#defecates on himself

[hotbazeng]

How to deal with a child who defecates on himself

Accustoming the child to enter the bathroom is one of the most difficult stages that every mother goes through, at the completion of this stage, the mother feels achievement and joy, but a relapse may occur for the child again to defecate on himself, many mothers are always looking for a solution, through this article we will learn how to deal with a child who defecates on himself. How to deal…

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#bathroom #defecates on himself

[chicago-geniza]

Tale of the Body Thief when Lestat is living as a mortal...that's what gender dysphoria and autism feel like!!! Anne Rice is One of Us, as I keep saying

#I cannot believe the best embodied descriptions of #Dysphoria and sensory overload and disgust at mammalian bodily functions #Are in The Vampire Chronicles #Me 🤝 Lestat - nearly vomiting when smelling cheese or thinking about defecation #raya reads the vampire chronicles #Me 🤝 Lestat - getting viscerally upset because your chest is too heavy then tripping over the rug #Me 🤝 Lestat - getting distressed in low-lit restaurants and more distressed at the sound of pots & pans clanging #Lestat sees his own genitalia as a human being and starts gagging in revulsion #He's just like me fr #He tries to eat spaghetti and meatballs too fast but keeps choking because the texture is gross #Then downs three glasses of red house wine and gives himself heartburn #He's JUST like me FOR REAL

[todaysbird]

I'm not scared of birds but one time a house sparrow got inside somehow and was hiding in the toilet for some reason. I sat on the toilet and it flew up at my ass and I nearly died I think. My soul certainly left my body for a sec there. So there I am, sitting next to the toilet (I had fallen off) with my pants on my ankles. Looking at a terrified little guy in the corner. Bird was fine, I pulled up my pants and let it outside and it sat in a tree and started cleaning himself after a minute or two of recovering. It was an experience.

yeah i mean im not scared of dogs but I think if a Pomeranian jumped out of the toilet while I was trying to defecate I would probably be distressed

#asks

[tismrot]

The uwu-fication of Good Omens

I’m not saying this to piss on anyone’s parade, everyone can like whatever they want and I realize that people who are perhaps… not experienced in traumatic adult relationships and/or aren’t bitter remnants of whatever ray of light they were supposed to be - I realize their fiction will probably be (for lack of better words)… light and easy.

I also realize that due to the collective heartbreak we’ve experienced after the end of season 2, a little fluff is perhaps needed. Again, not defecating on any crowds - but, like, we did watch the same show, right?

There are some REALLY good meta out there, as well as some fics and some art that really captures the essence of both Crowley and Aziraphale, and the context they struggle within.

…And then there are fics and art/comics where particularly Crowley is reduced to this very tsundere, cranky-despite-secretly-affectionate anime character who blushes and gets ✨ve-y angy✨ whenever he gets a kiss on his cheek or something and I’m like… okay? But. That’s not Crowley, is it? (Yes, you can make him into a hemipened waifu pillow for all I care, go do what makes you happy) - it’s just… You know?

Crowley and Aziraphale are (despite their celestial origins) - at their core - two middle aged, closeted, homosexual men who used to work for two equally oppressive, evil and incompetent fascist governments. That’s why they meet on the benches in the park, like all the other agents sent from other oppressive nations and agencies. The book was written during the last years of the cold war, and during the height of the AIDS crisis. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the first meds for HIV came in 1992 - being gay and being seen with the enemy could bring about equally terrifying death sentences. Yet, they do their best to thwart their Cold War, and then, the nuclear apocalypse.

After barely succeeding, they become as close as they dare to be, and they both know they love each other. Of course they do. That’s why Crowley wants them to stop pretending they don’t. He already assumes Aziraphale knows, because HE DOES KNOW.

Crowley isn’t (canonically) an uwu angy tsundere snek. He is a miserable ex-agent screaming at his closeted, gay lover for refusing to run away with him after 6000 years of war. Crowley is the opposite of tsundere, he is an open, aching wound.

Aziraphale isn’t a kawaii angel cup of hot chocolate, he is a desperate and scared idealist who is threatened into compliance by Great Leader, and who secretly wants nothing more than to let go of all propriety and just allow himself to be happy and freely experience life and love with the man he’s wanted all along, far from all oppression both from society and Heaven.

You guys, this is a story about fighting oppression for love. I just wanted to make sure we’re all on the same side.

And perhaps I’m just old, perhaps my experiences with multiple failed relationships, friendships and my own fallen idealism tints my glasses… But I feel a certain way about all the uwu. I’m sorry. Do uwu if you want. I’m gonna focus on the OPPRESSION, because - apparently - that’s the wall my socks stick to.

And yeah, I know this is very old man yells at cloud. Younger people (or people who just aren’t exactly like me) seeing this show or reading the book deserve the right to play around with it, just like I do. I know, I know, I know. I just needed to say this. Slay me if you must.

End of rant. Thank you for coming to my depression.

EDIT: Yes, I made the Avril Lavigne thing further down. Yes, I am a hypocrite. I’ve made my peace with this.

#aziraphale x crowley #crowley #crowley edits #crowley x aziraphale #good omens 2 #ineffable divorce #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #innefable husbands #good omens fandom

[reality-detective]

"Marines Were Freed from a Secret Jail That Were Brutally Tortured by Feds"

The six U.S. Marines freed from a secret federal jail said their captors—a mix of FBI agents and private security—tortured them relentlessly, deprived them of food and water, and forced them to defecate in 5-gallon buckets that got emptied only once a week.

As reported previously, U.S. Special Forces on March 8 liberated six Marines the federal government held without trial at a clandestine warehouse-turned-prison in suburban Long Island, New York. The feds had arrested the six for protesting peacefully outside the Capitol on January 6, 2021. Once freed, they were taken to Womack Army Medical Center, Fort Bragg, and treated for maladies and injuries sustained in captivity. This included dehydration, lacerations, puncture wounds, and burns. Alas, one Marine’s wounds were so severe that he went into septic shock and had a leg amputated below the knee.

When debriefed at the hospital, he said their jailors kept them on permanent lockdown in separate cells spaced far enough apart so they couldn’t communicate with one another. He recounted the harrowing ordeal of his arrest. Feds, he said, arrested him off-post near Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, then handcuffed and blindfolded him before driving him to a nearby airport or airstrip. He knew this because the feds put him aboard a small turboprop aircraft. During his debrief, he said he could hear propellers spin up minutes before the plane took off. His abductors shackled his ankles and fastened him to a seat. He was punched in the face several times and called a “traitor” during what he guessed was a two-hour flight. When the plane landed, he was struck a few more times, then, still blindfolded, put in a vehicle and driven to an unknown destination. He tasted blood in his mouth from being pummeled so hard and often and eventually lost consciousness.

He awoke in a decrepit cell that smelled like shit, its only furnishings a urine-stained cot and a 5-gallon bucket in the center of the cell. The guards, he said, beat the living daylights out of him every day—sometimes more than once a day—coming at him three at a time so he couldn’t adequately defend himself. One Morning four guards burst into the cell and tied his arms and legs to the cot, spread eagle, and they took turns stabbing him in the right leg with rusty pieces of metal, then cauterizing the wounds with an iron to prevent exsanguination. He guessed he’d been stabbed 20 or 30 times while the guards taunted him, saying other Marines in custody would share his fate. He said one guard urinated on his open wounds prior to them being cauterized.

The other five Marines told comparable stories, though their wounds were far less severe. They said they were fed only twice a week—stale bread, a few ounces of water, or a red liquid that looked like Kool-Aid but with bugs floating in it. One said the guard tried to feed him mashed potatoes with congealed gravy and tiny glass shards.

“These Marines survived the unsurvivable,” our source said. “There are more service members still in federal custody, not to mention the hundreds of civilians who could be dealing with the same torture. This is how the Biden regime treats combat veterans, as criminals, as domestic terrorists. We are working to free more of them.”

I'm sure we will hear about other experiences like this as the turmoil continues to unravel in our country. These sick fμcks think they are untouchable. I got news for you the deplorables will get the last say.🤔 I did not get any information about the perpetrators involved in these horrendous acts. My gut feeling is, they were executed on the spot.

#pay attention #educate yourself #educate yourselves #reeducate yourself #knowledge is power #reeducate yourselves #think for yourself #think for yourselves #think about it #do your homework #do your research #do your own research #question everything #ask yourself questions #ask yourself

[lokisgoodgirl]

Bow to Me [Avenger!Loki x Fem.Reader]

Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: (15) Reveals and eroticism are rife at Stark's Renaissance Faire. (w/c 4.2k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smuttish. Language.

The veil fastened to your forehead by a simple gold band billowed around your shoulders. Heavy skirts fluttered around your ankles, an approaching banner of war. Thor’s eyes grew wide with alarm, seeing your determined stride through a maze of colourful bunting. There would be no escape this time. He threw a fresh candy apple to the side mid-bite, taking off with a comical run to the nearest high topped tent. It was thirty minutes into Stark’s annual family fun-day. The theme this year? Renaissance Faire. And you were already prepared to go medieval on pretty much everybody in attendance.

Several wide-eyed children looked up at you in awe as you strode between them, the heavy folds of your skirts swishing purposefully on your way to confront the cowardly god. “Fhor is afwaid of her.” one of the children lisped, to a chorus of hushed woww’s that followed you like a breeze. You smirked, lifting the luxurious panel of the costume tent to reveal a cowering Thor trying frantically to conceal himself with ye olde dust sheet. “Desist, woman!” he whined dramatically, stretching out a hand with the sheet hanging limply, the other shielding his eyes. “Do not tempt me with your corseted bosom and coquettish wiles, I beg of you. You know not what you do!" You folded your arms, trying not to laugh. “I’m not trying to make you break the Oath of Most Ass-yoor-red Recompense, idiot - your dick is safe as far as I’m concerned.” you said, watching Thor’s eye squint between parted fingers. “You know of this?” he mumbled warily. “Oh, I know of this.” you smirked. His arms fell to his sides, a look of bamboozled relief on his face. “Thank the gods.” he murmured. “I thought for sure when I saw your fiery demeanour out yonder that you had finally come to your senses and decided you must have me.” he looked at you with sudden panic. “Not that I would-I wouldn’t...oh, do not tell my broth-” You raised a hand, his words fumbling to a merciful stop. “I need to ask you something.” you said slowly, hoping he could sense the need for some semblance of sincerity. Thor's brow furrowed. “Loki said I needed to speak to you, it’s weird – so, well he can see...he says- um, flashes of things in my head and I wondered…” you trailed off, feeling suddenly foolish under Thor’s blank stare. “Go on.” he gestured expectantly, arms folded. His brows were raised, as if you had said nothing of any note at all. It was your turn to frown. “Well, what the fuck is up with that? It’s rude.” you snapped. Thor chuckled. “You are in love with him. Obviously.” he scoffed, turning over his shoulder to glance at himself in the mirror. He smoothed a rogue blonde strand, pouting. “Why do people keep saying that?” you huffed, brushing the front of your dress as heat rose in your cheeks. “Everyone knows I can’t stand him so I don’t know why you’re both obsessed with-”

“Mother used to do it to me all the time…” he continued, ignoring you as he re-adjusted the short velvet cape clasped to his shoulders. He had dressed as a king for today’s festivities. Because of course he had.

“I understand your misgivings. It is rather inconvenient. For instance, if you wish to conceal that it was you who mistakenly defecated in the pantry and your mother asks you who defecated in the pantry and you are trying to think of anything but defac-” “-OK, Thor.” you cut him off with a snap, heart thundering. “...But in my defence” he continued unwaveringly, straightening his garish plastic crown. “I was a mere five hundred at the time. Just discovered ale, you see.” he said, turning with an innocent grin which faltered when he saw your steely stare. You frowned as Thor cleared his throat. “Even you mortals have an innate barrier to the invasive sight of others, something you enact as easily as breathing.” he said, traces of mirth ebbing. “When a person feels love, that barrier falters – and recipients of that love who are gifted with magic can, you know...” “See into their thoughts?” you finished. Thor shook his head. “Read their emotions, things that make them feel. Like empathy, as overrated as is it. Or guilt – such as the guilt one may feel over allegedly defecating in a pantry.” You rolled your eyes. “Well it’s bullshit. I can’t love him – he’s awful.” Thor nodded sagely, straightening his velvet tunic. “My brother likely shares your disquiet, in all honesty.” he muttered, adjusting his crown. “In truth, I thought he would be more unbearable when this eventually happened, but he has maintained a surprising amount of decorum. You should thank him.” “Thank him?!" you snorted incredulously. "I don’t think so.” Thor preened, as moments passed in silence. “Wait…” you said slowly. “He’s never been able to do this before?” Thor shrugged, swishing his cape theatrically across his chest. He looked at you blankly as your eyes widened in disbelief. “You mean...no one’s ever loved him? How is that possible?” you whispered, hearing Thor chuckle. “You speak of love often for someone who is not, in fact, in love.” he said, raising a bushy eyebrow. “In answer to your question...those who may have developed those feelings for him became...distracted.” Thor shuffled on his feet, gaze drawn back to himself in the mirror. “Distracted?” you murmured curiously. “Yes.” he replied. “By me. An unfortunate consequence of being the unquestionable biological jewel of the family, one cannot blame them really.” You suddenly remembered the conversation which sparked their sword-fight in the training hall last month. ‘Since when did you respect the Covenant of the First Seed, brother?’ Loki had spat with fire. You remembered the casual indifference painted on Thor’s brow, radiating a confidence that was severely lacking in his present state. ‘I see not how it is my fault that you could not satisfy your lovers, Loki.’ the blonde in front of you had said. “You fucked his girlfriends? Thor, that’s sick.” you hissed, shaking your head. Thor chuckled again. “They came to me, my Lady. In their glances across the dining hall with red jewels in their hair. Flashing garters a deep shade of maroon that would make Borr himself weak. The Ordinance of the Colours is no trifle. You know yourself the power of my seductive prowess. How could they resist?”

You grimaced. “Well, I did.” you sniped, folding your arms. “Yes…” Thor conceded thoughtfully, before flicking his hair back. “But you are also in love with my brother so your unnatural tastes cannot be accounted for.”

Your mind was suddenly flooded with memories of the rage in Loki’s hands and teeth as he tore the red dress from your body the night of the shareholders party. The venom in his eyes as he watched it explode in the air in a burst of green light. The way his stare hardened at the sight of your cleavage cupped in crimson lingerie, the ancient sword conjured as deathly sharp as his cheekbones to set his brother away from you. It wasn’t Asgardian bullshit. It was more than that. And for the first time, you felt something stronger than anger. Guilt. You swallowed, chin raised defiantly as Thor’s smug gaze trawled your features. It wasn’t often he found himself on the stronger side of a debate. You ran a finger nonchalantly along a rail of cloaks hanging to your side, before inspecting the tip for non-existent dust. “Not that he does but I mean theoretically if he loved me, just you know...out of interest...I should be able to hear his thoughts, right?” “No.” Thor scoffed disbelievingly. “That is a ridiculous notion. You are not gifted.” “Right.” you said, lips hardening in a tight line. Thor sighed theatrically. “If it alleviates your malaise, I have never seen him show so much hostility towards someone he has not slaughtered moments later.” “Why would that alleviate my malaise?” you sneered, feeling your stomach flutter. “And I don’t have ‘malaise’ for god’s sake” you spat, unconvincingly, fidgeting with the loose belt at your waist. “Its not like I want him to love me I was just you know, checking.” Thor looked up coyly beneath pale lashes, a smug glint in his eye that he had doubtless learned from his infuriating brother. “My lady, if my observation does not betray his heart, then truly I do not know what does.” You stared at him mutely. He sighed again. “It is nuanced, I grant you. My brother is a frustrating creature. Believe me, I empathise.” He turned back to the mirror, admiring himself. “Rogers gave me a book this yuletide, regarding your 'Love Languages' by some alleged scholar or other. Well, my brother’s love language is... hostility.” he announced, pleased with his assessment. You rolled your eyes, fully aware the butterflies in your stomach had become a flock of sparrows. “Did you read the book?” you said flatly, hoping Thor didn’t catch the twitch of your jaw as you tried to contain the twist of nerves in your chest. “Well, no.” he said incredulously, face softening before he gave a knowing wink. “But that does not mean I am wrong.” You heard the quick succession of approaching footsteps outside the tent. “Thor! Come!” a familiar voice roared, thick and rich. “Preparations for the joust are a disaster. They intend to use horses, of all things – allegedly there are no flighting moose...on Midga-” Loki bristled, one arm frozen in drawing back the tent’s curtain.

Thor straightened the lapel of his obscenely luxurious padded tunic, tilting his toy crown askew. “What think you of my regalia, brother?” he drawled regally, spreading his hands wide to the sides. “I think there cannot be two kings.” Loki snarled bitterly, resting a hand on the hilt of a sword slung by his hip. A dull one, you hoped.

He too was dressed in costumed finery; a lapel of ermine cupping his chin above a perfectly fitted tunic of such rich green it was almost black. An ornate golden chain hung in a semi-circle around his shoulders, making a crescent on his broad chest. You ran your eyes down his long body, a pair of pale hose snug to his endlessly muscled legs. He was positively poured into them, the opaque fabric smoothing the raw animalistic power hidden beneath their cover. They ran down to a ridiculous pair of heeled, buckled shoes. Green, naturally. Loki shifted his stance, feet pointed to the exit. You watched the bulge of his thighs ripple, femurs outlined exquisite against the sinful tights which clung to carved limbs like a second skin. Your eyes lingered on his bulge, the lower curve just visible beneath the hem of the tunic. Saliva evaporated on your tongue. You tried to swallow - begging yourself to forget every historical sex scene you had ever rewound as your fingers pulsed on your clit. The god’s hair fell in luscious waves, set against the white fur tucked beneath his jaw like black paint on snow. He was beautiful. And he too, was wearing a crown. Because of course he was. “You are correct brother, there cannot be two kings at this revelry – but by a happy accident I only see one present.” Thor winked at you again. Loki’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a flirtation I observe, brother?” Thor paled. “No, he’s fine.” you said quickly, feeling your cheeks heat beneath Loki’s glare. He hadn’t spoken a word to you since your last tense encounter in the Snack Shack six days ago, every raise of your hand during meetings causing a mighty roll of his eyes akin to the old days. The weight of your interrupted conversation hung heavily in the air. Wafting like cigar smoke. Stifling.

Suddenly Thor barged towards his brother and turned sideways to exit the tent, the width of his ridiculous puffed sleeves causing him to shuffle awkwardly past his stoic sibling. Loki shot you a cold glare, nodding expectantly towards the exit for you to follow him. You sauntered casually towards the gap, taking no mind of the smouldering gaze rolling appraisingly over your medieval dress like treacle. Loki held the curtain of the tent high, his arm stoically positioned above your head as you finally felt the waft of a fresh breeze on your heated cheeks. “Agent.” he murmured in unnecessary greeting as you passed, making you pause. The scent of him invaded alongside the breath you didn’t know you had been holding. Wood smoked leather and dusky sandalwood. Pine. It clung to his onyx curls; hanging like a un-repentant traitor on every stitch of gold thread wound into the tight tunic snug against his torso. You could feel his eyeline trail down the valley of your cleavage as easily as if it was his tongue. “You’ve been ignoring me.” you said quietly, eyes fixed on Thor standing ahead; hoisting up his hoes with an exaggerated squat. People were staring. “Have I, Agent?” Loki purred, craning down from his position. His lips grazed the tip of your cheekbone as he spoke. Was he smelling your hair? “I didn’t think you would notice. Considering how little you think of our interactions.” he murmured. You could hear a snarl behind his teeth, barely masked venom blossoming on the cusp of each word like brewing tea.

You tilted your chin, the space between two pairs of parted lips excruciatingly small. Raising your eyes to meet his, you found no warmth there. No playfulness. Not today. And to be honest, after what Thor had told you, you didn’t blame him. Loki’s eyes narrowed, readjusting his grip on the fabric panel held aside above your head. “If you have nothing further to say, Agent…” he sneered sarcastically against your ear. His body curved away from you, ensuring that not a single part of his achingly erotic form touched yours. Loki’s haughty condescension sliced through the melting desire in your core, a weirdly comforting irritation usurping it. The thick golden chain hanging against his collarbone glinted in the afternoon sun, vying for your attention. Self-centred, presumptive arsehole, you flamed, feeling renewed warmth seep across your skin. Does he expect me to tell him I fucking ‘love’ him while his brother is rummaging around his crotch twenty feet away? Your gaze locked onto the sight of Thor’s face twisted in confusion as he tried to arrange himself covertly beneath the hose. Loki’s conceited confidence made you boil, a confusion of emotions competing in your addled brain making you feel nauseous. “You’re wrong.” you managed to say, voice strained. Loki chuckled mirthlessly beside you. “We’ll see.” he replied ominously, as you began to walk forward. You didn’t know why you had stopped in the first place. The chiffon headdress fluttered around your chin. Now that the adrenaline of searching for Thor had dissipated, you could finally take in the surroundings of Stark’s much anticipated event. A calculated distraction, you would admit. Swathes of bygone-era dressed guests moved in groups from stall to stall. The faint pluck of a lute troupe audible over the buzz of the crowd, humming like birds in the rustling waves of trees surrounding the clearing. Stationary wagons holding every manner of historical food and beverage you could think of were dotted about. Tony had really spunked the budget this year. Silently, you walked sandwiched between two simmering gods towards the only group of familiar faces; hovering by the food carts.

“What were the three of you doing in the costume tent?” Wanda said coyly, wriggling her eyebrows. You shook your head subtly. Loki frowned. “I think the better query is why Lang is sporting that counterfeit phallus.” he drawled, drawing his eyes judgementally over the protrusion from Scott’s hose-clad hips. The subject of his jibe’s eyes widened, a gargantuan roasted turkey leg covering the lower half of his face. “Wha-?” he mouthed, meat flicking into the air and hitting Nat on the forehead. Scott swallowed with difficulty, gesturing at his crotch with a free hand. “Hello?! It’s a Ren faire! Cod-pieces galore am I right? Everyone’s got em. You’ve got one for god’s sa-” He stopped mid-sentence, gaze lingering once more on the draw of Loki’s hypnotic groin outlined perfectly beneath the tights. You traced the curves of your sometime-lover’s bulge covetously, remembering the smack of the shutters against your lower back as he railed into you like a furious, feral animal; fucking for survival. God, had it only been a week? It felt like years. Loki shifted his stance, folding his arms as he widened his hips. “We both know that I do not require such auspicious modifications, Lang.” he said slowly, a smile tugging his lips as Scott’s cheeks flushed.

“Please tell me we’re not talking about Laufeyson’s ding-dong again…” Steve whined over your shoulder, making you jump. He sashed into the centre of the circle, hands folded together beneath the long brown draping of his sleeves. A wooden cross hung around his neck, a thick rope of cream tied to his waist. Gone was the shock of radiant blonde hair, and in its place a questionable skullcap complete with dark bowel-cut. Friar Rogers. You lowered your eyes to the ground, feeling your chest begin to contract with laughter. For a moment, you saw Loki’s feet shuffle closer; just a little. Steve’s blue eyes widened pleadingly, every inch a man of the cloth. “Can we please try to keep lewdness to a minim-” “-I think what Tuck Shop is trying to say is that there are children, children.” Tony chided with amusement, as he sauntered out of nowhere to take his place beside the good Friar. Deep lines on his forehead danced with barely contained mirth. Or maybe he’d just been at the mead. A resplendent crown sat jauntily on his head, a tunic of red tinselled satin and silver thread replacing his trademark t-shirt and jeans. In one hand, he held a ridiculously large steak on a stick. In the other, a tankard. He took a sip, as Steve glanced around, flinching as a juggler appeared out of nowhere and disappeared into the crowd. Tony burped, before posturing thoughtfully. “Although, I think collectively we can agree we’re all obsessed with Laufeyson’s ‘ding-dong’.” he quipped, raising an eyebrow around the circle. “I mean...it’s worth its not un-sizeable weight in free PR, for one thing.” Steve flushed an alarming shade of crimson, cut off comically at the base of his skullcap. Loki sighed with theatrical exasperation. “Stark, you declared that I was to be the King in today’s farcical proceedings.” he said petulantly, with no attempt to hide his irritation. “Did I?” Tony gasped, pressing a palm to his chest. Thor snorted. “I think not, brother.” he scoffed. “The crown should fall in direct lineage to those who are worthy. I would be willing to concede my post as King of this fete if you would but grant me your renewed Oath of Most Assured Recompense in return?” he goaded, making Loki’s jaw clench. You heard him inhale sharply- “-No more Oaths!” you snapped, making both brothers jump. “This is ridiculous. You can both be kings, no one cares.” There were murmurs of agreement from the rest of the group. Tony raised his hand incredulously while Loki and Thor let out a simultaneous derisive snort. “Both?!” the blonde boomed, shaking his head. “My, my it truly would never have worked between us.” he said wistfully. Loki rolled his eyes as Rogers backed slowly out the circle, seeming to glide glacially with tiny steps beneath the sway of his shit-coloured robes. “Well then one of you change.” Nat growled, as you started to feel the antsy crawl of awkward tension tingle up your arms again. Thor laughed. “There is not one garment in the tent from whence we came that would fit over one of my mighty calves, Romanoff. Tis’ my brother who shall have to concede.” “Did they really think I’d give anyone else the King job at my own damn party?” you heard Tony scoff loudly to no-one. “Asgardians, I’m tellin ya…” You saw the muscle in Loki’s cheek bob as he ground his teeth. Tony bit into the speared steak in his hand, enjoying it all immensely. The dark god’s eyes flashed, a glimmer of something sparking heat between your legs.

“Fine.” Loki snapped, “As it happens I came prepared for such traitorous shenanigans. A lifetime of dealing with you, brother, has taught me to always save my best for when you show your hand.” he smirked, eyes flickering between you and a sceptical Thor. “Besides…” he purred slowly, stalking his gaze in your direction. “I have found that people are quite willing to bow to me... even without a crown.”

He grasped one of the golden tips with his thumb and forefinger, thrusting the ornament to the ground at Thor’s feet with a flick of his wrist. You saw a green glow lap at Loki’s feet, moving slowly upwards. He could do this in a millisecond if he wanted, but he was putting on a show. His twee buckled shoes melted to thick black leather, rolling up his calves like armour. Edges appeared below the knees, shifting inward to coat his carved thighs in matching trousers which, somehow, gave the illusion of being even snugger than the cream tights. You swallowed, unable to tear your eyes away as a wave of wild fur blossomed around his torso; bear or fox or- “-Wolf.” Loki purred rakishly in your direction, his tongue taking its time over the syllable like a seductive bark. “Urgh, I love it when he does that.” Wanda cooed huskily, giving her face a dramatic fan. You rolled your eyes, shuffling with your arms folded. Suddenly your corset felt tight. Very tight. In the seconds your gaze had been averted, a thick leather belt had appeared around Loki’s midriff, cinching the fur. Heavy pendants hung from his neck, glinting in the afternoon sun against bare skin. The wolf fur ran in a deep V to his naval, every inch a slutty medieval bandit. Christ, you thought. I’m fucked.

“This will suit my new posting for the festivities all the better, anyway.” Loki sneered towards his brother as Tony took another gulp of mead. He flicked his hair over his shoulders, the haughty slice of his jaw making you flinch as it pointed to you. “I find that women prefer characters’ with a little more...depth. Isn’t that right, Agent?” Wanda elbowed you in the ribs playfully as Thor squinted; bamboozled. “What does that mean?” he scoffed. “I thought you on greeting duty, of all things…over yonder.” He tilted his head towards the line of families queued at the entrance, excited children jumping up and down. You saw a young girl burst into tears as a manically grinning Friar Steve loomed over her, draped sleeves hanging from arms stretched in greeting before her mother snatched her away. Loki smirked. “I have been re-assigned.” he said, glinting eyes making a flutter shuffle in your belly. His thumbs hooked into the thick leather belt, tugging downward. What you wouldn’t give to feel the smart of that leather whip across your ass as he took you against a tree in the wilderness beyond the faire’s boundary. Maybe he will, you thought as a thrill flooded soared beneath the anachronistic lace panties you were wearing. Loki’s lashes fluttered upwards, his lip curling before those ethereal features hardened again. He had been colder than usual this past week, and you had a feeling that today would be no different, given the circumstances.

“Yah – he’s on the archery range now.” Tony interjected casually, breaking the stare you didn’t know you were burning into the profile of Loki’s jawline.

Nat shook her head. “What the fuck? Where’s Clint?” she said, glancing around the bustling thoroughfare. Tony shrugged, talking through a mouthful of ye olde steak. “Said he didn’t feel like it today, his voice sounded a little hoarse on the phone.” Nat’s brow arched, swinging her eyes suspiciously towards Loki. The god rocked on his heels, a tiny shrug making his shoulders bounce as he tried to contain the smile pressing at his dimples. “I didn’t know you could shoot.” you scoffed, fidgeting with the veil hanging by your collarbone. “You never asked, Agent.” he drawled innocently, running a hand through his perfectly waved hair. “But truly...are you surprised?” Nat suddenly yanked you to the side of the group. She cast a quick glance back to the circle closing in on Loki, admiring his new outfit. Scott was rubbing a palm repeatedly down his pelted chest while the god smirked, pleased with himself. “He’s done something with Clint.” she hissed over your shoulder. You frowned, leaning back incredulously to see the concern etched plainly on her face. “He wouldn’t…” you whispered, glancing at a resplendent, wolf fur clad Loki stretching his ridiculously long arms to Scott's unbridled awe. “Whatever the fuck is going on with you guys, I don’t give a shit.” Nat said quietly. “Go with Laufeyson, find out where he’s put him. Barton could be passed out enchanted off his nuts in a port-a-potty and we’d never find him.”

You narrowed your eyes, trying to read her face. “Nat I…” you started, fully intending to stand your ground. Suddenly there was a low whistle. Both of you twisted around, seeing Loki drawn to his full height; hair flowing over the puffed collar of his furs with his thumb and forefinger slotted in his mouth. The curve of his ass in the aged leather trousers was obscene, thick thighs creasing the material as it fought against its master. Christ, how you wanted to sink your teeth into them as you buried yourself between his achingly long legs. There were screams from the crowd before it parted, a panicked flurry of feathered hats and veils and skirts flying in all directions as citizens fell over themselves. A beautiful black steed cantered through the fray, completely un-phased. It was absolutely huge, the massive muscles of it's broad chest flexing with each long step. It’s smooth coat gleamed, rich tones of deepest blue flashing amongst the inky hairs as it trotted over and stopped with its nose pressed against Loki’s palm. “Shall we, Agent?” Loki purred knowingly snapping his fingers and making a vibrant caparison unfurl on the waiting stallion. The luxurious material fell in folds, dark emerald and vibrant gold with Loki's insignia woven through the fabric. A saddle and reins manifested snug to the huge horse, who whinnied in approval. Words failed you, seeing an ornate curved bow appear in Loki's grip through a wash of flickering magic. He slung it casually over his shoulder, palm stretched toward you expectantly. You vaguely heard Scott’s murmurs of besotted admiration as a sharp nudge from Natasha in the kidneys made you stumble forwards, automatically grasping towards his hand. Before you could protest, the air was knocked out of you as Loki’s fingers gripped around your waist, throwing you up. Your ass landed sideways on the saddle with a soft thump. You scrambled to grip the reigns, steadying yourself. With a graceful bound, Loki swung himself up behind, winding arms encasing you before his nimble fingers caressed the leather reigns from your grasp.

The disbelieving stares of the gathered Avengers crawled in your periphery as his forearms tightened around your ribs. Loki's elaborately constructed garment did nothing to disguise the hardness of the muscle beneath, thick ropes of pure power shifting as he settled. You could feel the slide of traitorous arousal leaking between your thighs, desperately wet and needy for the infuriatingly smug god steadying you against his spread leathered femurs. “You can be my first student, won’t that be fun?” he smouldered darkly, the whisper of his sweet breath skating over the delicate skin beneath your ear. He chuckled softly against your cheek. "Someone has to break me in before I am unleashed on the unsuspecting public, surely." You sighed, a quiver of anticipation betraying the roar of desire between your legs as you pressed them together, hanging off the side of his steed. The horse stamped once. Impatient, like his master. “And Agent…?” Loki murmured through a smirk, the deep baritones making you squeeze your shoulder-blades together against the expanse of rippling masculinity beneath the wolf-pelt. “I have quite the lesson in mind.”

Continued in Bow to Me: Quivering Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection

Tags @meowmeow-motherfucker @muddyorbsblr @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @mischief2sarawr @loopsisloops @michelleleewise @loveroflokiforpoeticjustice @123forgottherest @holdmytesseract @joyful-enchantress @sititran @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @vbecker10 @imalovernotahater @thomase1 @lovelysizzlingbluebird @fictional-hooman @filthyhiddles @maple-seed @pineappleandro @goblingirlsarah @ozymdias @peaches1958 @your-taste-on-my-lips @wolfmoonmusic @justjoanne242 @peachyjinx @praq123 @trickster-maiden @astridstark13 @lokisgoodboy @coldnique @holymultiplefandomsbatman @lady-rose-moon @nine-leafclover @springdandelixn @littlespaceyelf @ladyofthestayingpower @soldeloki @liminalpebble @psychospore

#loki x reader #loki x female reader #hostile f*cks collection #loki laufeyson #loki laufesyon x reader #loki x yn #loki x you #loki imagine #loki laufeyson fanfic #loki smut #loki fic #loki fanfiction #loki odinson x reader #loki marvel #loki gif

[decolonize-the-left]

I love your blog and I respect you a lot so please if it possible i want to ask you something. No one seems to care much for the fate of the egyptian protesters who were imprisoned yesterday and many of them were elderly. Egyptians prisons are a living nightmare where even medicine is denied and they live in crowded cells infested with mosquitos. Please we need to do somethimg this is horrifying they may die from lack of medical care and torture when all they did was protest for aid to enter Gaza.

Hi!

I can't find a method of how to help or where to direct people to donate! I assume it's because it's written in another language? I can't even see the page for the Egyptian Organization for Human Rights.

That said, here are some articles I found regarding all this so I can at least help spread some awareness.

Activists shared videos of one of the protesters chanting against business tycoon and government ally Ibrahim al-Organi, whose companies have been charging Palestinians thousands of dollars to exit Gaza.

The government of President Abdel Fattah el-Sisi has been criticised for failing to challenge Israel's siege on Gaza during the current conflict, and for allowing state-linked companies to profit from the movement of people and aid via the Rafah crossing. The Rafah crossing in northeast Egypt is the only gateway for Gaza that is not directly controlled by Israel. But since 7 October it has opened only intermittently. Egypt blames Israel for the closure of the crossing, as Israel has imposed strict checks on all trucks entering Gaza via Rafah.

Following the protest, 10 activists were arrested at their homes and detained for 15 days on charges of spreading false information and joining a terrorist group, often a reference to the banned Muslim Brotherhood. Egypt declared the Brotherhood a terrorist organization in 2013, following the removal of President Mohammed Morsi from power. Since then, the government has cracked down on political dissent and banned protests, leading to the arrest of critics and activists who speak out against government policies.

During that trip, towards the prison near the Egyptian-Libyan border, detainees were scared and tired. Some of them had to urinate inside the car, using plastic bottles they had, after they were denied access to bathrooms.

He told MEMO: “One of us had diarrhoea and had to use the bathroom. We surrounded him with a curtain made up of our clothes so he wouldn’t get exposed. He had to defecate in the car, cleaned himself with some water he had and collected the faeces in a plastic bag. He was in so much pain: the pain in his stomach and the pain of injustice and oppression.”

About an hour after sunset, the deportation car arrived, carrying ten detainees of different ages. They took sips of water and ate some dates, before beginning a second journey into one of the country’s most infamous prisons. Officials in this prison, named Al-Manfa, or the exile, are known to “honour” new detainees by torturing, abusing, beating and insulting them upon their arrival. The prison has 216 cells and the abuse is often directed at opponents of Al-Sisi.

And of course, if anyone knows more direct ways of helping such as where to donate or about calls to action or solidarity requests being made by those in Egypt then I think anon and I would really appreciate it!!

#egypt #current events #news #asked #answered #this is awful omg #free palestine #rafah #Egyptian prisons #human rights #abolish prisons #leftist #capitalism #palestine

[leupagus]

Working title is "Aziraphale is going to get a good grade in sex, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve"

"So!" Aziraphale said, plopping himself down in the chair opposite. "Urophilia."

Crowley glowered at him from behind the safety of his third-best sunglasses and his mug.* He hadn't slept last night — he rarely wanted to, these days — yet it was somehow still too early for this. "No," he attempted.

"I know we neither of us go in for the more, er, granular human bodily functions," said Aziraphale, without even the slightest hint of listening. Crowley took a certain amount of comfort in the fact that he still found this annoying as — well, his former employer's residence. He'd worried, in a vague sort of way, that if Aziraphale came back and they worked things out, became a proper us, that he'd start thinking everything Aziraphale did was wonderful. But even true love had its limits, thank — well, his other former employer's residence. "Did I ever tell you, I tried defecating once? Terribly awkward business, I had to make an anus and everything. But Cicero was very obliging in teaching me about the stick."**

Conversations with Aziraphale tended to fall into one of three categories. Either he was humming away in his default cheeriness, in which case he'd burble happily along with whatever Crowley said for hours on end; or he was in a pet about something, in which case he'd be drier than the desert outside Eden and Crowley'd be lucky to escape without injury to his pride or person. Or he was like this, in which case Crowley's participation was purely decorative.

Still, they were getting some stares. Nina hadn't started tutting yet, but she would do soon. "I'm not pissing on you," he said, firm. "And vice versa."

"Oh, all right," Aziraphale huffed, pulling out his spectacles and wrapping the temple tips fussily around his ears. He peered down at the magazine he'd apparently brought with him; even from here, Crowley could see some illustrations. They were… illustrative.

"What," he said with the conviction that he would regret it, "Is that?"

"It's 'Kinks and Fetishes: An A to Z Guide,'" Aziraphale said, handing it over with all the glee of a dog showing off a rotted tennis ball it had found in the back garden. "I've been doing more research, you see. Apparently, there's all sorts of sex we could be getting up to. I truly had no idea there were so many—" he waved his other hand around vaguely. "Configurations."

"Does Glamour have a print edition anymore?" Crowley asked, thumbing through the pages. There were a lot of illustrations.

"Not as such," Aziraphale admitted. "But Muriel found it for me on the World Wide Web—"

"Don't call it that," Crowley sighed.

"—and you know how I dislike reading off of those… screens," he continued, making a moue of distaste. "So I made my own proof copy, as it were."

Under "Tentacles," there was a stern reminder that you shouldn't have sex with octopuses.*** "Angel," he started, then paused. "Vicarphilia?"

"I thought it was something to do with priests and things, but apparently not," Aziraphale said, leaning over the table to point out the next one. "What about whipping?"

"No fetishes that I could've done professionally," Crowley decided firmly, shutting the magazine. He waved it away, out to the Tadfield Library where Anathama would probably find it and laugh for a week, then try at least a half-dozen of them out on poor Newt.

* Nina had set one aside for him after a while, since he didn't mind the permanent stains that had developed along the inside. "Pretty sure those are scorchmarks, actually," she'd complained. "On the outside. What did you do to it?"

** Roman public toilets were aptly named — men would gather to have a bowel movement and a chat, cleaning themselves off with a sponge on the end of a length of wood. Hence the phrase, "Getting the wrong end of the stick," something decidedly less pleasant when taken out of its metaphor.

*** Accompanied by a picture of a young woman doing exactly that.

#good omens fic #what if I skip over the getting together and go straight to the ridiculousness #ineffable motherfuckers #also I know that in the book Aziraphale is an early adopter of computers #but the tv show has him doing his accounts by hand plus the joke of having Muriel being the millennial computer tech is funny to me #ficcage of interest #good grade in sex fic

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

I know you said you’d cry if someone requested it, but - like…

Would you write a short thing about Aemond cleaning his asshole? It’s definitely what the entire fandom needs, lol, and you would do it so well!

Here you go, my boobear. Thank you for waiting so patiently.

Cleanliness is Next to Godliness

Pairing: Aemond and the privy, I guess? Warnings: This is a crack fic. The request is all the warning you need. Word count: ~1k

Author's note: This is written as a joke between a mutual and I. If you're easily offended I implore you to employ the liberal use of "don't like, don't read". Community labels are for cops.

Aemond strives for perfection in all things. Growing up, he is teased mercilessly by his brother Aegon and his nephews, Jace and Luke. They perceive him as weak and pathetic, a Targaryen without a dragon. Truthfully, a more shameful existence does not exist for those of Valyrian ancestry; born with the blood to ride a dragon, yet unable to claim one.

When Aemond becomes the rider of Vhagar, the greatest dragon in all of Westeros, he makes a point to ensure it is an accolade he is worthy of. He studies history and philosophy to keep his mind sharp, trains with the sword to mold himself into a fearsome warrior and works hard to ensure he is viewed as nothing less than perfect.

This extends as far as his habits in the privy.

“What do you mean you don’t shit? Everyone does! I do it all the time!” Aegon says with heated exasperation.

“Not me,” Aemond says simply. “I am above such things. That is concentrated evil that comes out of the back of you.”

Maintaining a flawless facade requires diligence and discipline. Through trial and error, Aemond has managed to uphold his stoic reputation as a man with no taste for depravity for almost a decade. 

There is a minor hiccup on his thirteenth name day when Aegon takes him to a pleasure house on the Street of Silk. The nerves that flutter in his stomach cause him to depart before he engages with any of the women that have been offered to him—not before he leaves a dirty protest on the floor, however, an offense for which Aegon takes the blame. His brother has to pay a fine of a golden dragon for the cleaning costs.

When Aegon questions him about it, Aemond simply shrugs and says, “I am above such things.”

Aemond awakens each morning in the space between the hour of the bat and the rooster, when the Keep is still quiet. As requested, the servants have left him a basin of water and a cloth, as they do every day. They know better than to ask why. Aemond carries it with great care to the privy and sets it on the floor, seating himself on the privy to move his bowels.

As he sits and strains, he ponders on the last time his Uncle Daemon had visited King’s Landing. He’d spent an age using the facilities, coming out afterwards with a smile that was almost proud upon his face, clapping Ser Criston Cole upon the shoulder and announcing, “I’d give that a moment if I were you, Ser Crispin. I’ve made quite the stench.”

He wishes he could shit so brazenly; Daemon is an accomplished soldier, an infamous dragon rider and shameless in his privy habits. Aemond both envies and admires him, but he is too deep into his ruse of not having normal bodily functions to backtrack now. Later that afternoon, Daemon had sliced Vaemond Velaryon’s head in half. Aemond is unsure of which act he is more impressed by; the thought of both makes his cock stir in a manner which disturbs and excites him.

Having had full elimination, Aemond sets about ensuring he is perfectly clean, removing all traces of his defecation from his person using the basin of water and cloth that he has brought in with him.

It is a task that is tricky to manage with just one eye. Over the years, there have been incidents where he has accidently daubed the wall with feces, to be later discovered by furious maidservants who have the unfortunate task of cleaning it off. Thankfully, his mother automatically places the blame on Aegon and he goes free without suspicion or a scolding.

He is better practiced now, however, and leaves no trace of his misgivings behind. Cleanliness is next to godliness, his mother once told him; he sends up a prayer to each of the Seven as he dabs at his soiled ring of muscle. It passes the time and helps occupy his mind from the humiliation of what he is having to endure.

On this particular morning, Aegon throws open the privy door as Aemond squats over the basin of water, his eyes going wide first with shock then delight as he takes in the sight before him.

Aemond freezes, mortification shooting hotly through his body from head to toe. Aegon reeks of wine; he must have decided to stumble back to the Keep, instead of sleeping it off in the bed of whichever whore he’d taken for the evening.

“I knew it!” Aegon slurs with a grin. “That is concentrated evil coming out the back of you! Just wait until Jace and Luke hear about this!”

He staggers away, his laugh maniacal as Aemond shakes with rage and embarrassment, hurriedly pulling his breeches back up.

Aegon says nothing further on the matter as the days pass, and Aemond assumes he must have been too far into his cups to remember. He breathes a sigh of relief. His reputation remains untarnished.

That is, until he flies to Storm’s End to take one of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters as his wife. 

Luke arrives as they are getting acquainted, and Aemond wastes no time in ensuring he feels unwelcome. “Look at this sad creature, my Lord,” he says smugly. “Little Lucerys Strong. You are wet, bastard. Is it raining, or did you piss yourself in fear?”

Luke smirks and quips back. “Was your coat tarnished brown when you put it on, or did it get in the way while you washed your arse in the privy?”

Aemond flies into a rage. It is that day that Luke and his dragon, Arrax, meet their end at the jaws of Vhagar. To anyone that asks, it is a terrible accident, but Aemond knows the truth. So does Aegon. But his brother never says a word. And so, the One-Eyed Prince keeps his brown eye clean in private, and the matter is never spoken of again. 

The battle between factions of House Targaryen indeed began over a throne, but not one made of swords as the history books would have people believe.

#hotd crack fic #aemond targaryen crack fic

[smallgodseries]

[image description: A huge copper-colored robot (in clear homage on Kelly Freas’ classic work for Astounding SF and the band Queen) reaches out from the frame to the viewer. It wears a black banded captain’s hat with an inverted red star and laurels insignia on its front, and a little red kerchief tied around its collar. Its face (a tv screen?) shows a vaguely human countenance, albeit one with terrible dentation. It does not look friendly. Text reads, “35, C-ORG, The Small God of Xenu-Biology”]

People like it when things make sense.

It’s a part of the human condition.  When you have to wake up, defecate, consume, hunt, clean, reproduce, and sleep again, logic gradually becomes an addiction.  Without logic, why would you have to do any—or all—of those things?  Without logic, you would be able to wish the urine away, perhaps to a high point above the heads of your enemies; you would be able to snap your fingers and call food to your hand, mates to your bed, children already old enough to be graceful and obedient to your side.  Without logic, everything would be possible, and since everything is not possible, nor made possible by wishing, people like it when things make sense.

Unfortunately for the people, the gods legitimately don’t care whether things make sense or not.  The gods are content to exist in a constant haze of glorious impossibility, bouncing from idea to idea, remaking the world in their own image.  People would be happier if the gods were different.  The gods would not be happier if people were different.  When the gods want people to be different, they just snap their fingers, and logic flies out the window.

Just ask Medusa.

C-org would make a terrible people, but he makes a reasonably competent god.  Xenobiology is a human study, the extrapolation of possible alien biology from the principles known of Earth biology.  It is a speculative field of science, yes, but an increasingly important one, with logical applications to the world as it exists.  It requires little imagination.  It is logical.

Xenu-biology throws logic out the window and waves as it flaps its wings and flies away.  It is the biology of the divine, and divinity requires so little in the way of “making sense” as to treat ridiculousness as a blessing.  And above it all reigns C-org, delighted by the wild majesty of his domain, unwilling to reign it in, unwilling to confine himself to a form more easily worshipped or perceived.

He has what he wants.  He needs no logic.  He needs no worshippers.  The dragon-bats of Jupiter IV will serve him well enough as priests, until all the stars die out.

He is content.

#small gods #smallgodseries

[morbidology]

James Byrd Jr., a divorced father of three and former salesman, was renowned for his infectious positivity and sociable nature. Whether it was a lively gathering or a mundane day, James infused life into every moment. Often, he could be spotted singing and dancing while tending to his lawn. “He was the funniest person you’d ever want to mee,” recollected Flora Bartee, a neighbour of James’ parents. “Everyone around here knew him. There was no ingrained hatred or anything like that,” recollected his sister, Clara Taylor.

Despite a turbulent past that included a six-year prison stint for theft and parole violation, James was determined to redeem himself upon his release in 1996. Settling into an apartment at the Pineview public housing project in Jasper, Texas, he seemed to be on an upward trajectory. However, an arm injury sustained years prior and a seizure disorder rendered him unable to work, relying solely on disability benefits. To supplement his income, he took up lawn-mowing gigs around town.

On the 7th of June, he attended his niece’s bridal shower at his parents’ home in Jasper. Before leaving, he gave his older sister, Stella Brumley, a big hug and she reminded him to get ready for Father’s Day. It was family tradition that all eight of the siblings would gather for the Sunday service at their parents’ church. “I got my suit in the cleaners. I’m going to be ready,” he reassured his sister and headed down the driveway, ready to walk home.

As he walked down the dirt road, three men pulled up alongside him in their truck. They were: 31-year-old Lawrence Russel Brewer of Sulphur Springs, 23-year-old Shawn Allen Berry of Jasper and 23-year-old John William King, also of Jasper. All three men had served time in prison and had ties to the Ku Klux Klan or the Aryan Brotherhood.

The Aryan Brotherhood got its start on the West Coast in the 1960s. It boasts of members throughout prisons in the United States and exhibits an intense hatred of African Americans and Jews. They considered prison ripe recruiting grounds for the organization. The Aryan Brotherhood has ties to the Aryan Nation, an Idaho-based paramilitary organization that advocates racial violence and white supremacy.

James jumped into the truck bed and the men first of all drove to a convenience store east of Jasper. There are a number of different versions of events as to what happened next in regards to who was driving the vehicle and who decided James’ fate. What is known, however, is that the men drove James up to a small clearing in the woods on Huff Creek Road. Here, James was dragged from the truck and severely beaten, urinated on and defecated on.

During the beating, John reportedly said: “We’re starting The turner Diaries early.” The Turner Diaries was written in 1978 by William Pierce, the head of the National Alliance, one of the largest and most organized neo-Nazi groups within the United States. It is kind of like a bible for right-wing extremists and calls for the violent overthrow of the Federal government as well as the systematic killing of Jews and people of colour.

Following the brutal beating, James was spray painted on the face and then chained by his ankles to the pickup truck, a symbolic remnant of slavery. The men then drove the truck, dragging James behind it. The three men didn’t stop driving as James’s flesh ripped from his body as they weaved from one side of the road to the other side.

They didn’t stop after they came around a sharp turn and James’s body bounced into a ditch at the side of the road, hitting the ragged end of a concrete culvert just below his arm. They didn’t stop when the impact ripped James’s arm, shoulder, neck and head from the rest of his body. They continued to drive for a further mile with just half of James’s body. They finally stopped the truck after three miles, when they ran out of paved road.

After investigators arrived at the church where James’s mutilated body was found, they set up the task of identifying him and retrieving the rest of his body. It wouldn’t be long until his other remains were discovered. His head, neck, and right arm were recovered along the road leading up to the church. There were smears of blood running along the road as well as James’ dentures and pieces of flesh that had ripped from his body here and there. Along the bloody trail, investigators found James’ tennis shoes, shirt, wallet and keys.

The trail of James’ life coming to a cruel end was clear. His blood was smeared along more than two miles of country road.

The three killers were quickly identified and apprehended. They all stood separately and were convicted. Brewer was executed in 2011, following by King in 2019. Berry was sentenced to life in prison and will be eligible for parole in 2038.

#James Byrd Jr #True Crime #Racism #Civil Rights

[noobsomeexagerjunk]

Aypiere and Quackity are talking!

Around 30-40 minutes in Aypierre's stream; some significant points:

Quackity is cleaning up the airplane debris and plans to build a structure there (a Mexican or a French one)

Aypierre suggests a replica of the Arc de Triomphe to fill in the space in the wall

Aypierre hands Quackity shit, to his delight

The two discuss the potentiality of Aypierre being a candidate

Quackity says he wants to hold back for the event

Aypierre believes he and the rest of the French members will be competitive about it

Quackity gives some reminders about the delivery of the manual

Quackity and Aypierre have some cultural exchanges. The constant protesting in France is real. They compare French and Mexican drinking behavior.

They begin talking about America and some cultural observations they have with it. Aypierre finds America very friendly.

Aypierre mentions his streaming schedule and kids! This reminded Quackity of dealing with Luzu's own schedule.

Quackity talked about a culture shock moment in Spain regarding the auto-ticketing of cars. He then proceeds to rant about America's car culture.

"Los Angeles is nothing like the movies,"

Quackity reminisces of his childhood visits to San Francisco

(Dang Aypierre has been to America that many times???)

Quackity proposes they go drinking together at some point

Quackity praises California weather

The two discuss being able to speak English for travel + the implications of accents

Quackity starts ranting about LA traffic

Quackity is shocked learn that one can take a 2 hour train ride from France to London

Quackity asks Aypierre to compare London to Paris—Aypierre thinks British girls are prettier but French food is better

They discuss American food. There are some good stuff but they note how processed it can be.

Quackity reminisces about Mexican food upon being asked about it by Aypierre

The two build dick statues out black wool (?) and white quartz (?)

Aypierre places down the Make Love, Not War picture he has, baffling Quackity

Quackity shows Aypierre pictures of his places/houses in the server

Aypierre has placed down an image of himself cooking

Quackity shows Aypierre a picture of his younger self

They discuss Andorra—Quackity shows Aypierre a picture of himself in Andorra

They are discussing towns with silly names, like Montcuq

Quackity is straight up showing Aypierre cursed pictures of himself

B O O B S

Aypierre dropped down a picture of beef (and I am now hungry it is almost my dinner time)

Quackity accidently poked his eye IRL

Quackity admits to having a phobia of airplane bathrooms

He drew in paint to help explain why

asskiss

Quackity, during a first class flight, held in his shit for 13 hours due to his fear of airplane bathrooms

"It was like an orgasm?" "Better than an orgasm!"

Quackity talks about roadtrip stopovers

Bad whispers to Aypierre if he could place a warp in his factory. Aypierre said yes!

(Quackity you gotta help unravel the biases Aypierre has gotten about Mexico my man just assumed kids do coke in the bathroom during recess) <- Quackity does this

(Yikes Q-man people take pictures in the bathroom like that???)

They are now talking about vulnerability in the act of defecation

Quackity starts praising toilets in Amsterdam

Between me and Quackity, one of us is wrong when it comes to pronouncing "bidet"

Eyy squatting toilets! (I encountered one of those during a trip to Beijing and I hated them so much god)

More is happening right now but I gotta stop liveblogging (Quackity is showing a picture of tacos!)

#qsmp #qsmp liveblogging #quackity #aypierre

[forestshadow-wolf]

Tw: mcd, torture, gore

Ghost, captured on a mission. They clonk him on the head, and when he wakes up he's in a dinghy, drippy, concrete cell, stripped of his gear and weapons. Typical shitty condition for being held hostage. Could be worse, at least there's a window, albeit barred, but it's something. They don't touch him for days, he's seen not hide nor hair from his captors. Not for food, or water, or when the human condition of defecation arises. That last one won't be such a problem if his treatment continues. He wishes he'd sent that last contact to Watcher instead of trying to wrap up the mission.

Three days. A week. Two. Four. Four weeks and two days. He wonders how much longer it'll be before he's rescued. That's when they show themselves. On day twenty-nine. A stale lump of bread and a cup of water. Thrown at him through the iron bars if the cell door. They watch him eat it. Mind games, he knows that's what it is. He doesn't let it bother him. He finishes his food and drink and his captor leaves. They follow this routine of watching and nothing else for two days. He eats. They watch. He drinks. They leave. Not a word is said.

Day thirty-two they come into his cell. They forgot his bread and water. They didn't. He knew it was a choice. Surely it's not much longer until he has people coming for him. Maybe johnny will come for him. They advance on him, cornering him, he hates it. He fights it. But he's weak. Starved. The restraints go on far too easily for his liking.

They shove a bag over his bag again. When it's removed they're in another room. They force him to sit in a solid metal chair. There's a metal table in the center of the room that looks like it belongs in a surgical room. It's so cliche he almost laughs.

They start off slow. Hands. Fists. They're not even asking him questions. Means they probably don't want anything. They got off at the sight of pain. At putting people in pain. He knows this type. He supposes it could be worse. Could always be worse.

He makes not a sound, lets his body lax, too weak to fight them anyway. They drag him back to his cell. His face is broken, bleeding. His eyes swell shut, and he's forced to breathe through his mouth because his nose is broken and bleeding blood and mucus. They slap him around the next day too, it it gets no reaction. It could be worse. He's been through worse. Do they know he's gone yet? They have to right?

They don't like that. The toys come out to play. Batons, hammers, tasers. And *that* hurts. He grunts and pants. The days start to blend together now, but he thinks they drag it out dor another three days. But he lives. Will live. It could be worse.

His pained sounds only seem to encourage them because they next day they don't have him in the chair. No, instead they have him strung up on a chain. The knife is their latest addition to their fun. Slice him up, salt the wound, then slam into it with a bat or a pipe. They grin at the strangled sounds of pain. They break a leg, he hears it snap inside his head when metal and flesh rings in the air. He screams. He can't keep his legs under himself. The chains pull on his arms. It strains his lungs, makes it hard to breathe. Or that's from the broken ribs that he assessed were grinding with each breath that night when they drag him back to his cell. He hopes that rescue is coming soon. But it could be worse. He's survived worse.

They day after the next they slam his body onto the metal table, don't even strap him down for whatever they're gonna do to him. Nothing happens to him for what seems like a while. And then they start cutting into his skin. And he tries to yank away. To stop the pain. But he's weak, and they're not.

He screams and cries, and he thinks he honest to god hears a *laugh*. They start at his arms, then his legs, then the side of his ribs. They shove their tools in him and prod just to prod, peeling skin and muscle and whatnot from bone. And he screams and cries. And they stich him up each time before they move on. It hurts. It hurt so bad. He wants it to stop. They keep laughing. Why do they laugh. He just wants it to stop. And eventually they do. They don't drag him off to his cell this time. Don't even stitch him fully closed. They just leave him there. Bleeding, and shivering in pain. He's long since screamed himself hoarse. It's so cold. The table's cold. The room's cold. His blood is cold. But it could be worse. He doesn't know how, but he tells himself it could be. They're coming for him. Help is coming. It could be worse.

It gets worse. It's worse when they open stitches and stick things in him. When they electricute his insides. He doesn't even have the energy to make sound. He writhes in pain as his muscles seize. But it could be worse. He repeats it. Over and over again.

And then it gets worse. When they rip open his belly and fish around. Playing with his insides, grabbing, and tugging. And then his guts are spilling outside of him. And they cackle. He wants them to stop. Please stop. It can't possibly get worse than this. Stop. *Stop*. *STOP*. **STOP**. They do. Eventually. They do stop, interrupted by gunfire and crashing. he's left on that table, open and bleeding. And it can't get worse, he realizes. He's not getting out of this one. Maybe it's not worth it anyway. Speculation is a wasted effort. He's dead in a few more minutes, he can feel it in parts of his body that he should even be aware of. His heart stutters. His lungs rattle. His intestine writhe. It hurts. God- it hurts so bad.

The door bursts in but he can't move. He hears someone. Please, it hurts so bad. It makes him want to vomit. But he can't.

He hears a voice. His eyes flick and- oh there's blue. He knows those eyes. He likes them. Theses noises but he can't hear them. Is he talking. Or is it the blue he doesn't know. Everything hurts. Far more than he thinks is possible. He can feel his intstine twitch again. Far less violent than before. It'll be okay. It will. If he closes his eyes it's be okay. It'll go away if he closes his eyes. He knows it. Because this is the worst. Nothing could possibly be worse than this. So he does

Soap feels the moment Simon Riley dies. He screams for him to wake up. To open his eyes. He doesn't look at the gore. Keeps his eyes trained on Simon's upside down face from when he stands at his head. He doesn't think about the way blood puddles on the floor. It's so much. He thinks he feels it soap into the toe of his boot. But he doesn't think about that. Only that he needs those eyes to open. He doesn't think about the pulse he can't feel. How he felt it leave him. He just needs him to wake up. He doesn't look at the way his flesh is pryed open for examination. Just waits for those eyes to open. Keeps watching for them as he gets dragged away.

#mcd #tw mcd #major character death #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost mw2 #ghost mwii #john soap mactavish #tw torture #tw gore #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #soapghost #ghostsoap #el rambles

[raptorific]

for like 30 years everyone was like "dune is unfilmable" because they'd tried two different directors, "an actual crazy man who didn't understand what a budget was but claimed he was commanded by god to make this movie, and wanted to make a 14-hour Dune movie that does not contain the plot of Dune but does contain Salvador Dali hanging dong, showing hole, and both urinating and defecating onscreen, and believes the reason Hollywood didn't want to give him more money to pursue this project after he blew through the two million dollars he had on pre-production and left himself with no way to make his 14-hour monstrosity is because he was French" and "hack fraud who depends on nobody wanting to admit the emperor has no clothes in order to get anyone to pretend they like his unwatchable movies, and that's for movies he likes making, and he really hates making this one specifically" and neither of those guys produced a good adaptation

[mourningmaybells]

#voting for lazarus's laughter but i can already tell option 1 is the better one #the exorcist by william peter blatty #damien karras #the exorcist 1973 #the exorcist

[depressedhatakekakashi]

Tsunade

There’s a lot of things to love about Tsunade. She’s one of the strongest female character’s in the entire series as well as being a very damaged character who’s fighting just to get through every day.

She comes back to Konoha and takes the job of Hokage because of a kid she has only just met and procedes to lead the village for five years through some of the worst fights it has had to deal with. It’s under her leadership that Konoha works with the other villages, and unlike her Sensei she is actually unafraid to put the elder’s in their place.

Epic moment’s for Tsunade are numerous, but i’ll try not to get too carried away.

(Movie only) Poking Kakashi in the face and reminding him that accusing Naruto of attacking A, and thus throwing him into prison, was HIS idea and he has no right to judge her for being harsh (he looks like a scolded child. I love it. The auntie vibes are STRONG in this movie)

Speaking of Kakashi, remmember when she found out that he died and she proceeded to destroy one of the pillers on the roof of the Hokage’s mansion? Because i do and i LOVE it. Tsunade has seen enough death in her life but that doesn’t stop her from taking a second to morn Kakashi’s death and literally destroy something in anger (also while looking for pics i saw a conversation about how her destroying that piller wS representative of Kakashi’s death being the destruction of a piller of Konoha and oh boy i had FEELINGS).

Also, just the whole Pein attack in general was some bad ass Tsunade. I think Hashirama is the only other Hokage who could have protected Konoha and saved as many lives as Tsunade did. Her skills really shone through her as well as her connection with Lady Katsuyu.

(Anime Only) showing Ino and Sakura what she looked like when she was younger. Tsunade looked so proud of herself while she was showing off her younger look. It’s clear that she just loves looking young and that her keeping herself looking younger has never been about sexual appeal but just enjoying being young. If she could turn back time and be 12 again i think she would, and not just to save Dan and her brother.

Caving in Madara’s Sussano. This woman stood there and listened to Madara bad mouth her for the crime of not being as talented as her grandfather and instead of crying over it she proceded to destroy every judgement Madara made against her. She got stabbed through the abdomen and cut Madara’s sussano sword and shoved it out if her body. She got cut in half and still healed the other Kage’s using Katsuyu. SHE PUNCHED MADARA’s SUSSANO, A NEAR PERFECT DEFECE, AND SHATTERED THE RIB CAGE. Sure she was never going to win that fight, but damn did she do some major damage.

The fact that she taught Sakura to gamble? Delightful. Love master and student bonding over non training activities.

Calling Kakashi stupid for how he faced Itachi? Fair. Man didn’t know what he was getting into because he didn’t have all the necessary info, but she’s still valid for calling him out on acting before thinking. He was so protective of Asuma, Kurenai and specifically Sasuke (and then Naruto when he realized Itachi was actually there for him) he just threw himself into a fight. Tsunade had every right to call him dumb.

Telling Naruto his only disease was being dumb XD one of my fav moment’s ever. Boy was not ready.

(Book only) yelling at Gai for ditching his position to catch a ride on the fancy new air balloon/plane. Also, her asking Gai to tell them what Kaiyo looked like always felt hilarious because this man forgets all the faces and i can only imagine that it was a stressful af conversation to have.

(Book only) ‘Kakashi take my job’ ‘no’ Kakashi take my job’ ‘no’ ‘kakashi take my-‘ ‘fine’ ‘ABOUT DAMN TIME’

#Tsunade #Taryn’s Birthday Bash