#cupie’s done it again

[thestalwartheart]

I loveeee the discussions that have been taking place on your page! I fell in love with Bond when spectre came out, fell out of it a little but after I watched no time to die earlier this year my love for Craig!Bond is back with a vengeance!! I love the point brought up about how MI6 deals with their employees on a psychological level. It would have been really interesting to see more of Bond in MI6 mandated therapy or something because if there’s one person who can make that a compelling emotional moment while still having it be in character and make sense for a Bond movie, it’s Daniel Craig. Anyway, all this has also got me thinking about our dear Moneypenny. I can only imagine how horrified she must have been after she shoots him off the train and for months she lives with this knowledge that she’s “killed” a fellow agent even though she didn’t make the call. I always wonder how MI6 would’ve dealt with that and what kind of support she was given, if any. We know she gets taken out of field work but what are some of the discussions surrounding that? I’ve read a few Bond/Moneypenny fics which deal with this to some extent but it would have been nice to see a moment between M and Moneypenny dealing with Bond’s “death”. I think overall something I would’ve liked to see more of is the relationship between Bond and his colleagues outside of just what they do for him on missions. I get that these are Bond movies and they have a lot of ground to cover in not a lot of time so in a way I’m not surprised that we only get small glimpses into Q and Moneypenny when they’re not doing things for Bond but Daniel Craig has talked a lot about how Bond considers the MI6 squad to be his family and it would have been nice to see that reflected more.

Hello! I'm glad you've been enjoying the discussions. You're catching me as I'm caffienating here, so I hope this response makes sense!

There is another ask coming up that talks about therapy, so I'm going to put most of my thoughts there, but you're so right about Daniel Craig's ability to balance Bond's character in heavy emotional scenes. I would have loved to see that.

Selfishly (again!) I'm going to use the opportunity to talk about Moneypenny! Because oh my God!!! She gets such a raw deal in both canon and fandom that it drives me insane. And tbh, if there was ever a ship I would write for outside of 00Q, it would be Bond/Moneypenny.

My (personal) opinion around the incident in Turkey, which I probably won't die on a hill for, but intrigues me anyway, is that she didn't get any support. I've read a few really great fics where she kind of became this outcast at MI6 and it's really wormed my way into my understanding of her in canon. Partly, I think it's because the MI6 psychologists aren't really there to help anyone heal (more on that later). The point you make about wanting to see M & Moneypenny mourning Bond is so interesting. I can see that happening, but I can also see M being very stiff upper lipped about it. I don't think she'd be so unprofessional as to resent Moneypenny for making that shot (though I've seen that interpretation around fandom too), but I think she would be quite realistic, and potentially a little cold-hearted about it.

There's an interesting moment with Nomi in NTTD which I always read more into than I should, where Nomi makes that "I see why you tried to shoot him" joke, and Moneypenny just looks so tired. Like, after 5+ years (probably like 7 or 8 at this point), it's still following her around. For all she's done in the meantime, she's still the Woman Who Shot Bond. I broke my own heart thinking about it all. It doesn't help that the writers just killed her personality from SPECTRE onwards. I don't know whether that was an intentional choice or not, but it was really frustrating.

In fandom, I find she's often relegated to a role in helping Bond and Q get together (which I've definitely been guilty of, but I hope I make her more of a true friend than a calayst/cupid figure). Also, I usually find - and this was the case in post-Skyfall canon too - that she's weirdly sexless in fic, unless you're reading Bond/Moneypenny. Which is bizarre, because the flirting and the innuendo, and the kind of angsty reality that she'll never see more from Bond than that is the point. All of it is such food for thought, and I've actually been writing a Moneypenny-centric fic that is helping me put together my thoughts around it all. I remain endlessly obsessed by Bond's colleagues at MI6 outside of his story. The last thing I want is the Disney+-ification of the Bond franchise, but I would kill for a well-thought-out spinoff that handled the inner workings of MI6.

Alright, I've ranted enough. Thank you so much for the ask! I hope I wasn't endlessly annoying by using it as another jumping off point ❤️

#ask box #unpopular opinions #moneypenny

[lesetoilesfous]

Had the worst idea, but what about “mouth stitched shut” for Anders/Fenris? Perhaps an AU where Anders is captured by the Qunari and made Saarebas and Fenris finds/rescues him?

You both have EXCELLENT taste, this was exactly the kind of thing I was hoping for. I hope you enjoy!!!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Anders, Fenris

Tags: whump, torture, lips sewn shut, kidnapped by slavers, pre-relationship

Rating: Mature

“NO! Don’t touch him!! Let go of me you blighted cupis homines, immanissimum ac foedissimum monstrum!” The men holding Fenris laugh as he gives up on common to spit at them in Tevene, but their laughter falters when his brands flare like sunlight and his arms begin to phase through their hands.

That is until Anders makes a sharp, high sound of pain and Fenris freezes, feeling the heat of his blood in anger cooling to ice in his veins. The man - slaver - next to Anders, chuckles, and tugs the needle through the skin of Anders’ lips as blood rushes in a sudden dribble down his chin. Fenris feels the strength sap from his limbs so quickly he looks around in a panic, half expecting a magister to be standing in the entrance to the cave, hands crackling with Entropy.

But there’s no one - just the dogs barking, and the insects, and the other slaves weeping in the next cavern, and the hiccoughing, coughing sounds of Anders trying not to scream as the slaver pushes the needle back down through his upper lip. Anders squeezes his eyes shut, face a terrible mess of pain, and Fenris tries to look away - tries to afford him at least this dignity in all the horror.

One of the slavers grabs Fenris’ ear, pulling it hard enough for Fenris to huff a soft sound of pain as his face is yanked roughly back in the direction of his ally, his friend, his - being mutilated by these --- Fenris won’t call them dogs. He has never known a hound as foul as these men. One of them leans in close enough for Fenris to taste the days-old meat caught between his teeth. “You don’t get to look away from this, pretty. We want you to watch. Or we’ll take it out on your pet apostate.”

Fenris doesn’t doubt it. Anders’ back is a mess of bloodied, fresh wounds layered on old scars, and his arms and chest are lacerated with fresh cuts poisoned with magebane. Both of them are filthy by now, and bruised, but it was Anders who’d consistently drawn the attention of the slavers, Anders who’d picked fight after fight with them until Fenris was sure he was suicidal. Anders who’d admitted, when they were alone together in their pen, that he’d rather play the asshole than watch Fenris be tortured, too.

When Fenris looks back at Anders, on his knees, being held by another three men, the one sewing his lips together is four stitches in and his chin is striped red with blood. Fenris tries to breathe past the broken glass in his chest and watches as the needle breaks the skin again. He feels the sandy stone beneath his knees and hears the way Anders’ whimpers turn into a long, low keen as the slaver wiggles the needle against his upper lip until it pushes through, tightening the thread and crushing his bloodied lips together. Fenris watches as snot and tears and sweat run down Anders’ pale face, mixing with the blood. He watches the way Anders’ toes curl until they’re white every time the needle goes in.

Twenty seven stitches.

When the slaver’s done, he ties it off and spits in Anders’ face. Anders just shuts his eyes, crumpling to curl around his chest, shaking hands and broken, purple fingers blackened with bruising coming up to cover his face as he shakes and sobs.

Fenris barely notices the slavers letting him go. He barely notices them shoving him towards ‘his apostate’, hardly hears the jokes about Saarebas, the suggestions of collars and chains and electric rods. He’s thinking, with a sound like the ocean roaring in a cave ringing in his eardrums, that he is going to hold each of their hearts for twenty-seven beats in the palm of his hand as he crushes them, slowly. Fenris is thinking that he is going to rip out their tongues, and feed them to their dogs. He is thinking that he is never going to let anything like this ever happen again.

Then he gets to Anders’ side, and reality returns to Fenris like a wave, hitting him in the face with warmth and the putrid smell of the caves and the thick taste of salt and copper in the air with the fresh blood muddying the sand on the cavern floor beneath his knees.

As carefully as if he were handling Orlesian china, Fenris sets his own bruised, reddened hands on Anders’ shoulders. Anders flinches, violently, and Fenris finds his voice. It feels rough and unused in his mouth, as abrasive as sandpaper against his aching throat. Fenris realises, distantly, that he’s been crying.

“Anders. Look at me.”

Slowly, like a frightened, beaten cat or a small child, Anders uncurls. His eyes are bloodshot and red rimmed with tears, his nose an angry red too beneath the sick green of where it had been broken, which runs in a long stripe across his face. His mouth is an angry inflammation of swollen red skin and cherry red, drying blood. The thread is pink with the same blood, and when Anders looks at him blood and spit blows in tiny bubbles from between his lips as more tears fall from his eyes. Anders swallows, and makes a low frightened sound, and Fenris tries to remember how to breathe.

“It’s alright, amatus. It’s alright.” Unthinking, Fenris wets the cloth he’s wearing and wishes for anything clean in this blighted cavern. With a strange sense of deja vu, he damps the wet cloth against Anders’ bloodied mouth, trying to clear away the worst of the drying blood. More bubbles up as he does so, every time Anders lips move, and after a moment Fenris pauses, sitting back. Anders watches him, eyes wide and panicked, and Fenris tries to push away his own horror and pain and be the rock they both need him to be to keep from drowning.

He takes off the rags the slavers have given him for a shirt, and folds the cloth into a pillow. “Here, lie down.” Gently, cradling his head like a baby’s, Fenris guides Anders to lie down. That does something for the bleeding. With a scream of his aching knuckles, Fenris tears a strip off the fabric and spits on it to dampen the cloth.

Fenris pauses over Anders’ face, and takes a moment to push a hank of greasy, bloodied hair back from his face. Anders’ skin is cold and damp with sweat, but Fenris rests his hand there, stroking his thumb gently across one of the few unbruised patches of his cheek until Anders’ breathing eases, somewhat. Then he begins, again, to try and clean the wounds.

#dadwc #bad things happen bingo #fenders #fenris #anders #midnightprelude #my fic #anon #dragon age 2

[xperiwrites]

can you do some soft!geralt? 🥺🥺🥺 pretty please

This feels a tad like a cheat as I co-wrote this with @doodled93 for @geraskierweek buuut…..

TITLE: Conduction

SUMMARY: There’s a snowstorm, and Bards don’t hold heat the same way Witchers do.There is a (cuddly) solution.

WORD COUNT: 1801

(Netflix’s The Witcher) 

Day #3: Protection

Rating: G

Triggers/Warnings: None, just some cuddling and sharing body heat

Ao3 Link

The storm as it comes is not a surprise—it had been threatening and picking up since yesterday. Geralt had known from the start they wouldn’t make it to the next town in time. Jaskier had known, too—he could tell by the fact that the bard kept hypothesizing that, with a frankly unlikely amount of luck, they may yet beat the storm.

“The next town is four, five days you said? If we make it four, and maybe find an as yet unknown shortcut, that may cut it down to three.”

Geralt had hummed, watching Jaskier squint at the grey clouds, hands on his hips.

“Maybe if the wind stays at our backs we may travel at speed, cut it down to a further two and a half days…”

“The wind would have to push us off this mountain.”

“Why yes, Geralt, that is one way to look at it. Now then, two and a half days, well, two and a half days is nothing. The storm may not be that bad, you know? Despite all the,” he gestures, and he could mean the grey sky, the cold wind, the chill in the air, the darkness in the distance. “Well, you know all this. Could push through this grey and, ah, wind, and I bet at a good speed we could be only two days away from the next town… in fact,” Jaskier strode forward, arms sweeping ahead with flair, “in fact this wind is nothing! One might imagine that there might not be—ah, fuck!”

The wind picked up, then, and Geralt is smirking when Jaskier is shuffling back to Roach, arms tucked back to his sides, hands under his armpits.

“Well then,” Jaskier nudges into Geralts leg. “Four or five days to a town when there’s a storm like this brewing isn’t as impossible as one might expect, you know. I mean, it’s not entirely impossible we might encounter a… portal, of some sort. One we could reasonably and reliably assume would bring us, say, even a days’ ride away from the next town, and we’d certainly beat the storm with that sort of time on our hands.”

“And I’m sure you could recognize one such a portal, as well as the location it would bring us to?”

“Ah,” the man looks off to the side of the path, humming in a considering manner. “I… I do have many skills, as you well know. While that is not one of them—that I know of—it’s not unreasonable to assume that there are some skills I do not yet know of, but am perhaps born with. Perhaps I’m also a man with the skills to unconsciously put off very bad storms until after four or five days?”

“I suppose we’ll see.”

It would perhaps be annoying, all this hypothesizing, if the bard didn’t come up with consistently different ridiculous ways they might escape the inevitable. He’s been writing an ongoing maybe-it-would song for the past three years now, with familiar verses repeated with every bit of bad weather they encounter, the tune catchy even without an instrument. A quick beat to walk to, steps naturally falling in quick-time.

It’s not something Geralt has heard at a tavern, yet, so it likely hadn’t reached some milestone of completion Jaskier had set in that fool head of his—some of his songs were done in days or weeks, fine tuned to an audience well oiled with alcohol.

Then some of his songs, like this one, were worked over the course of months and years; Geralt could admit that the one about the nightwraith was both factually correct and catchy, but if he got it stuck in his head one more time…

The sky got steadily darker as more verse was added to the song, Jaskier repeating the established bits he’d gotten down the last time they’d been caught out in an awful rain storm. Geralt had caught two rabbits and a grouse in the meantime, hanging them from his saddle.

It could be the wind will come sweep us ahead

Skip days of this trudge—off some cliff, and we’re dead!

The clouds are so dark who’s to say night or noon

To be out in this cold must be truly a l-loon!

The d-damp it sinks in, soaking deep in my cl-lothing

So s-soggy I ssay, soon a Drowner be roaming—

“No,” Jaskier interrupted himself, shaking his head and following to where Geralt was leading off the edge of the path, only barely visible in the snow. “N-no, it’s no longer happy maybe’s, I’m afraid this bit of lyric has gotten away from me.”

Geralt got off Roach and led the two further off the path, listening to the faint whistling of the wind against an opening.

“You know, I don’t suppose it’d be very, ah, good to put the thought of a drowner d-down ones pants either, so—ah! A c-cave! Are we certain that it’s an unoc-c-cupied one?”

Geralt led Roach into the protection the cave’s narrow opening offered, checking the ground just beyond there for any recent markings. Theirs were the only tracks leading in or out of the cave, and that meant exactly nothing with this type of wind.

He checks deeper into the cave and finds nothing but dried brush blown in form years past and old, old bones. He comes back to a shivering bard and the beginnings of a puddle from where Roach shook off snow.

“Hmm.”

“Oh th-thank f-fuck.”

Geralt humms again and heads back out into the blistering cold and wind, heading further into the scrub and trees in a hunt for wood that should still be fairly dry—there was snow, yes, but with the sudden cold snap he’s hoping there’ll be enough just encrusted with snow that they can get a decent fire started.

He brings back what he finds that’s dry, nodding when he finds that Jaskier’s already looked after Roach, her things laid out over one of the rocks, her coat tended to, and sets his pile down next to where Jaskier is setting up rocks for a pit. Heads back out for more wood to put in a pile to dry out.

By the time he’s done Jaskier is still shivering, but has managed to coax a fire into existence; Geralt sees a pile of the dry brush from further in the cave in a heap to the side, more tinder should the fire get low.

They divide preparing the rabbits and cooking in relative silence, Jaskier’s shivering abating to a fine tremor. It’s never completely silent around Jaskier; even now the bard was peering at where he had set his lute, case protecting the instrument form the cold and damp. He’s humming, low and melodious, and every time he glances to his lute he’s flexing his too-pale fingers, and then putting them closer to the fire. Geralt doesn’t recognize the tune. They eat in that same relative silence, colour returning to the bards cheeks… the shivering doesn’t go away.

“Take off your jacket.”

“T-that—oh.”

Jaskier had looked up with a frown that cleared at the sight of Geralt pulling open his own jacket, undoing the ties. Jaskiers hands are still stiff even after the warm meal and the fire, so in the time it takes him to wrestle off his jacket Geralt has his open and has moved to open his bedroll close to the fire. Has pulled both their blankets nearby.

When Jaskier finally frees his last arm from the damp clutch of his sleeve, he seems surprised when Geralt plucks it from his hands, draping it over one of the rocks near the fire.

“D-d-damn it Geralt h-humans need a b-bit more than th-that… w-what are you d-doing?”

It takes very little effort to pull the shivering bard down into his lap and arranging stiff limbs to his satisfaction—tucking his arms into the warm cocoon within his jacket, and using one hand to pull that hunched back into his chest. Geralt arranged the blankets around them and over Jaskiers legs until just his feet were out, propped next to the fire, and pulled the rest around them into a barrier against the cold.

Having access to warmth seems to make Jaskiers shivering worse, chattering teeth just a mess of sound rather than any words Geralt could actually pick out. He hummed in response anyway, and that seemed to satisfy the bard that he was heard enough to settle down in Geralts lap.

That didn’t stop the humming from coming back—Geralts sigh at the sound only has Jaskier wiggling back even further, tilting and turning his head until it was pressed back to Geralts shoulder, and Jaskier was pressing a cold nose to his jaw. The humming was clearer, louder, and Geralt could feel a smile pressed against his neck.

He adjusts how Jaskier is sitting and happens to give him a squeeze, coincidentally pushing all the air from him and halting the noise, if only temporarily—when it starts up again it sounds distinctly fond pressed up against his skin.

The things he does for his bard.

X

Geralt has slipped into a meditative state by the time he realizes that the humming has petered out into even breathing, Jaskier having curled further in his embrace, face tucked into the hollow of his throat.

He’s been adding to the fire as needed, an ear to the howl of the wind—listening for the howl of anything else on the wind.

He’s not looking forward to hearing about a cricked neck from Jaskier however, and makes the decision to shift him; using one arm to prop him and the other to swing his legs first to the side, and then further manoeuvring him around…

Once the hard part is done, Jaskier adjusts himself well enough, tucking his face back into Geralts neck with a sigh, arms going around him and hands up his shirt to press against his warm back. It takes a bit of shuffling but the Bard settles more into his lap, seemingly happy enough to wrap his legs around behind him. Geralt readjusts the blankets to be sure that Jaskier is entirely covered in this new position straddling his lap, and settles back down to monitor the fire.

This new position means that along with not kinking Jaskiers neck, with them belly to belly like this it should keep Jaskiers neck, belly, and groin warm enough to not be damaged by the cold. In the morning he’d leave him on the bedroll to see if he couldn’t find more wood and possibly hunt something else to tide them through until the storm has fully passed. Until then he’d enjoy the rare quiet, arms holding his bard close.

#geraskier #fanfic #xperi writing #xperi prompt #geralt x jaskier #sharing body heat #sharing warmth #co written #soft geralt #cuddles #snuggles #doodle has information about staying warm in winter that i do not

[savage-rhi]

what would higgs do if gene was like unavailable relationship-wise because we all need jealous Higgs in our lives ok

@avenged-nightmare YO. You made me think of this whole drabble when I was in the car doing errands. I think you’re right we need some jelly Higgs 😂💙

Higgs was never the type to regret much, but he could feel it twist and coil in his chest as he watched the locals in town dance to music a small band was playing. As his eyes scanned the horizon, looking over everyone’s happy-go-lucky demeanor, his gaze settled on Gene. Under most circumstances, he would have been amused watching her having fun with folks. Higgs wasn’t a social butterfly, hadn’t been for three years since he went into hiding after Amelie tried to destroy the universe and all life in it, but Gene made it interesting for him. That was until Nick came into the picture. 

Higgs was beating himself up, watching Gene and Nick from afar laughing at some sort of joke before they started dancing. The two couldn’t keep their hands off each other even if their lives depended on it. 

Since Higgs and Gene decided to rest in a settlement after escaping MULEs and needed to ration up for the delivery Eastbound, she had been with Nick the entire time. He was local, an ex-porter turned carpenter in a world where BTs no longer dwelled on earth and civilization could rebuild. A young guy in his late thirties, dark features, a muscled body, had his shit together unlike someone else. Nicks energy outshined Higgs’s charisma, and Gene took to him like a moth to a flame. There was chemistry, even if Higgs dismissed it. 

It shouldn’t have bothered Higgs. Gene could mingle with whoever she wanted. She had needs and Higgs respected that, but that didn’t tamper down how pissed off he was knowing they were joined at the hip the last three days. His mind stupidly wandered over thoughts that further aggravated his stress.  His blood constricted as he caught those little teases of the assumption his brain had conjured about the relationship brewing between Gene and Nick. 

Higgs squinted his eyes, glaring menacingly as he noticed Nick’s arms wrap around Gene’s waist, pulling her closer to him while the music went from vibrant to sensual. His blood boiled. Higgs was tempted to use the last of his remaining powers to put Nick in his place right then and there. 

“How are you holding up?” One of the locals asked Higgs, making him clear his throat as he tried to gain his composure. 

“Pardon?” Higgs asked. 

“You look like you’re close to going on a killing spree,” the man chuckled, shaking his head as he looked in the direction of Gene and Nick. The two were laughing as they swayed, their bodies perfectly synched with the music rising through the crowd. 

“You know, if you want to impress your lady friend, you’re going about it the wrong way.” The man stated as Higgs furrowed his brows, looking over him like he was a lunatic. 

“Ya’ll got the wrong idea, we ain’t an item. I’m just the bodyguard.” Higgs said, crossing his arms. In turn, the local shot Higgs a look that screamed he knew a liar when he saw one. Higgs growled, shaking his head as he looked away and back at the pair. 

“Sure doesn’t explain the crap you’ve pulled these last few days trying to one-up Nick at everything when your porter gal comes around. The arm-wrestling match, the banter, you sabotaging one of Nick’s buildings on purpose, trapping the poor guy in a ditch, trying to knock him down when he was on the portapotty before your gal caught you red-handed and bitched you out in front of everyone and their kin,” the local laughed, slapping Higgs’s shoulder as he shook his head. 

“Call it whatever you want, people can see through your bullshit.”

“Why don’t you fuck off and leave me be?” Higgs said firmly, his voice low as he looked down at the local, who shot his hands up in surrender. 

“Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a twist if he goes in for the kill tonight cause you were too stubborn to say anything about it. I had an idea to help your little predicament, but I guess you’re too proud.” He smiled at Higgs, genuinely, then began to leave. 

Higgs sighed, rubbing his face before he hollered.

“I’ll bite! What the hell ya had in mind?” 

“Thought you’d never ask!” 

 The music settled down while the band adjusted the set. The local shoved a guitar in Higgs’s arms while he bs’d with the lead singer for a moment, talking on Higgs’s behalf while Higgs looked at the crowd. No one was paying attention, too busy enjoying their drinks and chatter to notice what was going on at the front. He eyed Nick and Gene who were taking a break, drinking together. Higgs felt his fingertips squeeze the neck of the guitar, watching how genuine Gene’s smile looked while Nick’s larger than life persona engulfed her attention. 

“Okay! You’re lucky I know the band. You get one song. Make it count,” The local chimed in, snapping Higgs out of his trance as he swallowed.

“What?”

“Haven’t you been paying attention? What song are you gonna play? You said you were good at guitar, no?” 

“Yeah, I am but--”

“Don’t get cold feet, you’re this close to serenading your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girl you two-faced fuckin’ shit weasel--!”

“And you’re on!” 

The local grinned from ear to ear and backed off with the band members. The focus was on Higgs the moment the crowd noticed there was only one person on stage. Higgs would have given anything to punch not only the smug look but thick mustache off the guy's face as he gestured for Higgs to follow through. 

“Fuck me,” Higgs murmured under his breath, gently strumming the strings. He took one last glance over the small waves of people, seeing Gene wasn’t paying mind to anyone but Nick and his shit-eating grin. He could put a cupie doll to shame as far as Higgs was concerned. 

Taking in a deep breath, Higgs sat down on the stool the singer had been using and started to hum. His fingers tested the waters of the instrument, strumming a soft melody as his body began to move along with the beat. 

His brain was fighting with itself, wanting to focus on his envy while the other half debated on what to sing. He had no time to prepare and had never performed in front of a large crowd before. When Higgs was a porter before he threw his lot in with Homo Demens, he played here and there for associates during breaks but that was the extent of showing his talents and hobbies off. 

It was now or never. 

“Unkempt hair, unbroken gal. Strong as the rocks cuttin’ her feet. Never seen somethin’ like you. No, no, I never did. Strange creature, what are you doin’ in an untamed land?” The words broke through Higgs’s lips, voice steady like water smoothing the edges of a rock over time. 

“She crawled up the mountain to me. Her voice soft and steady, I-I don’t know why I never saw stars until that day. Those long, long days. Somethin’ about the way your hair falls in your face brings me back to a place where I could run, and never look back again. Too much spirit for me to take, she’s gone again, free of me free of sin.” Higgs closed his eyes, letting the instrument and its rustic tune speak words that couldn’t be spoken, only felt. He didn’t sense the crowd, not even Gene and Nick--too enraptured in the memories he had of when they had first met.

“Those eyes wide, that smilin’ shine makes me make a beast of myself. Come back to me, come back to the mountain and be with me. Her voice soft and steady, I-I don’t know why I never saw stars until that day. Those long, long days.” There was a pain Higgs allowed to come through his voice, his renewed feelings for life clashing with old ideals and bad habits he had spent years in hiding trying to reconcile. 

“Crawl up the mountain to me. Just a while longer, no-no-no,” Higgs briefly opened his eyes, and he swore in a single split second, Gene was staring right at him. Peering at a past reflection of Higgs that once upon a time begun to quit surviving and started to live when he first became a porter. He’d never admit how much he loved that. Not even to her. 

“Little warrior, crawl back to my mountain and be with me.” Higgs finished, feeling euphoria push down the ill feelings he carried as he received applause. He was quick to let the band go back to their routine, not wanting to steal their thunder despite how much his inner child was relishing at the moment--feeling like a rockstar for a few seconds. 

He needed air. He needed it fast. 

Higgs let out a deep sigh of relief when he exited the huge tent. His fingers shook, carding through his hair for comfort. In hindsight, he probably embarrassed himself, but Higgs wasn’t going to lie, it was beautiful getting a taste of what he could have done with his sad life. 

“Hey,” Gene’s voice broke his train of thought after a while. Higgs cleared his throat, shooting her a quick smile.

“Hey yourself darlin’,” Higgs mused. His face felt warm as she smiled back.

“I didn’t know you wrote your own material,” Gene laughed as Higgs grinned briefly, giving a playful smirk.

“You never asked.”

“That’s fair.” Gene nodded. 

“Where’s Nick?” Higgs asked, looking over Gene’s shoulder before she shrugged. 

“Probably getting more beers,” 

Higgs could sense a disturbance in Gene’s voice, and a twinge of guilt began to sink his gut. As much as he was a jealous asshole, and had been a dick to both of them, deep down Higgs didn’t want to take away Gene’s fun. He knew he was a selfish bastard, realizing it even more so than before.

“He’s probably lookin’ for you. You’re like a mother duck and he can’t stop paddlin’ towards ya.” Higgs said sarcastically.

Gene snorted, shaking her head. 

“I don’t care. I’m sure he’s got plenty of others he can entertain.” 

“Guy’s a-walkin' distraction. Hell, I thought I was a peacockin’ creep way back when. I see what folks admire about Nick.” Higgs chuckled. 

Gene smiled slightly, before taking in a breath. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“If you’re ready for a personal answer,” Higgs smirked. “Shoot.”

“That was us--wasn’t it? The song.”

Whatever grandeur persona Higgs had been putting on during this conversation lept out a window and dived headfirst into an ocean. He was silent for a long time, almost to the very second where Gene prepared to change the subject.

“It was you,” Higgs murmured. “It was all you.” 

Gene’s mouth formed into a grin that made Higgs’s knees feel heavy. Nonetheless, he realized he must’ve embarrassed her doing that whole stunt, much like he did the past few days terrorizing both her and Nick. He was surprised when he felt Gene’s lips on his cheek, her nose softly nudging his skin. 

Gene shrugged keeping her gaze down, smiling big as she walked off to their camp. Higgs watched with a look of awe on his face before he murmured a proud yes to himself. 

He didn’t have the balls to admit his growing attachment to her, the mere porter he bumped into a year ago, but Higgs owned the little victory. It was enough for him. 

**A link to my ko-fi account. If you enjoy my content and want to support me getting my monthly medication for fibromyalgia and arthritis, I would be eternally grateful. It is NOT a requirement however! All my work is free to read!**

#higgs monaghan #death stranding higgs #gene dawkins #death stranding gene #higgs x gene #death stranding #death stranding fandom #drabbles #one shot #quick write #free write #thank you! I KNOW ITS LONG #SORRY #MAYBE CORNY BUT FUCK IT #IT MADE ME HAPPY #hope it made you happy too! #sky of atoms #fanfic verse #avenged-nightmare

[jobean12-blog]

Cheer for me

Pairings: Cheerleader Bucky x reader

Word Count: 1,022

Summary: A new member of the football team causes some trouble in your new found happy world with Bucky, but he handles it just fine. 

Author’s Note: This is for the following request I got! Hope you enjoy it and thank you so much <3

Warnings: slight angst, some fluff and SMUT (18+ eyes only please :)

The weeks were flying by, between cheer practice, classes and spending time with Bucky you were busy all day, every day and it was great. Both cheer squads were really working hard on the choreography of the routine for the big game. Now that you and Bucky were getting along you two had become so in sync while doing stunts and jumps that you were paired up for most of them and it was really fun. You loved that during most of the routine you could be touching him in some way. You always enjoyed the view of his flexing muscles as he held you up during a cupie or caught you in a cradle catch and he was never shy of the fact that he enjoyed the view from below during an extension.

You two even started to study together and while you didn't always get much studying done you somehow managed to make it all work and you found yourself smiling more than you had ever thought you could. That is, until Brock Rumlow, the new quarterback  took notice of you, then you seemed to spend most of your time making faces at him and telling him to 'fuck off.' The first time he had spoken to you was when Bucky had conveniently been in the locker room icing a sprained finger and you were talking with Wanda. Brock came over and introduced himself, standing a bit too close and asking your names to make small talk. He zeroed in on you and asked what you were doing after practice to which you politely answered  that you had a study date with your boyfriend. "Oh, you mean the long-haired guy on the cheer squad? You're really dating a cheerleader? Come on, baby, you can do better than that," he taunted, clearly thinking this would win you over. You let out an obnoxious cackle and didn't even reward him with an answer, simply walking away to find Bucky in the locker room.

You hoped your reaction would have turned him off but small instances continued happening where Brock would make a snarky comment under his breath or give you dirty looks while he was on the field practicing and you and the other cheerleaders were nearby working on the routine. You weren't sure if Bucky ever noticed and didn't care or if he had no idea at all and you decided it was better not to bring it up since you had no intention of having any relationship with Brock whatsoever. Unfortunately, Brock didn't feel the same way and couldn't take no for an answer.

You watched as Bucky had Brock pinned to the ground, his two thick thighs on either side of Brock’s body and his forearm resting uncomfortably close to Brock’s neck. You shouldn't be so turned on, but here you were watching your boyfriend manhandle the asshole football player who decided to make a very rude comment about your hot ass, aloud, for everyone to hear. Unfortunate for Brock, very fortunate for you. You couldn’t help but feel the heat building between your legs as you watch Bucky’s muscles flex under the strain of holding Brock down as he continues to tell him how he “will shove his balls so far down his throat they will come out his asshole” if he so much as looks your way again.

You suddenly feel the need for a cold drink and you need your boyfriend to stop straddling Brock so you can straddle him! You slowly move towards the pair, gently pleading, “come on Buck, let’s go, he isn’t worth it and you’ve made your point.” Bucky looks at you then growls down at Brock and you let out a slightly audible moan at the sound and he picks up on it. He let’s go of Brock with one more look of “I’ll have your ass if you don’t watch it” and smirks your way, stalking toward you with large strides.

He grabs your hand and drags you off the field and toward his truck, pinning you against the door and pressing his body to yours. You can feel the growing hardness between his legs, "see something you like out there, doll? I heard that sound you made, I saw your breath hitch while I told Brock off, did it turn you on?" You look up at him, eyes slightly wide and unsure if you should admit to the truth or if it even matters at this point, you know he is on to you, "I thought it was so hot, I loved watching you defend me," you reply, rubbing your hand over his cock.

Bucky pulls away from you to open the door of this truck and carefully lay you in the back seat, crawling in and shutting the door. There is barely enough room and very little space between your bodies but you manage to switch position so you are sitting up and straddling his waist, the exact position you had hoped to be in. You rub yourself along his hard length, letting out a loud whimper while placing one hand on the ceiling of the car to steady yourself. Bucky grabs at your skirt and hikes it up, ripping your panties from you and tossing the tattered cloth on the floor. He lifts his hips to remove his pants and boxers, grabbing hold of your hips and guiding his cock into your slick heat. You waste no time and begin fucking yourself on his cock, still holding the ceiling with one hand while the other is planted on Bucky's chest. He uses one hand to guide you up and down his length and sets a bruising pace as his other rubs circles on your clit causing your walls to clench around him as you cum. Bucky follows mere moments later, painting your walls with his seed and bringing you to lay on his chest while you both catch your breath. "I'm going to have to threaten to beat the shit out of more guys if this is the reward I get, baby doll," he smirks, kissing you.

@annavega333​ @buckmesideways22​ @book-dragon-13​ @collinsstanharbour​ @eurynome827​ @jewels2876​ @jewelofwinter​ @hiddles-rose​ @loricameback​ @littledarlinhavefaithinme​ @lollypop-lam​ @marvelous-meggi​ @marvelgirl7​ @nerdypinupcrystal​ @randomfandompenguin​ @sallycanwait68​ @spacemansam​ @stuck-y-together​ @southernbell91​ @sebastiansloserclub​

#bucky x reader #bucky x reader smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader smut #bucky barnes x reader fluff #cheerleading au #cheerleader bucky #bucky x reader fluff

[lokilickedme]

Part 3 of Read By Loki Laufeyson - Fifty Shades of Grey

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own (no longer available there) 

Rating:  Mature

Archive Warning:  No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:  F/M

Fandom:  Loki - Fandom, Loki (Marvel) - Fandom, The Avengers (MarvelMovies), Tom Hiddleston - Fandom

Relationship:  Loki/His Book, Ana/Christian

Character:  Loki, Loki Laufeyson, Loki (Marvel), Ana Steele, Christian Grey

Additional Tags:  Explicit Language, this book deserves its own warning tag, one that says DON'T READ ME, Explicit Sexual Content, lame and exceedingly silly descriptions of sex acts

Series:  Part 3 of Read by Loki Laufeyson

Stats:  Originally Published 2016-02-27   Words: 3386 (original version)

Part One:  The Night Manager

Part Two:  High Rise

   50 Shades of Grey, Read By Loki Laufeyson by lokilickedme 

Summary:  Loki reads 50 Shades and throws up multiple times. I would offer my apologies to E.L. James, but she doesn't deserve it. 

Notes:  See the end of the work for notes  

  This shitshow gets on the shaky road with a dedication that made the right side of my face twitch before the story even got started.  It's dedicated to "the master of my universe" and as of right this very moment I'm ready to preemptively toss it into the bathroom, not as reading material for my next luxury soak, but as a replacement for the empty roll of toilet paper that I keep forgetting to run to the store for.  Fuck me people, she didn't even capitalize "master" and ANY GOOD SUB KNOWS THAT NOT CAPITALIZING MASTER IS A MASSIVE SHOW OF DISRESPECT AND YOU DESERVE THE ASS BEATING YOU GET FOR IT - WITH ZERO AFTERCARE.  Don't ask me how I know that, but go ahead and fight me, this is a hill I’m willing to die on.  If this person is writing a book that's touted as an even remotely accurate accounting of a Dom/sub relationship, I can tell you right now, she doesn't know jack shit. 

So I've read a couple of pages and I'm already looking around for my seizure meds when I realize I don't take seizure meds.  I will after this, I might as well go ahead and call it in.  I'm to the part about Wanda the Volkswagon when my anticipatory boner not only goes away, but retracts so far up into my scrotum as a result of the most horrendous writing I've seen this side of Thor's second grade book report on Anne of Green Gables that I'm thinking I might just be female now.  I mean seriously?  This hurts.  I’m not even exaggerating, if you have a penis it’s going to draw up into your gall bladder.  If you have a vulva it’s going to need a vat of Burt’s Bees Extra Moisture Replenishing Salve and a bottle of cranberry capsules.  I’m not even female at the moment and this thing gave me a flaming UTI.

 I’m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time.  Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal. 

People, this is a published book.  Someone got paid for this.  It got made into a movie.  I haven't even gotten to the sex yet and I'm already Google mapping monasteries within a one-hundred mile radius because I'm ready to take my vows.  No, this book hasn't made me believe in a higher power.  It has taken away my will to ever get laid again.

 The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. 

Holy fucking shitballs people, terminal velocity by its very definition means someone is going to die.  Is this person wearing a pressurized speed suit?  Do they hand them to you at the door before you go into the elevator?  How does the building tolerate the mechanics of generating that kind of speed?  And if by some random blessing by some random god who won't be getting any thanks from me she actually survived this trip to the twentieth floor, her brains would be leaking out her asshole.  That's not the way to make a good first impression, sweetheart.  Take the fucking stairs next time.

 It’s a stunning vista, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view.  Wow. 

Yes, wow.  Paralysis is rarely ever momentary darling, and it does ugly things to pretty girls.  Like, rendering you a jelly-like heap on the floor because your muscles don't continue working while you're paralyzed.  Paralysis sort of means your muscles have stopped working. 

I've begun highlighting every word I come across that the author obviously doesn't know the definition to.  Fake it till you make it, right darling?  Five pages in and my yellow pen has died a violent death.

 I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office. Double crap ��� me and my two left feet! 

YOU. 

HAVE. 

GOT. 

TO. 

BE. 

FUCKING. 

KIDDING. 

ME.

In what universe is this ridiculous cutesy sort of shit thought to be amusing?  The cliches are giving me hemorrhoids.  Me and my two left feet?  Not that I'm an expert on Earth terminology and phrasing, but I'm fairly certain people stopped saying shit like that around 1962.  And...I can't believe I'm being forced to say this, but - double crap??  I was already calling my brother a bilgesnipe’s vagina by the time I could crawl, I'm pretty sure the last time I said something as immature and amateurishly silly as double crap I was still in the womb and cursing in Morse Code.  I may actually have even still been a sperm in my father's left testicle.  How old is this writer?

 “Um. Actually–” I mutter.  If this guy is over thirty then I’m a monkey’s uncle.  In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake.  As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me.  I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed.  Must be static.  I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate. 

I'm sorry but I really don't even know where to start.  The Um. Actually- ?  Or the I'm a monkey's uncle?  Maybe it's the staccato pacing?  The elementary school sentence structure?  The fact that all but one sentence of that paragraph has the word I in it, sometimes multiple times?  She placed her hand in his and they shook - sort of like I'm shaking right now.  It's the seizures this damn travesty has provoked, honestly I should sue the author for my prescription costs.  And if that girl's eyelids matched her heart rate then I'm just envisioning one of those blinky-eyed cupie dolls strapped to a paint mixing machine.

 “I own my company.  I don’t have to answer to a board.”  He raises an eyebrow at me.  I flush. 

Yes darling, always do a courtesy flush when the stench is really vomit-inducing.  Like now.  I'm not even going to ask if this conversation is taking place in a bathroom because I can tell you honestly, the bathroom is right where it belongs.

 His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel...or something. 

Something...like, maybe shit, perhaps?

 I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo - 

No darling, trust me, it's not.  A tattoo is something you draw on your body, there's no pounding involved unless you've done the drawing on your vagina.  And if you’re referring to the drum beat, then you should just say so because frankly this is meant to be a sex book and your readers aren’t going to be interested in Googling your sophomoric attempts at using interesting words.  And just as an aside, most humans are going to think of a Scottish marching band when you use that word in that context, and the last thing you want your readers thinking about while you’re sliding into a smut scene is men in plaid skirts blowing bagpipes.

 I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me.  My memories of him did not do him justice.  He’s not merely good-looking – he’s the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking - 

Hold on a second, I wasn't aware I was in this book?  I must have been drunk.  I'm not sure that I would consent to this idiocy even if I was soused off my gourd, so I think I'm going to be filing a second lawsuit for character theft.

 - and he’s here.  Here in Clayton’s Hardware Store.  Go figure. 

Yes, go figure sweetiepie.  Everybody, even handsome people, need replacement U-joints for their toilets.  They come in handy when you're trying to flush books.

 Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body. 

Honey, cognitive functions aren't a part of your body, they're a part of your brain.  So unless your head fell off while you were walking around in Clayton's Hardware Store, I doubt this happened.  If it did, my condolences to Mr Clayton and the other shoppers, I know how traumatic that can be.

 And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain – 

You mean the whole thing?

 - probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata where my subconscious dwells – comes the thought: He’s here to see you. 

I just had another seizure.  It’s a sex book darling, stop trying to use seventy-five cent Merriam Webster words and settle for something along the lines of My fucking head exploded - trust me, at this point your readers will relate to that far more than to the concept of subconscious thought.  Or any thought at all.  And we all know it’s highly unlikely Miss Double Crap Wanda-driving headless-in-Clayton’s-Hardware store is capable of coming up with a term like medulla oblongata after that terminal velocity elevator ride.

 No way! I dismiss it immediately.  Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me?  The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.

 And now your head is completely empty, much like the author's, because that poorly constructed series of sentences was all that was rattling around in there. 

For the sake of moving this along, because I have something to say about literally every fucking sentence in this roll of rough-ass toilet paper, I'm going to skip to the first round of sex and see if anything improves.  Because that's what people do when things aren't going well, isn't it?  They have sex and see if it gets better?  And then if it doesn't, you kick them out and finish up with a fresh pack of batteries and a few minutes of Skinamax and when you wake up in the morning it'll be a whole new day, sunshine.  Because honestly, I just got to the part where her cheeks went the color of the Communist Manifesto and if I don't get to some penis and vagina action I'm going to kill myself.  Besides that, all this double crap inner monologue is starting to make my ballsack clench up. 

So alright people, I've got my lube and my right hand ready, let's get this party started shall we?

  "Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?”  Holy shit.  Did I just say that? 

Well it certainly wasn't me.  Having medulla oblongata issues again, are we sweetheart?

 His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly.  “No, Anastasia it doesn’t.  Firstly, I don’t make love.  I fuck... hard." 

Finally, someone steps up.  Is that the sound of zippers headed south I hear?

 "Secondly, there’s a lot more paperwork to do, and thirdly, you don’t yet know what you’re in for.  You could still run for the hills.  Come, I want to show you my playroom.” 

Nope, my mistake.  Zippers firmly holding north.  How far is this fellow going to count?  Do people actually do that cheesy little “Firstly, secondly” speech tic all the way up to thirdly?  I usually only get to secondly before someone pops me in the mouth.  Somehow I have no trouble envisioning this obviously anal retentive Christian fellow proceeding right along to fourthly, fifthly, sixthly, seventhly...perhaps he has a numbers fetish to go along with that paperwork obsession of his.  If this is foreplay I'm leaving because math was never my strong point and I’ll be damned if I’m going to relive the hell of ninth grade just to get a two page smut scene.  If you want to have sex with me we get to firstly, I point to my zipper, and the game is on.  But he does get points for being forthright enough to come right out up front with the admission that he's such a rough fucker there have to be contracts involved.  Kudos my man.  Too bad he wrecked it by planting that playroom visual immediately after, because now all I can think about is a toybox full of Legos and a plastic xylophone.  Even I can't make anything kinky out of that.

 My mouth drops open.  Fuck hard!  Holy shit, that sounds so... hot.  But why are we looking at a playroom?  I am mystified.  “You want to play on your Xbox?” 

Yes darling, Fuck hard!  It sounds like a Bruce Willis movie, only this time he's not in an office building crawling through the ceiling or on an airplane fighting off terrorists, he's tied to a bed while Bonnie Bedelia drips hot wax on his scrotes.  It's a real shame we lost Alan Rickman, I'd give anything to see Hans Gruber standing at the foot of the bed in a leather corset intoning Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker just one more time.

As for playing on his Xbox, the Sims have a "whoo hoo" function.  That's all I'm going to say about that.

 - it feels like I’ve time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition.  Holy fuck. 

Ah yes, the good old days of the Inquisition.  I had quite a wonderful time during that era, it was a sado-masochistic wet dream.  And no, I wasn't an Inquisitor...I worked as a volunteer equipment tester for the Vatican.  There wasn't a steel spiked ball cage or 360-degree nipple twister that earned my seal of approval until I screamed for my mommy.  Something tells me this pansy-ass little ninny isn't going to make it past the electroshock vulva clamps before she's crying for every matriarchal figure in her family all the way back to the Charlemagne era.

 “It’s about gaining your trust and your respect, so you’ll let me exert my will over you.  I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy even, in your submission.  The more you submit, the greater my joy – it’s a very simple equation.”  “Okay, and what do I get out of this?”  He shrugs and looks almost apologetic.  “Me,” he says simply. 

Um...no. Just no.  Unequivocally NO.  That isn't how it works, E.L. James.  Not in the slightest.  In a true Dom/sub relationship the submissive receives every bit as much as the Dominant, and there is no two ways around that.  Anything less is bullshit and whoever you're trying to force-feed this lie to should leave running and punch you in the crotch on the way out.  I sincerely hope anyone reading this nonsense is doing so on a dare and not because they want to learn about D/s dynamics, because you're obviously not going to learn anything from this book except how to be a lip-biting ningnong who doesn't do much more than chat merrily with herself inside her medulla oblongata while mentally spouting double crap! on repeat every thirty-seven seconds.  And any respect I had for this Grey fellow for being up front about his sexual preferences just went out the window, which coincidentally is where the lip-biting ningnong should be headed.  Like he said - you could still run for the hills. 

Skipping ahead...skipping ahead...my god are these idiots ever going to do it?  I'm on page 194 and so far the closest they've come to coitus is when he almost ejaculated in his pants in an apoplectic rage when she told him she was a virgin.

 “Ah,” I groan. 

Ack, I puke.

 “You smell so good,” he murmurs and closes his eyes, a look of pure pleasure on his face, and I practically convulse.  He reaches up and tugs the duvet off the bed, then pushes me gently so I fall on to the mattress. 

I'm practically convulsing too darling, but unfortunately not with pleasure.  I need more anti-seizure meds, I've already gone through the entire bottle.  I'll be starting on the Xanax next and then it’s another call to my HMO.

 I’m panting... wanting. 

I'm vomiting...heaving.

 Not taking his eyes off mine, again he runs his tongue along my instep and then his teeth.  Shit.  I groan... how can I feel this, there? 

Hold up a second - this is a man who is so persnickety he pulls the duvet off the bed before he lets her set her ass on it, but now less than a page later he's just removed her sneaker and is licking the bottom of her sweaty all-day Converse encased foot?  My capacity for suspension of disbelief is not only wavering at this point, it’s pretty much died a slow and painful death.  Which is what I feel like I’m doing.  And if a man is holding eye contact while licking the bottom of your foot, he’s either upside down or your leg is so high up in the air he could be looking up your hooch and seeing himself through your left nostril.

“How do you make yourself come?  I want to see.”  I shake my head.  “I don’t,” I mumble.

I call bullshit.  She’s twenty-one, a virgin, and has never diddled herself?  That’s about as likely as me never having had intercourse with a horse.

“Let go, baby,” he murmurs.  His teeth close around my nipple, and his thumb and finger pull hard, and I fall apart in his hands, my body convulsing and shattering into a thousand pieces.

Huh.  And here all this time I’ve been laboring under the delusion that more was required than just two short paragraphs worth of nipple play.  This girl is a physical wonder, her nipples are clitorises.  Clitori?  Clitterati?  However you say multiple clits.  I know playing with them feels nice and I’ve made more than one maiden squirm with a few well placed sucks and a pinch or two, but this girl was climaxing before he even got her out of her brassiere.  Someone get her a job at the Kinsey Institute.

Suddenly, he sits up and tugs my panties off and throws them on the floor.

I hope they didn’t land on the duvet, he went to such trouble to keep it from getting mussed.

Pulling off his boxer briefs, his erection springs free.  Holy cow...

Rather like a jack-in-the-box, I’m envisioning.  Holy cow indeed.  Twist the handle and Pop Goes The Weasel plays while you wait in panicked anticipation for that horrid little clown to burst out of the hinged metal box and scare the shit out of you.  Well, he did say playroom, didn’t he.  Oh, and boxers and briefs are two entirely different things, my dear.  The further we get into this silly little tale the more convincing my sneaking suspicion that the author has never actually met a man before.

“I’m going to fuck you now, Miss Steele” he murmurs as he positions the head of his erection at the entrance of my sex.

I’m sorry, I know I’m an adult and all but I’m giggling like a sixth grade girl that wandered into the wrong locker room at school.  And for the record, I know exactly what that sounds like because I’ve done it.  But this...this is just...holy fucking hell with twice the fire and ten times the brimstone, that sentence up there just chemically castrated me.  The head of his erection at the entrance of her sex.  I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume it means he put his cock on her pussy and we’ll call it fair and move along.

“Hard, he whispers, and he slams into me.  “Aargh!” I cry -

To quote Miss Steele, holy fuck!  His dick is so big it’s turned her into a pirate!

He speeds up.  I moan, and he pounds on, picking up speed, merciless, a relentless rhythm, and I keep up, meeting his thrusts.

Is anyone else envisioning these two jogging through the park playing bongos?  Just me?  Okay.  Oh and for future reference, because I assume this world isn’t lucky enough to escape at least three sequels to this travesty, no sentence should have as many commas as it has words unless the person speaking it is being punched in the mouth between each syllable.

Two orgasms...coming apart at the seams, like the spin cycle on a washing machine, wow.

Darling if the spin cycle on my washing machine made anything come apart at the seams I’d be at Home Depot demanding they make good on the warranty.  Which, something tells me, you should be doing with this new man of yours.

He increases the rhythm infinitesimally, and his breathing becomes more erratic.  My insides start quickening, and Christian picks up the rhythm.

I looked up infinitesimally, mainly because I’ve never actually seen it in print before and it’s such a strange looking word.  I laughed so hard my Xanax came out my nose when Google offered up this definition:  immeasurably small, exceedingly little, less than an assignable quantity.  To give it a meaning, it must usually be compared to another infinitesimal object in the same context.  Mr Grey, I do believe your tight coochied little virgin just called your dick tiny.

“You. Are. Mine.  Come for me, baby,” he growls.  His words are my undoing, tipping me over the precipice.  My body convulses around him, the precipice.  My body convulses around him, and I come, loudly calling out a garbled version of his name into the mattress.

Well damn, I have to say I’m impressed, both with the uncanny power this fellow’s voice has to make orgasms happen from out of thin air, as well as this girl’s ability to climax on demand after never having done so in her entire life previous to this encounter.  That’s three times now she’s “shattered into a million pieces” all over the fucking bed - thank god he had the presence of mind to toss the duvet on the floor, because those stains would never come out.  He’d probably be getting a visit from the local police as soon as Mrs Fratelli at the dry cleaners got a good look at it.  And I don’t know about anyone else but I really want to hear this “garbled version” of his name that she called out into the mattress.  No, really.  I want to hear it because I’m imagining something like what went down in the Caves of Caerbannog when the Knights were debating the pronunciation of the last word written on the wall.  Does that make Ana’s orgasms the sexual equivalent of the Black Beast of Argh?

I’ll wait for you to hit Google on that one.  Go ahead, I’ll wait.  I’ve got all the time in the world.  I still have six hours of studio time booked and this travesty of a novel is now residing in stall #2 in the mens room and I’m sitting here playing with the roll of toilet paper I stole.  It was a worthwhile trade.  The word Charmin printed four million times on these little squares in infinitely more intellectually stimulating than that undigested goat’s dinner we were reading.

Fifty shades of TP’ing E.L. James’s house, anyone?

End Notes:  All passages in italics are the property of E.L. James, and as far as I’m concerned she can keep them.

#Loki Reads #50 Shades of Grey

[morningstarlucemon]

How can you describe the way your body feels when going through an evolution or mode change, and the strangeness of it all?

“I suppose after so many years it becomes less strange, but it is indeed one of the few things that has not quite lost its novelty for me– perhaps because I don’t get to do it as often as some. It is difficult to describe. And this comparison might seem silly, but to me, it feels like when you are in the heart of a live concert, your favorite high-octane song pounding in your ears almost to the point of deafness, the words of the singer vibrating in your very bones and complimented by the notes that are held by the instruments– that sense of being truly and fully alive. It’s exciting. Feeling your data come apart and grow and rearrange itself into a whole new form, your body becoming something greater, your senses extending even father into the universe… There really is not any describing it in words.

“The physical sensations, for me, are different for every evolution. So I imagine it must also be different for every Digimon. Going from Cupimon to Rookie Mode, or even Putimon to Cupi– something I haven’t done in some time– is… probably the strangest in terms of bodily changes.

“From Puti to Cupi, you go from having just two small wings, to six fully functional and articulated limbs including two arms, two legs, and two wings. The more complex body is downright jarring. Apparently the first time I did it I stumbled around like a drunk mon for several days, or walked like I had something stuck on my feet– in other words I mostly flew everywhere.

“Cupi to Rookie mode it is, surprisingly, slightly less disorienting. You do have to get used to ten more limbs– the extra wings– but after going from two to six, it’s sort of more of the same. The biggest shock there is the size difference. Most Cupimon are the size of medium to large rabbits. Rookie mode is the size of a human child. So you become somewhere around ten times your original size by the end of the transformation. It’s a big saddening when you can no longer fit in your favorite hidy-hole.

“Then of course there’s Rookie to Ultimate. Again, this isn’t an incredible shock. You are again going through a size growth, and you gain one more set of wings. But again, this is all things I go through in lesser evolution, as well. For my ultimate evolution, the biggest change is the expense of power. My Rookie Mode is already incredibly strong. Falldown is actually only slightly stronger. The difference is in how much of that power is being released. It is like going from potential energy to kinetic energy. In Rookie, it’s largely contained into a very small body. In Falldown Mode, my power is being used and expressed much more readily. The first time I evolved to Ultimate I nearly lost control of my body. Though, I did have something to channel all of that strength at… So it wasn’t as destructive as it could have been.

“Regardless, the sudden release of power takes a lot out of you. That is why, back during my days in Heaven, despite having the ability to Digivolve, I rarely left my Rookie stage. Firstly, I didn’t have to. I was strong enough like that. Second, Digivolving up would almost always result in an eventual reversion, which would leave me extremely vulnerable which I did not care for, especially if it was unplanned. It was only when I was much older that I was able to maintain Falldown for any extended length of time. And I will admit that since partnering with Aaron, it has gotten even easier. And my reversions are less draining when they do happen.

“I would rather not go into much detail about Satan Mode. Despite it being the pinnacle of my power, my mega is not a form I enjoy inhabiting in any way, shape, or form.”

#Anonymous #☉ Records (headcanons) #☉ Ask and You Shall Receive (answers) #☉ From the Angel's Lips (ic rambling)

[blue-means-stop]

Unsoupervised

FANDOM: Undertale AO3 LINK: Link CHAPTERS: 1/1 RATING: T WORD COUNT: 1506 words WARNINGS/TAGS: Food mention, awful vaguely sexual puns, a bunch of dorks being dorks, a whole lot of sass, and some light shit posting.

DESCRIPTION: I haven’t felt a desire to really write lately, however that didn’t stop me from harassing the discord chat I’m apart of, with really lousy ideas. Here’s one of them involving the Pap6. Twist belongs to itsladykit and Portugal belongs to sansy-fresh, both used with permission. I’m sorry.

---

Standing in the infamous pasta/Mexican/Asian/Random Non American Food aisle, Fell shifted his stance to achieve better judgment with a cocked hip. He stared at the absolutely awful selection of all of three pastas and tried to ignore the low key building ire. The local grocery store, a generic chain store at that, was severely lacking in a lot of everything. He should have turned around the moment he whiffed bleach and the faint aroma of rotten onions. Why were there two different elbow macaroni? Fell eyed one box than the other with a deliberate frown. They were physically the same thing, only one seemed to be an off brand, claiming to be better than name brand. The cartoony thumbs up did little to persuade him.

But elbow macaroni? He scoffed under his breath. What was he, some soccer mom with a taste for bland, tasteless macaroni salad with olives, trying to pass it off as some gourmet secret recipe at the last PTA meeting. We all know you got it off the back of a Kraft box, Helen.

He’d lost track of time, reasoning and the others, the wild pack of Papyri that had strong armed him in tagging along, only to scatter in separate directions the moment they stepped through the automatic doors. The droning, repetitive elevator music the store piped through speakers that could only have originated from the Stone Age had wiped away his ability to care.  Was that…? He tipped his skull to take in the piano rendition of a Whitesnake classic. Fell hummed. Maybe it was better if he cared even less.

Keeping one clawed hand on his cart to prevent it from rolling away (He always got stuck with the one with a shitty wheel), he eyed his three options for the seventh time and lofted a brow at the abrupt cut of music. There was a sharp, ear piercing shriek of feedback as some seventeen year old, stock boy probably named Steve, breathed heavily into the microphone before pulling it away to stop the shrieking of the damned.

“Will a Mr. Fell...” The awkward pause promised so much. “Hot Topic, please come to the front of the store. Your son is waiting for you. A Mr. Fell Hot Topic. Your son is waiting.”

The sudden return of music did nothing the quell the sudden loathing of taking any of his idiots with him on errands. With a rueful sigh that trailed off into a low sound of the undead, Fell shoved the box of pasta back on the shelf, straightened it, and stalked off with his click clacking cart.

It was Slim waiting for him, because of course it was. He stood leaning against the small freezers filled with bags of ice and looking unnecessarily smug. Fell contemplated walking out the store and leaving the others to whatever their fate decided. Instead he settled with catching Slim across the ankles with his slow, creaking, runaway cart.

Unbothered by the vicious attack, Slim leaned into him conspirator like, voice quiet as if he was about to impart some mildly decent wisdom. “i have to show you something.” His breath smelled like butterscotch and he nodded gravely before padding off, hands in his coat pockets that crinkled with penny candy wrappers.

“DO I EVEN HAVE A CHOICE?”

Fell knew he shouldn’t have followed, but he found himself abandoning his cart in favor of doing just that. He had no ties to it or the lone box of cereal and can of crushed tomatoes laying inside. If it was meant to be, they’d be there when he returned.

Slim led him past the gauntlet of empty checkout stands, finding only one open, no matter how many people were in line, to a group of people Fell had been actively ignoring. If there was anything he’d learned in his life, large group of humans meant trouble. Slim nodded to the group and Fell wasn’t sure what he was suppose to do. He nodded again, making a show of canting his head to the ground as if to make a point.

Before Fell could gripe at him to just tell him what he wanted, he spotted a familiar pair of orange sneakers on the floor and his soul skipped a beat. Shouldering his way through the group, magic crackling at the ends of his phalanges, not caring how close and how many they were before he stopped short.

Stretch laid sprawled on the ground, pointedly refusing to acknowledge he had one arm stuck inside a claw machine game, looking entirely nonplussed at the gathering crowd. Two workers stood next to him, keeping the curious onlookers back as one unsuccessfully tried to free him. Stretch didn’t seem to mind them, his attention directed toward Twist, who’d taken residence atop of the nearby pallet of stacked dog food.

“-i am one of the smartest monsters you will ever meet.” Stretch countered, Fell having missed the beginning of whatever irrational dispute the ashtray was trying to argue.

“Uh huh.” Twist tucked his legs under him, sitting cross legged. 

“i have a PhD!”

“‘Kay.” He rested his chin in his hands, hunched over with the softest grin.

“so i don’t need your attitude.”

Twist nodded, agreeing with ease. “So why is yer hand stuck, sweetheart.”

“becaUSE I WON THIS CUPIE DOLL FAIR AND SQUARE.”

Fell sighed painfully, scrunching his nasal bridge and couldn’t decide if he wanted to rub his temples to ease the sudden and completely unprovoked headache or fold his arms in utter disappointment. He tried for both.

“babe!” Stretched cried happily, leaning forward only to be stopped short by his predicament.

“Do you know this gentleman?” asked one of the workers, two seconds away from taking a crowbar to the machine.

Stretch beamed at him “…I HAVE NEVER SEEN THIS MONSTER BEFORE IN MY LIFE.”

“rude.”

He wasn’t going to dignify that with a response, especially when Twist chuckled fondly at them both. “I EXPECTED YOU TO KEEP AN EYE ON HIM, TWISTED.”

Twist gave a light shrug, content to watch as Slim sidled up beside him, long enough to snap a picture and type out a message on his phone. He reflexively smiled without looking up as Twist settled an arm over his shoulders. His phone pinged as his message was sent and slipped it back into his pocket, offering a loose candy to the other who gave a light shake of his head.

“ARE YOU QUITE DONE?”

“no,” Stretch muttered, stubbornly, folding his one free arm across his chest.

Fell fought the urge to sigh again. “IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU, YOU’LL LET GO OF THAT RIDICULOUS TOY.”

“are you gunna spank me if I don’t?”

Could a monster dust of an actual annoyed induced soul attack? Did that kind of thing even exist? Fell pinched the bridge of his nasal bone. “YOU ARE KILLING ME,” he growled. “YOU ARE KILLING YOUR ONLY RIDE HOME.”

“Aww, sweetheart, it ain’t that bad,” Twist interjected.

“i clitterally don’t know what you’re talking about.” Stretched reclined back, tucking his arm behind his head to cushion it against the claw machine.

Fell stilled. “DID YOU… THAT’S A COMPLETELY INAPPROPRIATE PUN IN A PUBLIC SETTING! THERE’S LITERALLY NO BUILD UP TO IT.” He wasn’t sure if he was actually more bothered by the awful pun or zero reasoning behind it.

One of the workers, Bob by the nametag, cautiously raised the crow bar in his hand. “Do we still need to get him out?”

“snatchurally.”

“I WANT A DIVORCE.”

“we aren’t even married, felly.”

The slow, quiet hum of a motorized scooter denoted the arrival of Cash, sitting quite at ease as it crept forward, regardless of who’s toes were in the way. He stopped once he cleared the group of amused humans and glanced at everyone in turn, phone in hand and one eye silently judging over the mountain of cigarette cartons in his basket. Slowly without breaking eye contact, he backed up, scooter beeping before he drove on, heading for the front door in one very surreal moment.

“Sir, you can’t take that outside,” the other worker started after him, exasperated, “Sir. Sir!”

Fell was fairly certain this was what having a stroke felt like.

“Aaaand he’s gone,” Twist announced before sitting up straight. “Anyone see P?”

A sharp toot of a horn resounded from behind the closed sliding doors, momentarily becoming louder as the worker walked after Cash, ensuing a slow speed chase through the parking lot. The horn honked again, longer and impossibly louder, drawing the lingering curious to look.

Portugal leaned impatiently out the passenger side window of their vehicle, glaring back at the group. “Get a move on, fuckos. I ain’t got all day!”

Fell patted his pockets for his car keys, finding them mysteriously missing. “WHO THE HELL GAVE HIM MY KEYS?” At the chorus of shrugs, he refrained from dragging his hands down his face and marched toward the entryway. “PORTUGAL! GIVE- DON’T YOU FLIP ME OFF RUNT!”

#My writing #Undertale #Underswap #Underfell #Swapfell #Fellswap #Twistfell #Portugal #Papyrus #fanfiction #low key #papcest #if you squint #spicyhoney

[tripistanbul]

New Post has been published on

Theoderic had become contract armies

Groups gathering around and following generals like Theoderic had become contract armies, willing to serve Rome for the right pay, but equally willing to choose independence and look out for themselves. They took their identity from the leader’s family, while embracing a broad mixture of backgrounds and ethnicities. The community Theodemer and then Theoderic inspired could easily tell a story about its history in the Balkans going back almost a century. Given half an excuse, its historians would embroider that account with other, more edifying but less relevant anecdotes about more distant pasts and places, stories that none then thought to disbelieve.

In the 470s, when Theoderic went back to his father, the armies like his that worked and lived in the Balkans were often at odds with the home office in Constantinople, which eyed them warily. Emperors gave com¬mands and sent along gifts, which weren’t quite bribes, to ensure that the commands would be obeyed. But meanwhile, Zeno, the emperor formerly known as Tarasicodissa, was fending off rebellion closer to home from a general, Basiliscus, who sought the throne for himself. Basiliscus was probably the uncle of Odoacer, the strongman then busy making and unmaking emperors in Italy with an army of his own, which Zeno also interpreted as a threat to his power travel ottoman bulgaria.

Zeno was immediately successful against Basiliscus, and he rewarded those who supported him, including Theoderic. Still young, probably not yet thirty, Theoderic was named “patrician” and “master of soldiers in the imperial presence,” the highest, if honorary, military ranks of the empire, and Zeno declared him to be his own son at arms and comrade as well. In the way of such compacts among strong leaders, tension continued, and by 478, Theoderic had made peace and an alliance with another leader in the Balkans, another Theoderic, usually called Theoderic Strabo—that is, “Theoderic the cross-eyed”—to distinguish him from his more famous neighbor. Together they demanded support for their troops, for this was a world in which emperors had learned to outsource or privatize defense, accepting the idea that in large areas, protection would come by contract with independent leaders like Theoderic rather than by regular stipends paid to directly subordinated soldiers and officers. Pressed for a better deal by his contractors, an emperor would bob and weave and temporize, looking for the best deal he could get. Zeno might offer Theoderic money, but in this case he also proffered the hand of Anicia Juliana, the daughter of a well-born but short-lived western emperor of the last generation, Olybrius. Theoderic declined that offer, but one wonders what this strong- willed woman—whom we will meet again—might have done in alliance with an equally resourceful man.

During those years

Zeno was not out of the woods yet, for another rebel, Illus, preoc-cupied him well into the late 480s. Illus holed up in Zeno’s native Isauria, where he was eventually hunted down and killed. During those years, Theoderic and his forces remained mainly on the southern shores of the Danube, in modern Bulgaria, between the river and the Haemus mountains. They guarded the border well enough, but ranged south from time to time, making unwelcome visits down into Macedonia and as far as Thessalonica, or ranging west along the ancient Roman highway, the Egnatian Way, as far as Dyrrachium (Durazzo) on the Adriatic shore. At one point, Zeno suggested that Theoderic retire to the vicinity of Skopje in northern Macedonia, to protect Thessalonica and Roman interests in the southwestern Balkans, but Theoderic continually returned to the east and the Danube country.

Theoderic’s actions were, by now, perfectly normal—but as recently as 100 years earlier they would have been taken as an unprecedented invasion by outsiders. At this moment in the late fifth century, the Balkans had become, uniquely among the old Roman lands, a wild west frontier society. By 500, the zone between the Egnatian Way and the Danube, which had never been as fully romanized as the other provinces, was a borderland between other more coherently unified, governed, and pacified states and communities. If we stand back and take a long view, the decay of the good order of the Balkans from the late fourth century to the late fifth century marks a retreat from the iron-handed enforcement of occupation that the Roman army had once been able to muster. Rome had never managed to get beyond military occupation to a hearts and minds transformation of the countryside and the establishment of a genuinely flourishing Roman city life in these provinces. When Roman resources were overextended, the provincialized and outsourced defense that someone like Theoderic could offer was the best emperors could do. If we regret this transition and mark it as a sign of decline, we must remember to blame the first four centuries of empire for not doing a better—harsher—job of making this corner of the realm fully Roman, prosperous, and secure.

#Theoderic had become contract armies

[cksmart-world]

SMART BOMB

The completely unnecessary news analysis

by Christopher Smart

February 8, 2022

REPUBLICANS CANNABALIZE THEIR OWN IN UTAH DRAMA

We've done it again and it didn't even take child brides, kidnappings, Olympic bribery scandals or Mike Lee. It was the shot heard 'round the world. While poor Mike Pence was in Florida telling the stiffs at the Federalist Society that the vice president has no right to overturn an election, back here in SLC the National Republican Committee huddled deep in the bowels of the Grand America Hotel to figure out how to legally tar and feather Liz Cheney and Adam Kinzinger. The pair are the only Republicans who sit on the House Select Committee on Jan. 6 and have been asking hard questions about Trump's Big Lie and the patriots who overran the Capital looking to “hang Mike Pence.” The RNC censured Cheney and Kinzinger because of their "persecution of ordinary citizens engaged in legitimate political discourse." If a deadly insurrection isn't legitimate political discourse, what is? The conservative National Review called NRC's Utah dictum, “morally repellent.” Speaking of eating their own, the GOP chairwoman responsible for the “political discourse” language is Ronna McDaniel, the niece of Mitt Romney — the senator who has been fund-raising for Cheney. He may get his own suit of tar and feathers — but most likely only Mike Pence will be hanged.

GONDOLA TO LINK UTAH LAKE ISLANDS TO SNOWBIRD

The fabulous new proposal to build 34 islands in Utah Lake wasn't getting anywhere fast, so their engineering brainiacs teamed up with the Little Cottonwood Canyon Gondola people for a boondoggle that is bound to bring people here from all over the world. The new plan would build a tram from the proposed Utah Lake Islands to Snowbird and Alta — The Greatest Gondola On Earth. “When you think about it, it's a no-brainer,” said one investor who remained anonymous so his parents wouldn't cut off his allowance. Both projects had attracted critics who said the gondola was expensive and stupid and the island-building project was expensiver and stupider. But developers say those folks lack imagination. Think about it, you can leave your lake-side cabana, hop on the gondola and eat lunch at 11,000 feet at Snowbird's' Summit Restaurant — and you don't even have to ski. You can ride the gondola back to Utah Lake in time for evening fishing from your deck. Where else can you do that? It will be the most ridiculous project in the world. Don't wait! Get in on the Island Gondola ground floor before people from London, Paris, Amsterdam, Tokyo and Moab buy the place up. Of course there are always environmental concerns, but those critics can be sued into submission. It's as good as a done deal. Act now! (Bitcoin not accepted.)

SHOCK AND AWE: MASKED SINGER CONSPIRACY

Things are so weird these days that it's practically impossible to shock anyone. Wait, hold the phone. BREAKING NEWS: Rudy Giuliani — who could be charged with conspiratorial sedition, doubles as Trump's idiot puppet and scurries around Europe trading arms for dirt on Biden — was the featured guest on The Masked Singer tv show. (We are not making this up.) No one told us the Proud Boys were now producing The Masked Singer for the Fox network. Yes, Fox, who else. So much for the shock value of Trump's first White House spokesman Sean Spicer appearing on Dancing With The Stars. Ho-hum. So taken aback were Masked Singer hosts Ken Jeong and Robin Thicke that they bolted the set fearing they could end up in the same frame with Giuliani after he took off his costume's giant, blonde cupie-doll head — leaving the stunning sight of a huge cupie-doll with a Giuliani head. But hey, we live in a world where the former president rode to fame on reality TV as host of The Apprentice for 11 seasons, which, qualified him to wear a president's costume and call everyone else FAKE NEWS. None of this, however, seems to embarrass the Republican Party. Rudy is, after all, the GOP's answer to “a man for all seasons.”

Post script — That'll do it for another white-knuckle week here at Smart Bomb, where the staff keeps tabs on Utah Congressman Burgess Owens so you don't have to get indigestion. Speaking of which, Democrat Darlene McDonald says she will run against the ultra-MAGA Owens for Utah's 4th Congressional seat. Do you believe in miracles? We certainly could use one. From our “Who Dat” file, James Huntsman — of The Huntsman Family — has renewed his multi-million dollar suit against the LDS Church after it was tossed out on summary judgement by a federal court in California. His appeal says the old boys in the Tower of Power fraudulently spent his tithing dollars to build the City Creek Center mall, rather than on charitable purposes. Still, the mall does have a spiritual feel about it. In a Tribune feature on SLC Mayor Erin Mendenhall's first two years — which were marked by a hurricane-level windstorm, a pandemic, an earthquake and police unrest, among other things — Mendenhall is quoted as saying, “I'd be good in an alley fight.” Always looking prim and proper and lacking bloody knuckles, it's hard to picture. Wilson and the band say they wouldn't take her on — a pretty low bar. But as Dizzy Dean used to say, “If you can do it, it ain't braggin.”

Alright Wilson, we know you're a lover not a fighter. So you wouldn't be much good to Mayor Erin. But “Her Honor” does need a good theme song to hum while she takes on the next disaster. So get the guys in the band and let it rip:

I see the bad moon a-rising I see trouble on the way I see earthquakes and lightning I see bad times today Don't go around tonight Well, it's bound to take your life There's a bad moon on the rise I hear hurricanes a-blowing I know the end is coming soon I fear rivers overflowing I hear the voice of rage and ruin Don't go around tonight Well, it's bound to take your life There's a bad moon on the rise Hope you got your things together Hope you are quite prepared to die Looks like we're in for nasty weather One eye is taken for an eye Well, don't go around tonight Well, it's bound to take your life There's a bad moon on the rise

(Bad Moon Risin' — John Fogerty)

[oldcityistan]

New Post has been published on

Theoderic had become contract armies

Groups gathering around and following generals like Theoderic had become contract armies, willing to serve Rome for the right pay, but equally willing to choose independence and look out for themselves. They took their identity from the leader’s family, while embracing a broad mixture of backgrounds and ethnicities. The community Theodemer and then Theoderic inspired could easily tell a story about its history in the Balkans going back almost a century. Given half an excuse, its historians would embroider that account with other, more edifying but less relevant anecdotes about more distant pasts and places, stories that none then thought to disbelieve.

In the 470s, when Theoderic went back to his father, the armies like his that worked and lived in the Balkans were often at odds with the home office in Constantinople, which eyed them warily. Emperors gave com¬mands and sent along gifts, which weren’t quite bribes, to ensure that the commands would be obeyed. But meanwhile, Zeno, the emperor formerly known as Tarasicodissa, was fending off rebellion closer to home from a general, Basiliscus, who sought the throne for himself. Basiliscus was probably the uncle of Odoacer, the strongman then busy making and unmaking emperors in Italy with an army of his own, which Zeno also interpreted as a threat to his power travel ottoman bulgaria.

Zeno was immediately successful against Basiliscus, and he rewarded those who supported him, including Theoderic. Still young, probably not yet thirty, Theoderic was named “patrician” and “master of soldiers in the imperial presence,” the highest, if honorary, military ranks of the empire, and Zeno declared him to be his own son at arms and comrade as well. In the way of such compacts among strong leaders, tension continued, and by 478, Theoderic had made peace and an alliance with another leader in the Balkans, another Theoderic, usually called Theoderic Strabo—that is, “Theoderic the cross-eyed”—to distinguish him from his more famous neighbor. Together they demanded support for their troops, for this was a world in which emperors had learned to outsource or privatize defense, accepting the idea that in large areas, protection would come by contract with independent leaders like Theoderic rather than by regular stipends paid to directly subordinated soldiers and officers. Pressed for a better deal by his contractors, an emperor would bob and weave and temporize, looking for the best deal he could get. Zeno might offer Theoderic money, but in this case he also proffered the hand of Anicia Juliana, the daughter of a well-born but short-lived western emperor of the last generation, Olybrius. Theoderic declined that offer, but one wonders what this strong- willed woman—whom we will meet again—might have done in alliance with an equally resourceful man.

During those years

Zeno was not out of the woods yet, for another rebel, Illus, preoc-cupied him well into the late 480s. Illus holed up in Zeno’s native Isauria, where he was eventually hunted down and killed. During those years, Theoderic and his forces remained mainly on the southern shores of the Danube, in modern Bulgaria, between the river and the Haemus mountains. They guarded the border well enough, but ranged south from time to time, making unwelcome visits down into Macedonia and as far as Thessalonica, or ranging west along the ancient Roman highway, the Egnatian Way, as far as Dyrrachium (Durazzo) on the Adriatic shore. At one point, Zeno suggested that Theoderic retire to the vicinity of Skopje in northern Macedonia, to protect Thessalonica and Roman interests in the southwestern Balkans, but Theoderic continually returned to the east and the Danube country.

Theoderic’s actions were, by now, perfectly normal—but as recently as 100 years earlier they would have been taken as an unprecedented invasion by outsiders. At this moment in the late fifth century, the Balkans had become, uniquely among the old Roman lands, a wild west frontier society. By 500, the zone between the Egnatian Way and the Danube, which had never been as fully romanized as the other provinces, was a borderland between other more coherently unified, governed, and pacified states and communities. If we stand back and take a long view, the decay of the good order of the Balkans from the late fourth century to the late fifth century marks a retreat from the iron-handed enforcement of occupation that the Roman army had once been able to muster. Rome had never managed to get beyond military occupation to a hearts and minds transformation of the countryside and the establishment of a genuinely flourishing Roman city life in these provinces. When Roman resources were overextended, the provincialized and outsourced defense that someone like Theoderic could offer was the best emperors could do. If we regret this transition and mark it as a sign of decline, we must remember to blame the first four centuries of empire for not doing a better—harsher—job of making this corner of the realm fully Roman, prosperous, and secure.

#Theoderic had become contract armies

[weallscreamforrpmeme-blog]

Some Japanese Culture for Writing References (Part 2: Valentine’s Day & White Day)

After experiencing two years of Valentine’s Day in Japan, here’s some general information on what I picked up. Also includes information on White Day as those two ‘holidays’ are packaged together. Find all the relevant info under the read more. 

(Warning: The reader might be offended or find Valentine’s Day culture in Japan appalling, but this is the reality over here. It’s less a day celebrated for love and more about practicality.)

Valentine’s Day~

Females customarily give chocolates to males on Valentine’s Day. There are two types of chocolates that are marketed for women to buy: giri-choco and honmei-choco. The former is an obligation, usually given by the working woman to her male colleagues in the workplace. The latter is ‘real’ chocolate in the sense that it’s better quality because it’s given to the man that she is romantically interested in or has an intimate relationship with such as a childhood friend or a close colleague (though the latter is a case-by-case basis).

Not every woman gives chocolates to men on Valentine’s Day even if she’s working with male coworkers. The reasoning behind giving chocolates at all is for the woman to show her appreciation to her male coworkers who have supported her or looked out for her when she needed help. 

It’s for this reason that many men expect chocolates from women on Valentine’s Day. If they don’t receive any, they might feel left out, or they’ll take it as a sign that none of their female colleagues appreciated them, so getting chocolates is a kind of way to save face in certain cases. (That’s because it’s likely the other male coworkers will ask about how many chocolates they received.)

Some men also testify that by receiving chocolates, there is an improvement in the working relationship between their female colleagues. Again, that has to do with the men seemingly feeling appreciated. Some women who also subscribe to this belief will give chocolates as a result. 

Whether this practice is helpful to improve the atmosphere between coworkers in the workplace is situation dependent, however. Valentine’s Day products are mostly marketed towards female office workers who don’t have the time to make their own chocolates, so they just buy a large pack of individually wrapped ones to distribute among the workplace, which can feel very impersonal and just done out of necessity rather than showing real appreciation. I get the feeling that most women typically buy chocolates for the men who have directly supported them or helped them out and give it to them privately, so they can thank them in person for taking care of them. This also helps to keep any other man from feeling bad about not getting some chocolates if they didn’t see her give them away to someone else. Not to mention, it’s really helpful for the woman because the larger her workplace is, the more expensive Valentine’s Day can get for her if she buys chocolate for every man.

Honmei-choco can also be bought, but they are much more expensive because they are higher quality. Since Japan is an intensive working country and no one really has the time to cook (unless you’re a housewife or the rare househusband), fewer women are making their own handmade chocolate to give to their romantic interests except maybe the younger females who care more about romantic love and want to put in the extra effort to appeal to their love interest. 

It’s also not unheard of for women to make their own handmade giri-choco especially if it’s simple treats, but this is probably a rare practice only seen among school girls. In a school setting, it’s more likely for girls to offer handmade chocolate (although most of them are going to work carefully on honmei-choco and are less worried about preparing giri-choco so that their love interest won’t get the wrong idea). 

It’s pretty rare for chocolates to be given away in elementary schools. If it happens at all, it would probably be among the sixth-graders, especially in the case of someone’s love interest planning on going to a different junior high school than they are, for example. Some junior high schools will outright ban any talk of Valentine’s Day, i.e. they’ll discourage confessions or handing out chocolates just because education in junior high schools are much stricter, and students are more disciplined. (For example, snacks are not allowed to be eaten at school. Even the staff have to be careful about not letting the students see them eating them.) That doesn’t mean junior high school students won’t attempt to confess or offer chocolates privately, off of school grounds or maybe sneak by during club activities when the club advisor isn’t watching. ;)

High schools and universities will have the most activity when it comes to Valentine’s Day. High schools are not obligatory part of the education system in Japan, so there’s more free reign in what students can do. And even though college students are busy, they are also thinking about their next step in life including who they’ll be marrying, so handmade honmei-choco are going to be the most common here.

*Can girls give choco to girls or boys to boys? The short answer is yes depending on the situation, but it’s not the traditional practice by any means. The ‘holiday’ is targeted towards women to give chocolates to men for the following ideals 1) help improve relationships between men and women in the workplace; 2) help women appeal to their love interest so that she can one day get married and have children (because gosh one of the biggest problems in Japan is the declining birth rate, seriously). So for these reasons, the kind of chocolate sales that are marked for Valentine’s Day is made with the intent that males will be receiving them and females will be giving them, so there’s a certain class of chocolates that are made with that in mind. For example, there’s a lot of different chocolates with low levels of alcohol made in them. 

With that said, I’m sure that won’t stop any LGBTQ females or males from giving chocolates to whoever they want. It’s just not something that you see out in the open, at least not at this time in Japan. However, there are certain exceptions such as some female coworkers who will give chocolates to everyone (male or female) as a symbol of thanks. In that case, it’s not abnormal for one of the female coworkers to return the favor by giving chocolates back to their female coworker on the same day, or even the next day, or in some cases, on White Day. (I’ve had all three happen to me.) What I haven’t seen happen is a male coworker giving another male coworker chocolates on Valentine’s Day. Nor have I seen a male coworker give chocolates to a female coworker on Valentine’s Day because they’re not expected to do that until White Day.

White Day~

If Valentine’s Day is for women to show appreciation to men by giving them chocolate, then White Day is marketed for men to return the favor to women. This means you shouldn’t expect any unsold chocolates the day after Valentine’s Day to be discounted because they’re going to be recycled for White Day sales too! (I literally saw my local grocery store change the Valentine’s Day sign to a White Day sign.) 

White Day is a month after Valentine’s Day - March 14. On this day, women wait with bated breath to see if all their effort paid off (if they put it the extra effort for honmei-choco anyway) and see what kind of gifts they receive on White Day.

Receiving chocolate is the standard on White Day (especially white chocolate or white-colored sweets), but various gifts are thrown into the mix as well depending on the man’s relationship to the woman. White-colored accessories such as white-colored jewelry (pearls, white gold, etc.), bags, watches, etc. are often purchased for the husband’s wife or the very generous boyfriend’s girlfriend. Male coworkers, however, usually just stick to white choco as their returned obligation gift, unless they are romantically interested and are trying to appeal with a little something extra.

Although this day is for males to buy choco, as aforementioned, it’s not uncommon for females to offer return chocolate to their female colleagues if they received unexpected chocolates from them on Valentine’s Day. Still, I’ve never seen any male coworker give another male coworker chocolates on White Day. That isn’t to say this absolutely wouldn’t happen, but because LGBTQ aren’t exactly widely accepted in Japan, these kind of exchanges would probably be done in private, if at all. It’s a lot safer for females to give each other chocolates on either days without anyone raising a brow especially if other coworkers witnessed the reason for it (i.e. the first female coworker giving chocolates to everyone so the second female coworker returns chocolates to them out of politeness). 

*What doesn’t happen on Valentine’s Day? Other than no obvious exchange of chocolates between males, you most likely won’t see some of the more western traditions of Valentine’s Day such as Valentine’s cards or flowers. The former isn’t a norm nor do I think it exists at all (except maybe an English class as a cultural exchange lesson), but there’s probably some kind of formal, Hallmark card equivalent that very few people might give to each other on that day. It’s likely to be done by westerners rather than native Japanese people, however. They definitely lose out on the pun-filled Valentine’s cards that are very popular in western countries though. It’s a shame. As for flowers, again, I never see people buy them, and that’s probably because even in western countries, it’s more common practice for males to buy flowers for females. Since Valentine’s Day makes the females the giver, it’s not very likely that males will appreciate flowers as a gift. At least not compared to alcohol-laced chocolates.

As a side note, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that other western symbols of Valentine’s Day like Cupid go unnoticed here. Some groceries stores might have a picture of Cupid by the Valentine’s Day sales but only because it looks cute. It’s not very likely that the average person in Japan can identify who Cupid is and why he’s a symbol for Valentine’s Day. 

#Japanese culture #writing reference #original post #Valentines Day #White Day #holidays in Japan #love