiropteracupola!!)
deep within, your hunger burns
The grandfather clock in the corner of Filomena’s study clicked steadily toward sunrise, keeping in lockstep with her sluggish, pounding heart. Reams and reams of paper sat as yet untouched upon her desk. Her night’s work was young, despite the hour, and the stacks of blank parchment spoke to the effort still the come, the anxiety wracking her body like an unseasonable winter’s chill. Looping scrawl disintegrating by the minute blurred before her eyes; her hand was beginning to cramp from the duration of her encryption, and yet, Filomena had far to go before she could rest.
While her task would be Sisyphean to anyone, the threat of discovery loomed heavy over her shoulder, sending icy chills down her neck. It would hardly do for one of her newfound teammates, or enemies, or friends, or whatever they would become to her, to find her here. Sighing, she drew her shawl tight round her shoulders, fingers worrying at the fraying tassels.
She would need to replace her candle soon.
There was a gentle tap at her door, the familiar sound of silver-bound fingers against an oaken jamb. Without looking up, Filomena already knew who was waiting for her.
“Lady Helen,” she said, never staying her duty, not even for a moment. Long ago, Filomena had mastered the art of continually writing, no matter the distraction, and Helen valued her for it. It made her efficient. Helen did not abide idleness.
“Miss Pauling.” Despite her age, Helen’s voice was slick as oil, sturdy and cutting as any blade. Only the hour demanded the hushed tone in which she spoke, but her words still carried a weight Filomena had come to dread. “May I come in?”
“Certainly.”
Filomena placed her pen back in its inkwell, grateful for the moment to stretch her arms and listen to the joints pop in quick succession, before turning to where Helen stood, regal in her rich purple gown. Her bony fingers clacked against each other under the weight of her jewelry, hands clasped at her stomach tense as the sharp line of her mouth. Eyes narrowed, flashing gold in the firelight, she did not look pleased.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” It was rare to hear from Helen nowadays. The war occupied much of her time, and the air of mystery she had worked so hard to cultivate around their hired band of mercenaries would hardly do to be shattered by too many sightings of her goings about the house, so when Filomena chanced to see her, it was always a relief and a warning in equal measure. The maddening quiet was over, but the news it brought was often a knife to Filomena’s stomach.
Helen laughed without humor. “I should hope you would be glad to see me no matter the cause.”
“Well, of course I am, my Lady,” under the force of her gaze, Filomena always felt herself floundering, a little girl scolded for staining the carpet again, “but given the circumstances, I would presume something is on your mind.”
“Hm. You presume correctly.” Eyeing the scattered papers, Helen raised a sharp brow. Filomena smiled, hesitant and apologetic. Taking a whistling breath through her nose, Helen inspected a long fingernail, flicking at it with her thumb. “Are they getting along?”
“You mean our houseguests?”
“You’re a smart girl, Miss Pauling,” Helen said. “What do you think?”
Shrinking against her mother, Filomena twiddled with her glasses. “Well, I would hardly call them friends, to be sure, but they are settling into their roles quite nicely.”
“Really.”
“Yes, my Lady.” Fishing through her files, Filomena selected two sheets of paper from her personal records, detailing her observations. She passed them to Helen, who skimmed them with a scowl, while she continued, “Monsieur Laurent and Mister Thornton have been more troublesome than most, but not nearly so much as we suspected. Their antisocial tendencies and… exuberance, respectively, have been rather tempered by the contract work and the company we keep. Extraordinarily hard workers, the lot of them. It is… commendable.”
Helen nodded, humming approvingly, before returning Filomena’s notes. “This is good news, indeed.”
“I should say so.”
When it became clear Helen had said her piece, Filomena slowly returned to her work, ears pricked for any further remarks. None came, and for a moment, she felt herself frozen in time, hours before sunrise, with nothing but hollow breathing for company. The scratching of her pen eased her back into a familiar rhythm. She had done alright for herself, she mused, and if Helen’s drawn conclusion was any indication, her mother thought so too.
“Do you think they suspect?”
The question reverberated around the study with all the deafening, omnipresent clamor of a church bell, batting Filomena about the head until it rang in harmony. Without the unequivocal reminders of the true nature of her job, she could almost pretend away the secret mission, the turning of knives in hands and the arrangements of the decks of cards; the forgeries, the lies, the killing. It stood to reason Helen would not allow her to forget.
Knot twisting in her stomach, Filomena’s hand froze.
“I sincerely doubt it,” she said, and found it to be an honest observation. The mercenaries taking up residence in the manor that had stood as her second mother since she was but a girl were too friendly, too naive, too stupid to know the purpose of their mission, and she was damn good at what she did. Her web was around them, and they would be none the wiser.
If they were, she would be dead. They were good at what they did, too.
This was how she knew.
“Excellent. Ensure that it remains that way.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
Clicking her tongue, Helen about faced and headed for the door, heels tapping staccato against the clock’s pendulum. It took Filomena longer than she would have liked to notice the off-beats of the cork abruptly ceasing.
“A word of advice, Miss Pauling?” Helen’s expression was stern, gray streak defiant against the inky black of her hair. Shadows played off the bones in her face, rendering it skeletal. When she spoke, her message crawled down Filomena’s spine and into her ribs, clutching at her heart with blackened claws. “Don’t get involved.”
Memories of joviality flitted forth, unbidden, as if reminding Filomena of her secret shame; wine around the dinner table, target practice on the expansive lawn, and games of cards in the library, among many other little pleasures she had allowed herself in the company of their guests. Their guests, who had been nothing but kind to her, even if she suspected a fair few of them never actually meant it. Their guests, who trusted her, who wanted her, who seemed to like her. A lump was fast growing in her throat, threatening to choke her.
“I won’t.” Filomena tapped the side of her nose. “Promise.”
With a conspiratorial wink, Helen said, “Good work, Filomena,” and disappeared into the hall, letting the heavy wooden door slam closed behind her.
“... Thanks.” All that answered was the empty, and the whistling of the wind outside. Beside her, the candle burned ever lower. The wax was beginning to pool atop her paperwork, and she pulled it aside with a huff, scraping it off as delicately as she could.
Damn this, she thought to no one in particular. Casting around the study, replacement candles were not to be found, and only then did Filomena remember she had run out the night before. While others could more than likely be sourced from elsewhere in the house, her legs ached, and her eyelids were threaded through with exhaustion heavy as lead.
“Damn this,” Filomena said again, as the candle winked out, leaving her in the darkness. Instinctually, she reached for the chain wended about her wrist, a token of appreciation from her mercenaries, more than likely stolen from the house of some New Jersey noblewoman. Her thumb quickly and comfortably found the etching in the bronze cross.
She was cut loose, swimming in the warmth of the metal in her palm, the euphoria of Helen’s admiration, and the grandfather clock simply continued its steady ticking march.
#WAHOOOOOO HELEN'S HERE SHE'S HERE SHE'S HERE#hammered this one out So quick because i have been Deep in the filomena and helen feelings#this isn't Super clarified but in this au helen is filomena's guardian/sort of adopted mother#so that's where this come from#and she is most Certainly up to no good#i may go back and revise the balance of questioning from filomena Later since she may be Too Suspicious#especially this soon#but i feel as though the words came easier for this one#and i liked invoking helen's air of What The Fuck Dude#anyway she's a lil. y'know#augh what a dynamic for real#radio free junebug#my writing#flintlock fortress#team fortress 2#the enforcer: filomena pauling#the web-weaver: helen pauling#NEW TAG HELL YEAH#OH and title is from the gauntlet by nathan rogers#the Most filomena song to exist in all the land
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
There are almost no univeralizable contents for a go bag. But if I were to pick the most important things you might want to consider, they would be:
Your passport and print copies of any essential records such as your animals’ rabies vaccine record
An encrypted USB stick with copies of your important documents such as driver’s license, passport, house and vehicle titles or rental agreements, insurance information, contact information for family and friends, vaccination records for your animals, and the like.
Small amounts of emergency food such as protein bars (that you swap out every few months) or the flavorless “emergency ration” bars that last a long time but are awful.
A travel hygiene kit with toothbrush, floss, toothpaste, moist toweletes, foam earplugs for sleeping in noisy environments, nail clippers, your daily-wear makeup, and anything else you might need.
Any prescription or over the counter medications you rely on. Consider blister packs for any OTC medications so that police have less cause for suspicion if you are searched.
A change of socks and underwear
A packable rain jacket or poncho
A puffy, packable warm top
A heavy duty trash bag (you can put all your stuff into this to keep it dry)
Cash
A spare usb battery and charging cables (consider an octopus cable with mini, USB-C, and lightning charger on one cable so you have fewer things to keep track of)
A mylar emergency blanket
A full water bottle (consider a single-wall steel canteen so that water can be boiled in an emergency, but a preference for lighter weight might have you using a disposable plastic water bottle and that’s fine too)
A butane lighter
Emergency whistle
A folding knife
A rechargeable headlamp or flashlight
A basic first aid kit for small wounds, including for example: bandaids, butterfly closures, packets of antibiotic ointment, alcohol prep pads
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
@qblester
[Quinton recieves an encrypted email with a few files of Bloem training. Most of the video recordings are recorded in a grey looking training space. it has no windows but it does have some obstacles. there are several points to help the VR keep tracking as well as multiple camera angles.
on the recordings Bloem is passing the training with ease. she is most agile as if she is actually made of feathers as she jumps around and over all the obstacles. in some recordings she has a gun controller though it looks like she is shooting at seemingly nothing. the only thing that indicates she is doing is well is the dinging sound on every supposed hit she made. suprisingly she doesnt seem to miss any.
there is also a few recording of some other agents doing the same course. but they are much slower than Bloem.
What is more intresting is the one recording done in a different place. a large area with more obstacles like cars, containers and small houses. this time Bloem is nowhere to be seen but there are 2 small groups both decked out. in gear and guns and some even carry some swords.
The recording shows the groups starting at opposite sides and a big buzzert rings which leads to the groups running up against each other and finding cover. all of them are trying to hit each other one way or another. the teams seem to be holding quite well until people start... to get hit by something almost unseen. the camera picks up a glitched blur before it blinks away again.
most of the team seems to be unable to keep up except one guy with red hair who seems to have been able to keep track of the people getting hit and having been able to avoid getting hit himself. he throws some wooden knifes that miss the blur who very quickly dodges away and in return becoming visible. of course the blur is bloem who has now thrown her gun back on her back and has taken her wooden training rapiers out as she goes after the red hair agent. dodging all his shots. the rest of the video is obscured as bloem and the agen run into the house. there is some muffled noise of a scuffle before Bloem walks out seemingly triumpth. though she is never smiling. in fact the moment she walks out she goes to sit down on the floor letting her hair hide her away. theres a loud whistle which makes all teh other agents get up and laugh as they walk back to where they come from. Bloem however is left alone to sit. and that's where the last recording ends.
#//oop long post#//but aye bloem training! she actually! is! capable!#//also yes cute art#my art#bloems reports
13 notes
·
View notes
Text
Get your private VPN for safe and secure browsing..
#polls#vpn#vpnservice#best vpn#best cheap vpn monthly#free vpn#hack#internet security#cybersecurity#data security#apps
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Vagos pt.3 - Play nice ... or not
Part 1 Lassiter? More like Assiter!
Part 2 In the Chief's office
The medic clears her after a grueling thirty minutes of anesthetic-less stitchwork — even a local anesthetic would have sufficed — ordering her to rest, and to get the wound properly looked at in the hospital. Like that’s going to happen, she thinks, pushing off from her lean on the table, thankful that her gun holster is no longer digging into her back. She moves to give Smith, who is crouched over packing his equipment, a handshake. When she notices the blood still clinging to her fingers, she thinks better of it, opting to send the medic a nod, and a quick ‘ thank you’ instead. Jewel exits the conference room to the sound of Smith whistling some Top 40’s pop song, smiling to herself when he misses a note.
She takes slow steps, eyes searching as she walks. She spots a uniform exiting the restroom, and heads that way, wanting to scrub her hands clean. The fluorescents of the bathroom do her no favors, highlighting the dark shadows under her eyes, and the even darker bruise blooming across her cheek. Jewel grimaces at her reflection, wanting nothing more than to shower the dust and grime away. She scrubs her hands, taking care to scrape blood from under her fingernails, until they’re pink from the hot water. After a moment's hesitation, she bends to wash her face, wiping the blood from her split lip, and eyebrow. She hears the thud of a utility belt being hooked on a stall, as she pats her face dry, studying herself in the mirror.
Not my best , she thinks, licking her split lip, but definitely better than all that heavy makeup . Even without last night’s makeup, she looks a far cry better than she had walking into the precinct this morning, which is saying something given the impressive black eye and bruise high on her cheekbone.
She exits the restroom with a sigh, carefully slipping back into her leather jacket as she enters the bullpen on her journey to leave. She stops in her tracks when she spots Lassiter and O’Hara working at their desks, rerouting towards them, instead. Home, well the dingy apartment she’s undercover at, and blissful sleep.. after writing up my report, of course …will have to wait. She stops in front of Lassiter’s desk, standing patiently with her hands clasped behind her back. After a moment of him ignoring her, her boot begins tapping impatiently on the tile, eyes trained on his salt and pepper hair as he bends over a file.
She bites her tongue, hard breath pushing out of her nose, before turning away. “ Carlton ,” O’Hara chides, disapprovingly at her partner. Jewel makes a step towards the female detective’s desk, before turning slightly, pausing as Lassiter finally looks up, at his partner first, then locks eyes with Jewel.
With a put-upon sigh, his narrowed eyes piercing under his furrowed brow, he finally growls, “What do you want?” Jewel scoffs. So much for trying to smooth things out , she thinks, shaking her head before fully making her way towards O’Hara’s desk, watching as Lassiter throws his arms up, out of the corner of her eye.
“Detective O’Hara,” Jewel nods amicably, projecting her voice enough that Lassiter can hear, a slight smile pulling at her split lip. “I figured it would be beneficial if the team saw the case file I’ve been putting together.” She glances at Detective Lassiter, who perks up at her words, face blank. “Would you like access to my files? I have them backed up securely online.” She and the other female detective share a smile, before O’Hara nods, moving to raise from her desk chair. “Oh no, please, sit. Sit . I’m sure you’re on your feet enough around here.” Jewel ignores the protest she can see forming on the blonde detective's kind face, opting to walk around the desk instead, so they both face the screen.
Jewel leans over, fighting a wince at the stretch, as she logs into the encrypted site, ignoring the asinine argument about breakfast cereals that Spencer and Guster are having across the desk. Personally, she thinks cocoa puffs far outshine fruit loops , but she’s not going to entertain the discussion… not outwardly anyway, she has a reputation to maintain, afterall. She prompts O’Hara to enter her work email so that she can share the files to the computer. While she’s at it, she interrupts the debate, eyes turning to Guster, “What’s your email?”
“What about mine?” Spencer questions, offended. Guster puffs out his chest, a sneer on his face as he looks from her to Spencer. The two suck their teeth at each other, much like when she first arrived this morning, before Guster punches Spencer in the arm, promptly shutting him up. The psychic , she doesn’t buy it, whines, hand clutching his bicep.
“I trust his internet security more than yours, Spencer.” Jewel hears a soft snort behind her, turning to find Assiter a few paces away, nonchalantly rifling through a filing cabinet. She rolls her eyes, turning back to the computer to share the files with the psychic duo. After a few moments of listening to Guster’s boasting over Spencer’s whining, she tunes her focus to behind her, listening to files rhythmically moving back and forth, scraping against the metal. “ Head Detective Lassiter ,” she drawls out, “would you like to deign us with your presence, and be granted access to my files?”
“Might as well,” he replies, an air of nonchalance to his deep voice, as he slams the drawer to the filing cabinet, hands empty. She’s barely brought up the sharing page, before he’s bodily forcing her out of the way, leaning past her to type in his email. The jostling causes her to bump into the desk, the connection sending a jolt of pain up her abdomen. Gritting her teeth, she hums, forcing a steadying breath through her nose. Prick .
“How bad is it,” O’Hara questions, kindly, motioning toward her stomach. Lassiter’s typing pauses for a moment as he, haughtily, glances back at Jewel, before he returns to his task. She shrugs, forcing the pain down, as she takes a step away from the Head Detective’s proximity.
“Stitching would’ve been better with some numbing cream, but a broken beer bottle can only do so much damage.”
“That is so cool,” Spencer exclaims, earning a glare from O’Hara and Guster.
Jewel chuckles around a wince. “It wasn’t cool when they smashed it on my face before stabbing me with it, but I agree…pretty cool.” They all freeze, even Assiter, turning to look at her with wide eyes. Spencer is the only one to smile back at her, offering her a fist bump, which she hesitantly returns, before he makes an explosion noise.
“Badass,” he beams, giving her a suggestive once over. She smirks back at him, before turning back to the others, who still seem perturbed.
“Oh, before I forget,” she starts, pulling out both of her phones, “I’ll need your contacts.” She steps around the desk, handing her work phone down the line, “this is the undercover one, so don’t use your full names, and please never use my name.” They finish going down the line, exchanging numbers, before she passes her second phone to repeat the process. “This is my personal, I guess, for normal working matters. I don’t carry it when undercover, so you might have to try both phones sometimes. And my name,” she air quotes, rolling her eyes, “is Gem , so it’s easy to remember, though all the bikers call me Brandy.” If it were her choice, it would have been something much cooler, but unfortunately, the ATF created the cover without her input. Maybe next time.
“Really, Gem , and Brandy ” Lassiter intones, head rolling forward over his crossed arms, dark brows raised. “ Classy .” His sarcasm is thick, a mild contempt dripping from his cold voice. “Pretty sure I’ve arrested a few of those.”
“Wasn’t my choice,” she replies, straightening to look him in the eyes, “but don’t worry Head Detective , they’re supposed to sound like stripper names, it’s my backstory,” she sneers. They glare at one another, Jewel refusing to back down to the Head Detective’s cold eyes. She feels victory blooming in her chest when an angry flush starts to spread upwards on his neck. The reverie is broken, however, when she feels a large, warm hand tap her shoulder. She sends one last narrow-eyed glare, before turning to see the tall, dark haired officer from before.
He smiles at her widely, apprehension on his face, as he holds out a disposable coffee cup. “Thought you might need this.” She takes it from him gratefully, a small smile gracing her lips at his gangly great-dane puppy energy. “I didn’t know how you take it, so I figured a cream and sugar should be safe,” he pauses, eyes widening, “unless you're lactose intolerant, oh man .”
She cuts him off before he can fret too long, sipping at the hot coffee. “It’s perfect, and surprisingly thoughtful… Officer McNabb, was it?”
He nods, extending a hand to shake, “Yup, Buzz McNabb.”
“Detective Stewart,” she smiles, “Now, McNabb, is there a firing range here? And if so, could you help a girl out and lead the way?” The officer enthusiastically nods, stepping back to allow her to grab her phones, log out of the encrypted site, and nod a goodbye.
“Shouldn’t you be going to relax,” O’Hara questions, concern in her kind blue eyes.
“That’s what I’m doing.” Jewel chuckles, shaking O’Hara’s hand before sending a wink Spencer and Guster’s way, steadfastly ignoring the Head Detective’s eyes following her. Yes , she thinks, shooting off a few rounds is just what I need to relieve some stress .
“Wow Lassie,” Guster states disapprovingly, as she walks away.
“Lassiter, you simple, lanky, irishman,” Spencer continues, voice fading as she follows McNabb away, “You talked to her for less than an hour, and she already needs to shoot things.”
Jewel chuckles around a mouthful of coffee. She can’t hear Lassiter’s reply, but can imagine the disdainful remark he surely throws her way. As if I'm the one who started it, Assiter.
#carlton lassiter#lassie#lassiter#psych#Shawn spencer#Burton guster#juliet o'hara#Carlton Lassiter fic#psych fic#Carlton Lassiter/OFC#lassie fic#Timothy omundson#Timothy Omundson fic#Carlton Lassiter x original female character#Vagos fic
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Calling the Autobots {Open starter}
Starscream walked across the sand, back and forth as he waits. Battle protocol on high gear as he listen for any signs of anything approaching. He had in a moment of weakness sent an encrypted message to the Autobots. Asking for aid, for peace. well, his peace. Frag the Decepticons, he needed to get out of here.
He pause as he spots sand clouds in the distance, tensing up he make a whistle like noise. Behind him under the trees that grows around the oasis there is a multitude of chirps and plips in reply to him. He glances back, 3 brave pairs of red glowing optics looks back at him from the shadows. He gives another whistle, this one sharper. More urgent, he needs them to hide. just in case.
Turning back forward to the sand cloud that moves ever closer he prepare himself. There is no going back now.
1 note
·
View note
Text
Unburdened — update sneak peek
“Barnes is taking a week and a half off? To do what…? Entertain Barton?” Tony’s incredulous disbelief hadn’t just carried to the people in the large room but to the very man, he was speaking of as he was passing in the halls, a sort of mania taking hold of the super-soldier as he packed, and then packed more.
“Barnes is well equipped to go and help her,” Nat, like Wanda and Maria, were stark supporters of your decision to go with Bucky, even if it was well known that you and Bucky would become a parabonded couple.
“And Barton-“
“Clint knows, Y/N agreed. Tony for once in your life, stay the fuck out of other people’s business.” Nat wasn’t shy, she wasn’t above chewing him out over the little things in life let alone you, you were like her little sister.
“Romanoff-“
“And Rogers.” Nat’s voice was like poisonous barbs digging and rooting into the flesh of whoever she aimed her anger at. “Rogers, you’ve been a shitty friend lately and have no room to talk. Both of you kindly fuck off and let Bucky have a little sliver of happiness.”
“Natasha I wanted to say I’m sorry-“
“Not the person you need to apologize to, Rogers.” Natasha clicked her tongue against her teeth and drummed her knuckles on the table before she swiped an ID card and an encrypted tablet from the table and tucked them under her arm.
She left the room just as she had entered, with a chorus of silence and two stubborn men with their heads up their asses. As she was leaving the room and had turned the corner, Natasha stopped shy of Barnes and pressed both the tablet and the ID card into his chest and whistled a soft, childlike tune.
“Don’t overthink the bear, Bucky.” She had tapped the top of the box in his hands, her green eyes flitting between the box and the alpha in question.
“It’s a stupid idea,” Bucky grumbled low and looked away, embarrassed to even be caught with the gift though not for the reason anyone would think.
It wasn’t that Bucky was ashamed to be giving you courting gifts or even ashamed that above anything else you wanted soft, cute and comforting things.
Bucky’s embarrassment came from the bear being a version of himself. He was embarrassed and felt at odds with himself because he was broken and marred, he was damaged and you wanted a Bucky bear, you treasured it above all else.
He felt ashamed and embarrassed because he didn’t feel worthy of being any kind of hero for you.
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself, Barnes. Y/N is crazy about you, and you mean a lot to her. The bear isn’t a stupid idea, she will love it.”
21 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
lighthouse-poety
lighthouse poety
szlafroki-tessa-darnall-blog
Untitled
dysphoric-dynamic
for inspiration - if I can figure out who I am
kisaragi-niichan
bring the warm spring into my heart
e-rinhkart
Rin HK- they/any