children's shelter

One of the most ludicrous things parents say is “Why aren’t you more grateful to us for feeding, clothing, and sheltering you?!”

It’s because you’re the parent. You have a duty to feed, clothe, and shelter your children. You’re not doing them a favor by making sure they don’t starve. You’re fulfilling one of the responsibilities of parenting. Your children don’t owe you for doing what you’re obligated to do.


“We are continuing to push the envelope on what we believe to be true creative collaboration between East and West. Our originals collaborations, including Children of Ether with LeSean Thomas, and SHELTER with Porter Robinson, has both received acclaim and strong support from our audience. The anime medium is experiencing an international renaissance as foreign creators who grew up on anime look east to collaborations with Japan. Our role is continue to build that bridge through our audience, data and our unique position in the anime market.” - Kun Gao Co-Founder & CEO of Crunchyroll

aliens and human child interaction (with mother's wrath)

so human children are often sheltered from bad things because the adults say they’re too young.

what if there was an alien species where the children are already knowledgeable than others because the parents do not sugarcoat the shit they say.

so one day an alien is visiting a human elementary school for study purposes and sees a human child being worried. the following conversation ensues:

“Human child, what’s wrong?”

“Mr. Ruffles is sleeping and won’t wake up…. Mommy says he’s hibernating but I don’t think doggies do that…”

“Human child, your canine companion is dead.”


“Yes child, your dog is dead.”


The human child breaks down crying and the alien is so confused why is this child crying???

then the mother comes in and sees her child crying and rushes over. Another conversation:

“Oh Sammy! Sammy my little baby what’s wrong?”

“M-m-mom-hic-my, you-hic-you said Mr-hic-Ruffles is hiber-hic-nating… But -hic- He’s d-hic-dead!”

“W-what?! Sweetheart, who told you that?!”

the child points to the alien and the mother snaps her head to the alien in rage.

“Why did you tell him that?! He’s just a child!”

“But he needed to know the truth-”

the alien did not finish xis conversation as the mother had beaten xem up.

Manual Update:

Human Children are not ready to know about death. Once the mother finds out that her child knows about death, you may be dead yourself.

anonymous asked:

Funny how reynos go running to comfort some white bitch whos celebrated Finn's getting hurt. You don't call out racism in your fandom but you'll run to comfort them when they get called out. I just think it's funny :))

Let’s go through your message, anon.  

First, yes I did comfort a fellow Reylo recently.  I’m assuming you are talking about @coupdefoudrey , who received some pretty vile Anti-Semitic messages recently.  What you and your friends did isn’t calling out, it’s harassment.

Second, I comforted her because I value her feelings because unlike Finn, she’s a real person.  This is something you and your little group of victim playing sociopaths forget when you go to avenge imaginary slights against imaginary characters. 

Third, I have yet to see an incident of racism not addressed in this fandom.  In fact, for the longest time, many people would rush to attack a person when what they did was not intentional and was the cause of being from a different culture.  I am honestly proud of Reylos for taking a step back from the callout culture and attempting to educate rather than eviscerate. 

I’m not sugar coating this next part; every single one of you and your anti friends are sociopaths.  You take pleasure in harming real people under the delirious reasoning of helping.  If you wanted to help people, you would spend your time doing productive things.  You could volunteer to work with disadvantaged children, walk shelter dogs, raise money to donate to real victims of abuse if you truly wanted to help.  Hell, you could make content for your own ship and be far more productive than you are now.   Instead, you and your sociopathic friends spend their free time circle jerking to something that supposedly triggers them.  Each one of you competing to cum the hardest while shouting all the ways an imaginary ship has victimized you personally.  You and your friends are so completely pathetic and your lives are absolutely disgraceful.  

Your parents should be ashamed of the monsters they have raised, ones that believe it is okay to threaten real people over imaginary characters.  What you are doing isn’t because of immaturity from youth or from mental illness.  All of you are just horrible assholes who lack empathy because you were raised to believe that everything you think and feel is incredibly important.  You truly believe that the importance you personally place on a fictional character is more important than someone else’s mental health and therefore have the right to send them threats and Anti-Semitic messages.  You derive pleasure from harming real people and I worry for the safety of the people around you.

Since we are talking about things we find funny, I think it’s hilarious that you would reach out to me over this matter and expect me to address it in any other way than what I just did.  Now if you will excuse me, I have to finish editing stories for a Reylo project that is coming out soon and am very busy.  Since you obviously have nothing productive to do, I would offer for you to come help me, but from your original message, we both know your editing abilities are not up for such a task.  

Started thinking about alterna!Obi today while opening at work. An Obi-Wan who Falls in the generator complex on Naboo in order to save Qui-Gon…

An Obi-Wan who’s banished from the Order because he used the Dark Side to beat a Sith…

An Obi-Wan whose Master defended him, but not nearly enough to save him, and ends up watching his Master take on a new Padawan only days after his banishment…

An Obi-Wan who’s hard and angry and just wants to tear something apart with his bare hands because he can’t contain his hurt…

An Obi-Wan who, when faced with Dooku trying to recruit him, goes “fuck this system” and forges his own way to use the Force, both Dark and Light…

An Obi-Wan who becomes a bounty hunter for the poor and helpless with no one else to turn to, whom the Outer Rim whispers about in the shadows…

An Obi-Wan who makes a living hunting down murderers and rapists and smugglers and bringing them to justice, but makes a life freeing slaves and finding homes for orphaned children and sheltering people who are just as lost as he is…

… and then I thought “what if this Darksider!Obi-Wan with snarky assholish tendencies gets tossed into a more canon universe, sees Rex and his pining-after-General-Kenobi-from-afar face, and goes ‘yep, that one, I want that one’.”


rizahmed - It’s #worldrefugeeday - and we only have $15k to go before we hit $200k for Syrian refugee children to get shelter, food, and an education…can I ask for your help? Link in bio: - cos let’s face it guys the world feels like a scary place right now. It’s unstable for many, and none moreso than refugees caught in an epic global crisis. Please give generously and share ❤️🙏🏽👊🏽

I thought this might be a memoir by a trans woman and I was like wow cool lemme check it out and actually it’s by a cis woman whose spouse comes out as a trans woman. And the summary is all about how the author “fights to shelter her children” from her spouse. Never once refers to said spouse as “she.” I opened to a random page and the author says her spouse “traded her and her children in for a pair of pink panties.”

I would far prefer to read the memoir of this persons ex-wife. Glad she’s no longer married to this author

Our Cloud

Prompt: Guardian

Seated in the plush red seat across from Don Pecora, Tsuna listened to his angered rant. He kept particular attention on the overweight man’s tone and body language, but he did not have concerns over Pecora attempting to harm him. At least, not by his own hands. Tsuna didn’t miss how he was placed rather neatly in front of a large plate-glass window, his back facing the scenery displayed outside. He also knew how enraged Pecora was over his continuous refusal to integrate their Families a little more closely together. Doing so would ensure a surge in business transactions, which Pecora was lacking. But the Vongola worked alone, and the Family Alliance was mostly a truce between dozens of other Mafia Families with the Vongola—to keep in their good graces.

Pecora didn’t seem to understand the role of the Family Alliance, but that wasn’t surprising. He was incredibly stupid, especially considering why he had lured Tsuna to his mansion (with rather strict instructions that Pecora preferred he come alone). Pecora seemed a bit taken aback that Tsuna had agreed but had taken it in stride. He was seeing this as a rare opportunity to rid himself of a pest, an uncooperative rival, and probably had unattainable visions of usurping the Vongola throne for himself after the assassination was completed.

He clearly did not get what ‘most powerful Mafia Family in the world’ encompassed.

Tsuna waited calmly, discretely shifting his gaze between Pecora and the watch strapped around his wrist. Pecora did not notice his divided attention, no doubt believing this was his chance to call the Vongola Don every name under the sun before he was disposed of.

Obviously delusional.

The seconds ticked down and in the moment a bullet was meant to pass through the glass and into the back of his head, the heavy oak door flew off its hinges. Pecora halted, words dying in his throat at the figure that loomed in the doorway.

Tonfas in hand, flickering with Cloud Flames, Hibari turned a murderous stare on the petrified Pecora. Tsuna stood, stretching his arms over his head and moving aside as Hibari strode forwards. He grabbed the stammering man by his neck, bones cracking beneath his fingertips, and threw him through the broken doorway.

Pecora found himself sprawled out against blood-stained hardwood, his Mafioso prone and moving, scattered down the corridor. A gasp escaped his lips when a foot pressed down against the base of his spine with deadly pressure.

Tsuna crossed his arms over his chest, expression unimpressed. “It’s very insulting, for you to think I would be so moronic as to walk obliviously to my own death. I am not quite sure what you hoped to accomplish here, other than an impulsive grab for power and notoriety. I do not tolerate those who attempt to harm me or my family. This is your doing.”

There was a sickening crack and the man fell limp on the floor. Tsuna let out a quiet sigh and turned his chin, looking down the corridor. He did not like to kill, he despised it. But he knew it could not be helped, not when they were people like Pecora who would like nothing more to destroy him and everyone he loved.

“You didn’t kill all of them, did you?” he asked his Cloud, taking in the carnage properly for the first time.

Hibari turned to face Tsuna with a flat gaze. “What do you think?”

A quiet moan sounded from the other end of the hall, and a beaten Mafioso turned over in agony. Tsuna glanced at Hibari in amusement. “Pretty sure he got the hint after the first couple of blows.”

“Herbivores like these are imbeciles. Only a strong demonstration will teach them the full lesson,” returned Hibari. “They will be scrambling like ants to restore order to their broken hierarchy. Pecora did not get around to choosing an heir. It will be entertaining.”

“Have I ever told you how glad I am you’re on my side?”

“For now.”

There was a smirk on his lips as Hibari turned and stepped over stirring bodies, Tsuna walking beside him. Hibari had taken care of every possible threat to Tsuna’s life, all before the time the plan was meant to be executed. Tsuna knew that Hibari would never fail to protect him or the others, a barrier between them and the enemy.

Gray eyes roaming over the mission file splayed out on the glass café table, Hibari swirled the water around his glass with the straw, the ice clinking together. Ensuring that everything was in order, he closed the beige folder and slipped it into his black leather messenger bag. He shifted his stare to scan the bustling street, his ire increasing when he did not spot the two illusionists amongst an otherwise faceless crowd.

They had arranged to meet him so they could hand over their reports and finish the mission file. Hibari had finished his component of the job two hours ago, and he knew Mukuro and Chrome had already wrapped up their loose ties. They had no reasons to be late.

Hibari was just about to leave when a flash of blue caught his peripheral vision. Mukuro strode down the sidewalk, a lazy expression on his features. He caught the punch Hibari aimed at his face and said, “I’m only ten minutes late.”

“It’s disrespectful to be even a minute late,” snapped Hibari. “I should have left nine minutes ago.”

Mukuro smirked. “Am I that vexing that you would leave Chrome behind to spite me?”

Hibari stared, eyes narrowing. “What is that supposed to mean?”

It was Mukuro’s turn to become confused. He had noticed Chrome was not around when he arrived, but assumed she was either in the bathroom or ordering food from inside the restaurant. “She left before me. I couldn’t locate my portion of papers, so I had to search for them. She’s not here?”

“No. When only you arrived I thought you were delivering her report as well.”

Hibari did not feel any negative emotions from Chrome, but he was not going to rule out foul play completely. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialling the girl’s number. When she did not answer, he scowled and hung up. Mukuro frowned, brow furrowed. “She’s not responding to my mental summons either.”

Activating the app that let him track other cell phones, Hibari entered Chrome’s number. Immediately a blue dot appeared, a few blocks away from where they were. Mukuro peered over his shoulder and said, “Let’s go.”

Slipping a hand beneath Hibari’s arm, Mukuro transported them to the location. When they rematerialized, they found themselves outside of an animal shelter. Children and adults were playing with the dogs and cats tied to their cages. Sitting against the building, an armful of fluffy white, black and brown kittens in her arms, was a blissful Chrome.

Mukuro stared for a moment, his tense muscles loosening with relief. “Kufufufufu. Should have known.”

Hibari strolled across the street and Chrome looked up. Her eye widened at the sight of him, suddenly realizing where she should be. “I’m sorry—”

Her apology was cut off by a quiet yip when Hibari threaded his fingers through her hair, pulling sharply and craning her neck at an uncomfortable angle. “When you’re not holding fragile baby cats, you’re getting bitten to death. Be where you’re supposed to be and if you’re taking a detour, tell someone. Why didn’t you answer your cell phone?”

“I might have forgotten to turn on the ringer,” said Chrome sheepishly.

At the glower he directed at her, Mukuro strode forwards. “Relax, Kyoya. She got a little sidetracked—”

Hibari’s other hand shot out and planted against Mukuro’s chest. “You need to stop wasting my time and learn punctuality.”

His annoyance was clear, but beneath Chrome could feel subtle concern. She tugged on his pant leg. “I’m sorry. I should have let you know where I was. But I saw all the animals and I got so excited that I completely forgot.”

“Explains why you didn’t answer my mental summons. It’s never good to let yourself get so distracted,” said Mukuro, tone holding a rebuke.

“I’m really sorry.” Hibari did not seem completely appeased (considering he still had a grip on her short ponytail) Chrome extended a black kitten. “Would you like to hold a kitty?”

The kitten pawed at Hibari’s shirt and the Cloud gathered it into his arms with little hesitation. Chrome and Mukuro exchanged a grin, which Hibari did not miss. Running his fingers through the kitten’s fur, he glared at the two illusionists. “You’re both useless.”

“We love you too,” sang Chrome.

“Take out your reports. We’re getting the paperwork done now.”

“Here?” asked Mukuro, slightly incredulous as Hibari lowered to sit on the concrete beside Chrome.

“Yes. Get your sorry backside down here.”

Chrome was sure no other Mafioso had ever completed mission reports sitting on the ground, covered with kittens. But she was also certain there was no other Mafioso who could accomplish a feat while still looking menacing and threatening like Hibari.

The alley was narrow, and mostly dark with the exception of the pinpricks of dirty yellow light flickering feebly from streetlights, the bulbs most likely haven’t been replaced in years and miraculously still functioning. Footsteps pounded against the cracked concrete, curses and shouts echoing in the night air. The sounds were promptly cut off, one by one, until the alley was once again silent.

Stepping over the bald, tattooed body in front of him, Hibari scanned the area. There were no more thugs charging at him and he continued forwards. His gray eyes were focussed on the bent, rusted steel door at the end of the alley. When he was close enough he raised his foot and it look very little effort to dislodge it from its hinges.

After the dust had settled from the impact of the door striking against a concrete floor, he found himself in the middle of an abandoned warehouse. The four thugs lounging around hollered in shock and anger, immediately charging forwards. Hibari flicked them aside like ants, not breaking his stride.

“Ha ha, I’m glad to see you.”

Hibari did not respond, gray eyes critically studying Yamamoto’s condition. He used his tonfas to break the chains holding his wrists to a half-destroyed metal shelving unit and Yamamoto flexed them to get the feeling back. There were dark red marks indicating where the chains had restrained him, and his right eye was swollen shut, black and purple. There was a cut on his upper lip, dried blood creating a trail on his chin.

“What the hell happened?” demanded Hibari.

Yamamoto stood, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I was in my car, getting ready to go home, when there was a knock on my window. There was a guy asking for directions so I rolled it down so I could help him. Next thing I know I wake up in this warehouse.”

“You opened up your car to a disgusting herbivore like this,” snapped Hibari, angrily kicking a prone piercing-laden punk in the side.

Yamamoto shrugged. “I didn’t open my car—just put down the window. He looked he needed help. I wasn’t in a bad part of town, anyway.”

Hibari shook his head in disgust. “You let your guard down.”

“I did,” admitted Yamamoto. His tone made it clear he was displeased with his inability to handle a simple situation and Hibari knew he had no doubt been humiliated by the thugs. Yamamoto’s turned more sincere and sheepish as he said, “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Don’t be stupid. Let’s get out of here.”

Yamamoto retrieved his katana, which had been thrown carelessly aside after his assaulters had tied him up. The two walked out of the warehouse and down the alley. Hibari caught sight of a cut on the back of Yamamoto’s neck. It was most likely caused by the shelving he was chained to and Hibari said, “Are you up to date on your tetanus shot?”

“Yeah. Why, am I bleeding somewhere?”

Hibari caught Yamamoto’s fingers as they reached back to search for the injury that had prompted his question. “No, but there it is a wound. Don’t touch it or you’ll infect it.”

“Right. Hey, did you see my car?”

“Across the street, in a parking lot. Found the keys in one of the herbivores’ pockets.”

They reached Yamamoto’s car, which was relatively unscathed. Hibari removed the keys and slid into the driver’s seat. Having no protests, Yamamoto lowered into the passenger seat. “I guess they wanted my car to use for parts or money,” he mused.

“Or they were hoping to get some money out of you,” drawled Hibari, pointedly pulling on Yamamoto’s designer shirt, the logo stitched perfectly onto the right breast. “It’s almost ten thirty. What are you doing out here so late?”

“Oh—I wanted some chips, but we didn’t have any.” Yamamoto reached behind him and removed a plastic bag, where a jumbo bag of potato chips was nestled. “Want some?”

Hibari stared at him blankly before starting the car. He inched to the exit of the parking lot, rolling down his window slightly. He nimbly plucked the chips from Yamamoto’s grasp and tossed it out into the trash bin they passed on the edge of the sidewalk. Putting the window back up he pulled onto the street, smirking at Yamamoto’s rather scandalized expression.

“You shouldn’t put garbage like that into your body, herbivore.”

There was a light drizzle, raindrops gently pelting the world below. Ryohei tugged his gray hood further over his head to block the water, eyes roaming the empty park. Hibari was a few feet away, leaning against the metal pole of a broken lamppost. They were shrouded in shadows, only detectable by those who were paying close attention to their surroundings.

There had been news reports of a sexual harasser prowling parks at night, targeting young women out for evening strolls or returning home from work. As the police were having trouble pinpointing the location of his next attack, Ryohei and Hibari were tasked by Tsuna to bring this creep down.

The always talkative boxer was quiet, his body tense and senses on high alert. Hibari knew Ryohei was thinking of the girls in their household, of how they could be just as much at risk of being assaulted. It was a possibility that disturbed Hibari as well, of course, but instead of worrying about the what-ifs, he focussed his attention on finding and eliminating the threat.

After about an hour, Ryohei finally spoke. “Are you sure this is the right park?”

“There’s five he hasn’t staked out yet,” replied Hibari. “It’s the closest to the one he committed his last assault in.”

Ryohei nodded, though his expression remained uncertain. It was another hour before a scream sounded throughout the vast space. It was abrupt, so short that it could have been easily missed if they were not listening for such a sign. Hibari’s ears immediately pinpointed the direction the cry had come from and the two were running, charging down the path and into a small section of trees and bushes.

Halfway through the thicket there was a thick, burly man, kneeling on top of a thrashing brunette female, his hand firmly covering her mouth. He was wearing a baggy hoodie and one hand was working to undo his pants.

The man’s head snapped upwards at the sound of crunching branches, but he did not get a chance to react. Ryohei launched into a flying tackle and brought the man off of the girl. The Sun expressed his disgust with the man’s utter repulsive actions with his fists and a string of curse-laden insults.

Hibari strode forwards, hooking an arm around the sobbing female’s shoulders and bringing her to her feet. Her shirt was torn and she was covered in bruises and dirt, but they had gotten there in time. She choked out words of gratitude and Hibari made a noise of acknowledgement, watching Ryohei unleash his aggression.

When the assaulter was properly bloody Hibari acted, grabbing Ryohei by the back of his sweater and hauling him up. “You made your point,” he said quietly, feeling his back heave with hard breaths.

“Yeah…yeah,” managed Ryohei, struggling to see past his furious haze. The crying of the terrified girl snapped him out of it completely and he hurried to her side, setting a hand on her shoulder in a soothing manner. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Hibari removed his cell phone and called the police, relaying their location. He took a moment to break the criminal’s arm, his screams music to his ears. The cops arrived and took the beaten and blood-soaked man into custody. The girl refused to get into the ambulance without her two rescuers, so Hibari and Ryohei found themselves waiting into the hospital waiting room at one in the morning.

When his adrenaline died down and his mind was clear, Ryohei realized that Hibari only intervened to tell him that he had done enough. He studied the Cloud, expression speculative. Eyes locked on the newspaper, aware of Ryohei’s intent gazing, Hibari spoke up. “What?”

“You hate it when someone takes your prey away from you. Why did you let me do the brunt of the damage?”

“You needed it. Fighting is a thrill, a sport, an activity, a release, therapeutic. It can be all of these at once or only one. Depends on the person, on the fight. You were tightly wound up. If you did not fight the object of your agitation, your aggression, your anger, your emotions would remain bottled up.”

Ryohei was stunned for a brief moment by Hibari’s observation. Eventually he smiled and said, “You’re an interesting character. Thanks to the extreme, Kyoya.”

Warm affection flooded through his bonds and Hibari finally looked up from the newspaper, regarding the white-haired man. “This won’t become a habit,” he warned.

“I know. I just…I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop thinking about the girls, about how awful it would be if this happened to them.”

“There’s a stark difference between our girls and this one,” said Hibari, gesturing in the direction where the injured female was being treated.

“What?” asked Ryohei.

“They have me.”

“Don’t you mean us?”


But Hibari’s lips turned upwards and Ryohei rolled his eyes good-naturedly, feeling better than he had all night.

The country roads snaked across sprawling green fields, seemingly endless. Gokudera’s tinted shades protected his pale green eyes from the afternoon rays. The car was silent and the radio would have been on if he had a desire to be bitten to death while he was driving. He shifted his gaze to the rear-view mirror, adjusting it so he could glance into the backseat. Hibari had his head leaning back, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest.

Gokudera let his gaze linger before returning his attention to the road. The bright blue sky and emerald scenery was blurred by a scene flashing through his mind, replaying as if on a loop.

Finishing his meeting with Don Gemelli, he was walking down the corridor. He paused upon hearing loud voices around the corner, his name being mentioned. Being referred to as bastard spawn. Brief, obnoxious laughter followed and before he could confront them there was the familiar sound of metal hitting bone. Then there was quiet. He stayed rooted in place for a moment before venturing around the corner, where the two Mafioso were on the ground, unconscious, and Hibari disappearing out the door.

“That was a pretty ballsy move,” he said at last, his mind returning to the present. “One of those guys you clocked is the Don’s son.”

“You woke me up.”

Gokudera rolled his eyes. “You weren’t even sleeping. I could tell by the pattern of your breathing.”

“…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You knew I was in the next corridor. I could have handled those jerks myself.”

“You were too slow.”

There was a solid smack to the back of his head and Gokudera nearly drove off of the road. “Are you trying to kill us?” he snapped. “What’s your problem?”

“The second you start believing such asinine remarks is the moment I bite you to death.”

His serious tone caused Gokudera to shift his gaze briefly over his shoulder. “I don’t,” he returned. “Not anymore. It was hard, when I was younger. I never properly knew my mother, and my life up until that was a lie. I didn’t know who I was.”

“You are who you choose to be. Your past does not have to define you.”

“I know that, now. But thanks.”

Hibari made a hum of acknowledgement, Gokudera’s contentment and affection humming through their bonds. It wasn’t the first time the Cloud had punished those for slandering the Storm’s heritage, and it wouldn’t be the last.

The warm spray of the shower coated his aching muscles, Lambo leaned against the shower wall for support. As much as he wanted to spend eternity underneath the water, he finally unfurled himself and turned off the tap. He stumbled out of the stall and used a towel to pat himself dry. He flinched at the pain that tore through his limbs as he pulled on his pajamas.

He had just finished a hard, intense workout, as well as a session in utilizing and perfecting his Lightning Flames. His body wasn’t used to such physical exertion and it was furious with him. Every fiber of his being was in agony.

Lambo walked sluggishly to his room across the hall, dropping almost weightlessly into his bed. Through the haze of his exhaustion, he managed to process that there was a glass of milk on his nightstand table. With a great amount of effort, he reached for it and chugged the lukewarm contents. The glass clattered back into place and his arm fell to his side, eyes falling shut.

He was half-asleep when footsteps crossed the threshold. Cracking one eye open slightly, he saw Hibari move over to the edge of his bed. His fingers smoothed through his raven curls and the soothing action caused Lambo to let his eye fall shut again. He felt the blankets jerk and shift as Hibari covered his body and then arranged his arms and legs into a more comfortable position.

“You did well, small animal,” said Hibari softly.

The words sent a sharp flare of pride through Lambo and he tried to say thanks, but his tongue would not cooperate. He soon fell asleep completely, and when he awoke the next morning with his muscles stiff and sore, there was a bottle of pain-relieving cream waiting for him.

Hibari was cold, aloof, violent, distant and indifferent. But those who knew him best, those he allowed to be an intimate part of his life, knew there was much more to him. He was reliable and there was never any doubt if he would always be able to come through. He was protective of those he considered his own and fought for them, sometimes subtly and sometimes obviously. He did not let his family think negatively about themselves and gave his advice when he believed it was needed.

He was their Cloud Guardian, the one who would always watch over them.

anonymous asked:

Can we get another chapter of The Tagalong?! Merry Christmas!

Did I hold onto this prompt specifically so I could use it for a Christmas-set installment of this fic? Perhaps. And a special merci beaucoup to Mod Eloise for checking and editing my French.- Mod Lenny

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Fergus sat in his chair with his arms braced on the edge of Brianna’s bassinette and one hand hanging in enough for her to grasp his finger. Her tiny fingernails had just been cut but already seemed to have grown out enough to feel like needles when she squeezed tight. She was fighting her nap and Fergus had assured Mother Claire that he would be able to get the baby to sleep while she finished getting their home ready for their Christmas guests.

Brianna’s green velvet Christmas dress was safely concealed beneath the tartan blanket that Mrs. Graham had helped Mother Claire fashion from the arisaid she’d worn on her journey through the stones. It had faded a bit with washing but when it was tucked up close about Brianna’s chin and wisps of her bright hair fell across it Fergus would trace the pattern of the Fraser tartan and recall the way Milord had looked wearing it as he stood in the sun overlooking the fields at Lallybroch as potatoes were harvested or as he draped the length of his plaid about his head and shoulders for warmth in the rain.

In the quiet moments when Mother Claire asked him to keep an eye on Brianna as she completed a chore or if she fell asleep, exhausted in the middle of an afternoon, Fergus would lapse into French and whisper stories to Brianna; stories about Milord, about Lallybroch, about France.

J'ai couru et couru et il m'a poursuivi,” Fergus said quietly as Brianna’s eyes looked up at him, unfocused, and her other fist was in her mouth. “Bien sûr, qu'il m'a attrapé. Mais il ne m'a pas fait de mal; il m'a offert un emploi. Oui, ton père a fait ça.” He leaned in and kissed her tiny knuckles where they clung to his finger. Her eyes were beginning to drift shut. “C'est la raison pour laquelle je suis ton frère… il y a plus, mais nous sauverons cette histoire pour plus tard.”

He heard the front door shut and the boisterous welcomes of Claire to her guests then Roger’s eager footsteps came scurrying down the hallway in search of him. Before the door had even opened, Fergus was halfway across the room hushing his friend.

“Whatever you do, do not wake Bree,” Fergus hissed before glancing over his shoulder to see that she hadn’t moved. The hand that had been clutching his finger was pressed to her chubby cheek, fingers splayed while the drool-covered fist that had been in her mouth rested on the bedding next to her head leaving a damp spot underneath it. The tartan blanket rose and fell with her deep and steady breathing.

“Ye mean we’ll no get to play wi’ her?” Roger asked straining to look past Fergus to see the bairn he’d heard so much about from Mrs. Graham and from Fergus at school. He’d only seen her once at the hospital when they’d gone to pick Fergus up and a few times from a distance when Mrs. Beauchamp came to drop Fergus off to play or pick him up again.

“Trust me, you do not want to play with her when she is needing a nap,” Fergus warned leading the way out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen. “When she is not in a right mood she cries and that is not fun for anyone.”

“Is she asleep then, Fergus?” Claire asked as the boys appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. She and Mrs. Graham were working at the counter and the oven door was hanging open, heat and the smell of cooking meat wafting deliciously into their faces.

Oui,” he told her reaching for a pastie on the counter. Mrs. Graham raised her eyebrows at him and shook her head but smiled as he took a second and held it out for Roger.

“Supper should be ready in an hour or so,” Claire informed him. “Why don’t you go show Roger some of the gifts you got?”

Fergus nodded and turned to take Roger to his room.

Hearing about Christmas at school, Fergus had come home and asked Mother Claire about the holiday and how it was celebrated.

“We did not celebrate in such ways at Lallybroch but you have said many things in this time are different,” he’d speculated as he lay on his back on the floor tossing a small ball into the air and catching it. Mother Claire had been rocking in a chair with Brianna nursing at her breast.

“Yes, Christmas is one of the holidays we celebrate differently in this time,” Claire said but there was a somber tone as she said it brushing the hair down on Brianna’s small and delicate head. “It’s more like the Hogmanay celebrations we had that first year back at Lallybroch; a time you spend with family and friends. You feast and there are presents.”

“It is a time that is making you miss Milord,” he observed quietly, watching her carefully and holding the ball tightly in his fist, interrupting the rhythm of tossing and catching he’d established.

Mother Claire’s eyes remained fixed on the baby’s intent gaze and strong, suckling mouth.

“Yes and no. I miss him always,” she responded quietly then stroked Brianna’s cheek with the tip of her finger. Brianna released her hold on Mother Claire’s nipple, a dribble of breast milk leaking from the corner of her mouth and making a path down her jaw and into the deepening folds of her neck while Mother Claire eased the drained breast back into her nursing bra and shifted the still-hungry infant so she could access and feed on the other breast. “It would have meant so much to him to see the both of you doing so well and it makes me sad that he can’t be here to share this time with us.” She finally looked away from the baby and caught Fergus watching her, pushing a small smile to her face. “I told him a little about what Christmases in this time were like and I know that he would want you to enjoy it as much as you can; he wouldn’t want us to mope at a time meant to be happy.”

And she had told him then of her plan to invite Roger, Reverend Wakefield, and Mrs. Graham over for the holiday. Mrs. Graham would only be staying a short time since she had her children and grandchildren to spend some of the day with but Reverend Wakefield and Roger didn’t have obligations beyond each other and readily accepted the invitation.

“Oh,” Roger interrupted before they could leave the kitchen. “We brought ye a gift.” The younger boy pulled Fergus in a different direction seeking his adoptive father in the small living room.

Reverend Wakefield stood examining the pair of bookshelves that stood on either side of the television, squinting at Claire’s odd collection of medical and herbal texts. He turned when the boys entered the room and the lines standing between his eyes dissolved, reappearing at the corners in the form of laugh lines. “Happy Christmas to ye, Fergus. Yer mother told me ye’ve had a good mornin’,” Reverend Wakefield said cheerfully.

“Can we give Fergus his gift now, Father?” Roger asked looking up into the taller man’s face with pleading eyes.

Reverend Wakefield’s mouth turned down a bit at the edges into an expression meant to be stern but which in effect proved rather comical. “Now, I dinna see it will be a problem to give it to him now but ye lads must promise ye’ll no be usin’ it in the house; it’s strictly for playin’ out of doors.”

“Of course, Father,” Roger promised turning away from his father’s warning looks to search the room for the gift. He spotted it and ran to get it taking care to block Fergus’ view while he picked it up and then turned with a showman’s flair.

In his arms rested a brand new football with a shining red ribbon tied around its middle like a jolly belt.

“Let’s go ask yer mam if we can go outside to play wi’ it till supper’s ready,” Roger suggested.

“All right but we must play on the side of the house where Bree will not hear us and wake,” Fergus offered as a condition. Roger kept tight hold of the ball as they hastened to the kitchen to ask permission to go outside. Permission granted and warnings issued about the consequences of dirt leaving the ground and finding its way onto clothes, the boys disappeared through the door with Reverend Wakefield following in order to watch and keep them on their best behavior.

Claire and Mrs. Graham smiled as they made tea for themselves to enjoy while the food finished cooking.

“Ye seem to be managing all right on yer own wi’ the bairn,” Mrs. Graham remarked glancing around the kitchen and to the living room beyond. There was a fair bit of clutter but most of it appeared to be the result of having to move furniture in order to accommodate the small evergreen in the corner of the living room as well as the bulky trappings that come with newborns. It was a lived-in home, a place that sheltered children who were loved.

“For now,” Claire remarked with a tired sigh. “I still have time to figure something out for when it’s time to return to work at the hospital.”

“Ye do,” Mrs. Graham agreed, “so do what ye can to enjoy the day.”

“I’m trying and it helps having you here––and having Roger for Fergus to play with. It’s just… a year ago––two years ago… If you’d told me I would be here…”

“It doesna do to dwell,” Mrs. Graham interjected. Out the window they could see that the ball had been divested of its ribbon and Fergus had woven it through the belt loops on his trousers, an act that had Roger howling with laughter while Reverend Wakefield watched with a broad smile. “It’s turning to a particularly good Christmas for Roger too. He’s no had much in the way of playmates before yer Fergus came and the Reverend too hasna had family beyond the lad to celebrate with in some time.”

Brianna cried from down the hall and Claire quickly set her tea down to retrieve the baby and calm her; it was too early for her to be hungry and Claire didn’t want to have to change her shirt. She came back to the kitchen with Brianna held to her shoulder, the tartan blanket folded and tossed over her shirt for the baby to rest against.

“Someone doesn’t want to miss all the action, no matter how tired she is,” Claire remarked as Mrs. Graham approached to look the tired baby in her bright blue eyes and give her a pat on her back.

“Yer life may no be what ye’d expected or hoped two years ago,” Mrs. Graham said quietly as Brianna’s eyes closed again, her mouth hanging open. “But ye’ve got one to be lived and ones to live it with and for. Ye can mourn––and ye will… That part doesna go away. But ye’ll have joy in what ye have left of yer man in his child and though that lad out there mayna be his son by blood…”

Claire smiled and looked to see Fergus laughing with Roger, miming something undoubtedly inappropriate with their backs turned to Reverend Wakefield. Brianna was a warm solid weight clutched over her heart.

“He might not be Jamie’s by blood, but Fergus does carry a bit of Jamie with him,” Claire finished Mrs. Graham’s thought. The three of them would keep Jamie alive.

“Here,” Mrs. Graham said, pulling a small wrapped parcel out for Claire. “Perhaps ye can start some new traditions of yer own.”

It was tricky getting the wrappings undone with one hand but since Brianna’s birth Claire had found her skills in such tasks developing rapidly.

A book of classic Christmas stories, poems, and songs from Dickens to O. Henry, Hans Christian Anderson to Moore, Longfellow, Frost and Blake.

“Thank you,” Claire said quietly to Mrs. Graham. She was familiar with most of the stories in the book and had even outlined a few of them for Jamie on cold and quiet nights as they lay wrapped in the darkness and each other’s warmth. He’d been a born story-teller and enjoyed learning new ones from her. He would have loved telling their children stories at night; she could already feel the warmth of his arms around her as though he were standing behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder so he could look down at the book in her hands. Brianna stirred in her arms without waking as though she’d been brushed by something––or someone––too.

“Happy Christmas, Claire,” Mrs. Graham wished her softly.

“Happy Christmas.”

(Edited to include the links to previous installments cause for some reason, I didn’t realize I hadn’t already added them; oops - Mod Lenny)

I wish we still got cartoons as terrifying as Courage the Cowardly Dog.

“Kid horror” is a genre that’s pretty much non-existent today. And we need that. Kids need to be challenged. Specifically by things which are terrifying.

We’d have less people complaining about everything “triggering” them (rendering the true nature of triggering meaningless by this point) if they were taught as children by the fun cartoons that no, not everything is gonna be happy safe and fun for you. If you learn to accept at a young age that some things are unpleasant and scary, then when things are scary and unpleasant later in life you’ve already adapted to roll with it, instead of complaining and demanding everything be tempered for your comfort.

Please. More Over the garden Wall. More Gravity Falls. and turn that shit up to 11. Kids are tougher and stronger than you insultingly think they are.

Originally posted by rebelsandrascals

Sakamaki Child Headcanons

(I think I said that right lol)


Shuu: shuu has little ones. His are the youngest out of the diaboys children. He’s got two boys. The oldest being 6 and the youngest being 4. His oldest boy, (s/n) is already showing his bold side. He often does dangerous ‘daredevil’ stunts that scare the crap out of you and Shuu. The youngest, well, he’s just a quiet little booger. He helps his mommy and daddy out the best he can (although being 4 years old, you’re mostly helping him more than he helps you.) You and Shuu didn’t plan your oldest, but your second child was definitely planned. We’re not gonna mention that to (o/s/n) though…

Reiji: OKAY SO HE WAS THE FIRST TO HAVE KIDS BASICALLY PROUD AS FUCK THAT HE BEAT SHUU. Reiji has 1 child, a strong and well mannered girl. Or else, that’s what he WISHES she was… she, being 15, is trying every way she can to rebel against her father. He nearly had a heart attack when she came home with one of the Mukamis sons…. she dates Kou’s son, and plans to marry him as soon as she’s old enough. Poor reiji can’t handle all the disobedience, but she makes up for it in her incredible intelligence. When she was a little girl, she would be her daddy’s little helper in the lab and reiji would give anything to be able to do experiments with his little girl one more time.

Ayato: Condoms. This boy needs condoms. You guys have 6 children cause he HAD to have more children than his brothers. 2 girls and 4 boys. His oldest child is a 13 year old boy who sticks pretty close to Laitos 2nd born. He’s pretty chilled out for the most part, but his temper tantrums can destroy a small village. Stay away from this one. Your second child is a beautiful 10 year old girl who has a huge love for fashion and often tries to put crowns on Uncle Laito. She tries to have tea parties with Kanato, but you decide that it’s better if she spends as little time with kanato as possible. Your third child is another girl! She’s 9 years old and the complete opposite of her sister. She gets down and dirty with her brothers and has gained a love for basketball. She often tries to get ayato to play with her and usually kicks his ass. Your fourth, is a 7 year old boy. He’s so hyper active that he’s like a squirrel on a sugar high. He often gets in trouble with reiji for being so wild and often breaks things on accident. He will then come to you with tears in his eyes, “mommy I broke it!” You’d comfort him and send him on his way. Your fifth boy is only 5 and VERY sensitive. He’s got the heart of an angel and cares for all of his cousins and uncles. “I love uncle Subabu (he doesn’t know how to pronounce his name) he’s so nice!” Then, your sweet baby boy, whom is only a year old. He’s a bubbly and talkative baby. It’s funny to watch ayato try to depict his babbling. “Oi, what was that? You think Ore-Sama is perfect??? You’re my favorite!” Sure ayato, that’s what he said.

Kanato: he surprisingly has more than one child, 2 to be exact. Twin girls, both 12. The oldest twin (by 5 minutes) is very temperamental. She often gets in fights with her father, and it’s a little self centered. She won’t let her 'younger’ twin forget that she’s 5 minutes older than her. Your 'youngest’ girl is very sweet and knows how to get on her fathers good side. “Daddy, would you like to eat some of the sweets I made you?” She has a promising future as a baker and is often self conscious due to her twins selfish nature.

Laito: BOY LEMME TELL YOU this guy has 2 girls and one boy and he would DIE for them. He loves his children with all he has and is a bit of a control freak. His children are VERY sheltered and know nothing of his past. He wants his children to have the pure life he never had. His oldest is his little princess. She’s about 14 years of age and is very interested in drawing and reading. She often writes stories of her 'boyfriend’ which deeply upsets Laito because he doesn’t want her interested in boys till she’s 50. His second oldest is a boy, 13 years old. This boy is the spitting image of Laito. Very quiet, kind of a lone wolf. He has taken his fathers interest in music and has Laito teach him new songs every week. He hangs out with ayatos first born and the two often get into mischief much to your dismay. And finally Laitos baby girl, only 5 months old. She’s already a daddy’s girl, often crying just for Laito to swoop in and cuddle her. She just recently started getting her fangs which shows Laito that she’s growing up. “Bitch-chan~ lets have another.” Oh boy…

Subaru: Subaru only has two children. His oldest, a very shy 10 year old girl. She often finds herself being bullied at school which she never tells her father about. She is a daddy’s girl and doesn’t want him to see her at her weakest. She enjoys singing songs and often tries to get Subaru to join in. Subarus second child is another girl whom is about 6 years old. She’s very talented and often comes home with multiple trophies from whatever competition she was in that week. She’s got a bad temper like Subaru, and is very protective over her older sister.

In which I (sleepily) rant about Harry Potter and Christian homeschooling

Harry Potter was something to fear growing up. For those of us who were aware of the books’ existence, we classified them as “dangerous.” We were told that these books would invite demons into our homes. My mother was convinced that the only way J.K. Rowling could think up such things were if demons influenced her dreams and caused her to write it. No shit. She’s thoroughly convinced that this is the same case with the author of the Twilight books too.

This type of paranoid, extremist thinking isn’t uncommon at all in the fundamentalist Christian homeschooling communities. With my experience down in the South where religion already runs rampant, I witnessed how that atmosphere fueled the twisted ideologies of Christian homeschooling parents to the point of insanity. If they believe that demons are real and that bringing in certain secular material that “promotes” witchcraft will invoke demons, then who’s going to stop them? After all, the parents know what’s best…right?

What happens to the brains of these children who are so sheltered from the world in the name of keeping them Christian and pure? Because in this world, demons are real and you’ll go to Hell if you don’t accept Jesus as your Savior. Fear is instilled in us from the very beginning. Fear of the outside world, other people (mostly “unbelievers”), sex, and losing our eternal salvation. We were forced to grow up in this rigid way of thinking, lest we lose ourselves to the “secular world.”

The religious homeschool world can be a pretty fucked up place to grow up in, though.

But as it turns out, thankfully, Harry Potter isn’t evil. Rejecting Christianity didn’t make me a terrible, immoral, hateful person. If anything, leaving Christianity made me a better person because I’m a kinder and much more compassionate human being now. And yo, Harry Potter is the bomb. Like, who the hell wants to deprive their children of this stuff?! It’s awesome! Unlike what my mother taught me, it doesn’t teach you spells. It takes you on this fucking magical journey and…damn, one of my favorite book series ever so far.

Stop depriving your kids, people, and just let us live a little. Life is short.

Neerja Bhanot (1963-1986) was a Pan Am flight attendant who sacrificed her life in order to prevent a greater tragedy. When Pan Am Flight 73, going from Mumbai to New York, was hijacked by four terrorists on September 5 1986, she alerted the rest of the crew, allowing them to flee, and took control of the cabin.

When the terrorists asked for the passenger’s passports so they could identify the Americans, she disposed of the documents and helped a number of passengers escape through an emergency door. She was killed while sheltering three children from a rain of bullets.

She was posthumously given the Ashkok Chakra Award, the highest peacetime bravery award in India.

2017 Manchester Arena bombing

On 22 May 2017, a suicide bombing was carried out at Manchester Arena in Manchester, England, following a concert by American singer Ariana Grande. The attacker was identified as Salman Ramadan Abedi, a 22-year-old British Muslim who detonated a shrapnel-laden improvised explosive device at the exit of the arena after the event. Twenty-three adults and children, including Abedi, were killed and 116 were injured, some critically.

Abedi was suspected of working within a terrorist network, and 14 people were arrested in connection with the incident, two of whom were released without charge.

Attack: On 22 May 2017, at around 22:30, a suicide bomber detonated an improvised explosive device, packed with nuts and bolts to act as shrapnel, in the foyer area of the Manchester Arena. The attack took place after an Ariana Grande concert that was part of her 2017 Dangerous Woman Tour. The concert was sold out, and up to 21,000 people attended. Many exiting concert-goers and waiting parents were in the foyer at the time of the explosion.

Greater Manchester Police declared the incident a terrorist attack and suicide bombing. It was the deadliest attack in the United Kingdom since the 7 July 2005 London bombings.

Aftermath: About three hours after the bombing, police conducted a controlled explosion on a suspicious item of clothing in Cathedral Gardens. This was later confirmed to have been abandoned clothing and not dangerous.

Residents and taxi companies in Manchester offered free transport or accommodation via Twitter to those left stranded at the concert. Parents of children attending the concert were separated in the aftermath of the explosion. A nearby hotel served as a shelter for children displaced by the bombing, with officials directing their parents there. Manchester’s Sikh temples (gurdwaras) along with local homeowners, hotels and venues offered shelter to victims of the attack.

Manchester Victoria railway station, which is partly underneath the arena, was evacuated and closed, and services were cancelled. The explosion caused structural damage to the station, which will remain closed until the damage has been assessed and repaired, resulting in significant disruption to train and tram services.

The Arndale shopping centre was evacuated for a time during an unrelated arrest on the day following the attack. A second brief evacuation of a University of Salford building occurred at about 4:00 pm.

After a COBRA meeting with Greater Manchester’s Chief Constable, Ian Hopkins, on 23 May, Prime Minister Theresa May announced that the UK’s terror threat level was raised to “critical”, its highest level. The threat level remained critical until 27 May, when it was reduced to its previous level of severe. In the aftermath of the attack Operation Temperer was activated for the first time, allowing up to 5,000 soldiers to reinforce armed police in protecting parts of the country. Tours of the Houses of Parliament and the Changing of the Guard ceremony at Buckingham Palace were cancelled on 24 May, and troops were deployed to guard government buildings in London.

On 23 May, the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant, via the Nashir Telegram channel, claimed the attack was carried out by “a soldier of the Khilafah”. The message called the attack “an endeavor to terrorize the mushrikin and in response to their transgressions against the lands of the Muslims.” Abedi’s sister speculated that he was motivated by revenge for Muslim children killed by American airstrikes in Syria.

Casualties: The blast killed the attacker, and 22 concert-goers and parents who were in the entrance waiting to pick up their children following the show; 116 people were injured. As of 26 May 2017, 75 people remained in hospital, 23 of them, including five children, in critical care. The dead included ten people under 20, the youngest an eight-year-old girl.

North West Ambulance Service reported that 60 of its ambulances attended the scene, carried 59 people to local hospitals, and treated a number of walking wounded on site. Of those hospitalized, 12 were children under the age of 16.

Attacker: The bomber, Salman Ramadan Abedi, was a 22-year-old British Muslim of Libyan ancestry. He was born in Manchester on 31 December 1994 to a family of Libyan-born refugees who had settled in south Manchester after fleeing to the UK to escape the government of Muammar Gaddafi. He grew up in the Whalley Range area and lived in Fallowfield. According to The Times, Abedi had been among a group of students who had accused a teacher of Islamophobia for criticizing suicide bombing. Neighbors described the Abedi family as very traditional and “super religious”. Abedi, his elder brother, and, prior to 2011, his father attended Didsbury Mosque. An imam at the mosque recalled that Abedi looked at him “with hate” after he preached against ISIS and Ansar al-Sharia in 2015.

He was known to British security services but was not regarded as a high risk. A community worker told the BBC he had called a hotline five years before the bombing to warn police about Abedi’s views and members of Britain’s Libyan diaspora said they had “warned authorities for years” about Manchester’s Islamist radicalization. Abedi was allegedly reported to authorities about his extremism, by as many as five people, including community leaders and possibly family members. On 29 May, MI5 launched an internal inquiry into its handling of the warnings it had received about Abedi.

Abedi’s parents, both born in Tripoli, returned to Libya in 2011 following the overthrow of Muammar Gaddafi, while Abedi stayed in the United Kingdom. Abedi attended Burnage Academy for Boys in Manchester between 2009 and 2011, before going to the Manchester College until 2013 and then in 2014 enrolled at the University of Salford, where he studied business management. Abedi later dropped out to work in a bakery. According to an acquaintance, Abedi was “outgoing” and consumed alcohol until 2012. Another acquaintance said Abedi was a “regular kid who went out and drank” until about 2016. According to the BBC, “Friends remember him as a good footballer, a keen supporter of Manchester United and a user of cannabis. He had a sister and two brothers.” Manchester police believe Abedi used student loans to finance the plot, including travel overseas to learn bomb-making. The Guardian reported he may have received loan funding as recently as April.

Investigation: The property in Fallowfield where Abedi lived was raided on 23 May. Armed police breached the house with a controlled explosion and searched it. Abedi’s 23-year-old brother was arrested in Chorlton-cum-Hardy in south Manchester in relation to the attack. Police carried out raids in two other areas of south Manchester and another address in the Whalley Range area. Three other men were arrested, and police spoke of a likely “network” supporting the bomber.

According to German intelligence, Abedi had returned to the UK from Turkey four days prior to the attack. French interior minister Gérard Collomb told a French TV channel that Abedi may have been to Syria, and had “proven” links with ISIS. Abedi’s younger brother and father were arrested by Libyan security forces on 23 and 24 May respectively. The brother was suspected of planning an attack in Libya, and was said to be in regular touch with Salman, and aware of the plan to bomb the Manchester Arena, but not the date. According to a Libyan official, the brothers spoke on the phone about 15 minutes before the attack was carried out.

Photographs of the remains of the IED published by The New York Times indicated that it had comprised an explosive charge inside a lightweight metal container which was carried within a black vest or a blue Karrimor backpack. Most of the fatalities occurred in a ring around the bomber. His torso was propelled by the blast through the doors to the arena, possibly indicating that the explosive charge was held in the backpack and blew him forward on detonation. A small device thought to have possibly been a hand-held detonator was also found. US Congressman Michael McCaul, chairman of the House Homeland Security Committee, indicated that the bomb contained the explosive TATP, which has been used in previous bombings. According to Manchester police, the explosive device used by Abedi was the design of a skilled bomb-maker and had a back-up means of detonation.

Police released images showing Abedi on the night of the bombing, taken from CCTV footage. According to US intelligence sources, he was identified by the bank card that he had with him using facial recognition technology.

As of 28 May 2017, fourteen people had been arrested, of whom twelve remained in police custody.

News leaks: Within hours of the attack, Abedi’s name and other information given confidentially to security services in the United States and France were leaked to the news media, leading to condemnation from Home Secretary Amber Rudd. The BBC reported that the UK government and police reacted with “fury” following the publication of crime scene photographs of the backpack bomb used in the attack, which appeared in the 24 May edition of The New York Times, saying that the release of the material was detrimental to the investigation.

On 25 May, Greater Manchester Police said that it had stopped sharing information on the attack with the US intelligence services. Prime Minister Theresa May said she would make clear to President Trump that “intelligence that has been shared must be made secure.” Trump described the leaks to the news media as “deeply troubling”, and pledged to carry out a full investigation. British officials blamed the leaks on “the breakdown of normal discipline at the White House and in the US security services”. The New York Times editor Dean Baquet declined to apologize for publishing the backpack bomb photographs, saying “We live in different press worlds” and that the material was not classified at the highest level.