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pocketsizedquasar-3 · 2 months ago

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you know. white liberals would be far less annoying (still deeply annoying) and far less difficult to take seriously (still deeply difficult) if they stopped lying to themselves and everyone else about what they were doing. ‘cause y’all either sound completely stupid and removed from reality at best or violently callous at worst.

(and before anyone fails their reading comprehension here, i am not telling anyone to vote or not vote or who to vote or not vote for. get off my dick.)

but no, you’re not doing “real leftism” by voting for kamala (something i have actually seen countless people say. “real leftists” would vote for kamala!!1!!1!! if you don’t vote for her ur not a “real leftist!!!!”). that’s not what that is. words mean things. you’re actually engaging in pretty textbook liberalism. it’s not “real leftism” to vote for a genocidal fascist who is actively employing genocidal fascistic policies both overseas and domestically, and who has pledged gladly to continue doing so. (again, bc this is the bad reading comprehension website, i’m not telling you if you vote for kkkamala ur not a “real leftist” (mostly because that’s meaningless); i’m saying that that act itself is not a """leftist""" action). if you feel the need to justify what you’re doing to yourself by pretending you’re doing ~real leftism~, stop.

you're not “stopping fascism” or “saving democracy” or whatever else. you’re not “stopping fascism” by voting for a fascist. you’re not “saving democracy” by voting for a fascist. if you genuinely can’t see in this current moment that kamala harris & the democrats are fascists, you are deliberately ignoring and excusing fascism as long as it’s happening to nonwhite people. it is willful, deliberate ignorance at this point and it is violent. you genuinely do not see victims of fascism unless it happens to white people.

you’re not “protecting palestinians” by voting for kamala. you’re not making their chances better or being better for them or improving their conditions. you’re not “more likely” to sway kamala on palestine; you can’t even threaten to withhold your support for her because of her wanton slaughtering of palestinians. 13 months of ongoing genocide and ongoing mass protest movements and multiple polls showing that she would literally guarantee the win in key swing states if she would just call for an arms embargo / ceasefire as part of her platform have not swayed her. she constantly, constantly reaffirms her willful, enthusiastic support of this genocide. she has said over and over again that she will not end her support for israel, that she would not have done anything differently than biden, that she has no intentions to stop sending israel arms and money so they can keep slaughtering palestinians and now lebanese. you are not “protecting” or helping palestinians by voting for her. keep their names out of your mouths.

you’re not protecting """minorities""" or """poc""" either. not when the candidate is a cop whose administration has already funneled billions of dollars into the police and the military, who is priding herself on wanting to create the most lethal military, on being tougher on the border&immigration than trump, who is happily continuing to perpetuate racist atrocity propaganda to justify the mass slaughter of palestinians, who continues to reaffirm and support the escalation of imperialism and war even elsewhere in the so-called middle east, who is gladly seeking (and securing) endorsements by racist white supremacist republicans (like dick fucking cheney. come on), whose administration has been for four years enthusiastically accelerating the climate crisis, whose campaign has been littered with examples of both their supporters and the politicians themselves being virulently racist. you’re not protecting us. you’re not helping us.

your candidate wants us dead. your candidate wants me dead. your candidate wants my people in iran dead. your candidate wants my sister peoples in palestine and in lebanon dead. your candidate is actively orchestrating their slaughter.

kamala might be better for you, white liberal american. fine. vote for her if you wish. no one is stopping you. but stop white knighting about it. stop pretending you’re doing this for anyone but yourself. stop lying to yourself and everyone else about what you’re doing. stop speaking over us the with fucking audacity that you’re somehow doing us a favor, and stop talking down to us, palestinians especially, like they are children who need to be ~explained~ the right way to save them. stick your white savior complex up your ass.

vote however you want, but stop lying about what you’re doing and who you’re protecting.

and if you want my vote too? fucking earn it.

#us politics #politics #genocide #kamala harris #liberal #joe biden #palestine #israel #racism #quasartalks #if dems wanted me to vote for them they’d stop being so fucking racist to me & people like me. they’d do the literal one (1) thing that the #statistic vast majority of usamericans want. but they won’t. they care less about winning the election — and less about /doing their job/#(you know - responding to the wishes of their constituents they represent) — than they do about being able to continue bombing hospitals #and burning children alive in tents. they would rather blow babies’ brains apart than win the election. they KNOW. that they would GUARANTE #A WIN. if they would STOP SLAUGHTERING PEOPLE. and they DO NOT CARE ABOUT WINNING ENOUGH TO DO IT. they dont care abt winning the election #enough to stop slaughtering civilians.#why should i care then? if they don’t? if they clearly don’t care enough to do the single thing that would guarantee the win?#you’re asking me to care about people who care more about killing me than they do winning the election. be so for fucking real.#and leave me alone. leave us alone.#vote for whatever you want. but keep our names out of ur mouths.#i’m going to try to have this b the only actual post abt this i make #but goddamn. dems are so disgustingly violently racist and you get madder at the ppl they deliberately denigrate than u do them for-#-alienating swaths of their voter base. y’all are a little too excited abt these racist maniacal genociders.#we see the way you celebrate racists. if kamala wins and you’re doing anything but breathing relief that trump is gone and strapping in to #actually 'pressure' kamala like u said u would? if i see any of you freaks Celebrating?? celebrating these racist wastes of space?#it’s on sight lmao

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opiumsturn · 1 year ago

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LES-CHILDISH GAMBINO

IN WHICH-Chris and Y/n are in a toxic relationship. (inspo by the song les)

THERE WILL BE ANOTHER VERSION INSPIRED BY LES

warnings-Smut,use of mama,ma,baby,princess,dollface, toxic relationship, arguments,use of y/n,song lyrics,nsfw

| for better experience song is recommended and linked |

⟡C. STURNIOLO.⟡

⟡•STURNSGIRL •⟡

It was dark with only colored and flashing illuminating lights around. People drunk and wasted, others making out, and some smoking.

I was at a party I don't know whos but who evers it was it didnt matter. I was in an argument with my boyfriend before we came here but not to mention he was also here sneaking glances at me and smirking even staring me dead up and down holding a red solo cup. He was pissing me off more than I already was, girls dancing on him and touching all up on him, kissing them even. I did the same at this point. Grinding my hips and swaying on other guys, drunk. Sitting on another man's lap smoking a blunt leaving my dark red lipstick stains on the mouth of the blunt and other guys face's.

FLASHBACK.

"YOU'RE A FUCKING MESS? YOUR WHOLE LIFE IS AND IM ALWAYS IN THE MIX OF IT."

"IM A MESS? YOU'RE HERE FUCKING WITH OTHER GIRLS?" I yell at chris with my mascara running down my cheeks wondering how i got into this in the first place.

"YEAH? AND I CAN BECAUSE NO ONE KNOWS, ABOUT.. US!?" He saying swinging his hand

"CHRIS REALLY? WHAT EVEN ARE 'WE' AT ONE POINT YOU WERE SOME ONE I REALLY LOVED. WHEN IM DEPRESSED YOU'RE SOMEONE I'LL RUN TO, BUT NOW I CANT EVEN TALK TO YOU ABOUT ANYTHING!"

I say silencing him as i wipe tears and run out the door with my purse hanging off my shoulder and my matching black and red out fit in my hand.

Chris chose my outfit, dressing me as a complete slut.

The outfit was a tight black corset with red accents within the ribbons that laced the top with the back of it only being a the ribbon, so my back was fully exposed. Topped with a small red bow at the middle of the corset between my boobs. The matching extreme short and tight shiny skirt it came with not even fully covering my ass also topped with a red bow at the, and see through black tinted tights that only dimmed my shade of legs. I decided with a red bow in my hair and red bottom platform heels with red bows in the back.

I got ready at my friend Maya's house for the party not seeing Chris until we got there.

END OF FLASHBACK.

I get off the boys lap im in, walking to the bar stumbling, and barely managing to walk ordering a lemonade and vodka mix, and dowing it within seconds on my way to the dance floor, but im stopped.

"Hey pretty lady, can i make you my toy tonight?" A man says coming to me trying to slide his hands to my waist.

*les by childish gambino starts to play*

"No she wont and shes not a fucking toy asshole." Chris says coming up from my side snaking his arm around my waist pulling me towards his side and moving me away.

"Oh your claiming me again?" i say rolling my eyes crossing my arms.

"Fuck you. Can i have this dance?" he says sliding both his hands to my waist down to my ass gripping it causing me sway around him.

Lights flashing

Chris's arms around me

Spinning me around

Gripping and grabbing on me

Kissing me.

colors everywhere.

My vision lost around and everywhere.

"C'mon Doll." He says in a more demanding way grabbing my wrist to a room upstairs closing the door behind us as we enter.

He immediatly starts gliding his tounge on my mouth giving his own enterance picking me up from my ass not breaking the sloppy makeout we were in. I could taste the alcohol, and weed in him and I know he could taste the same in me. He starts to kiss down my neck and down my boobs til he reached the top of my corset his arms curling around my back lifting me up pulling the strings of my corset as well as my corset it’s self off throwing them off. Childish gambino muffled still playing outside of the red dim lit room with candles.

'Baby you're the baddest. Baby you're the baddest girl and uh-'

Trailing off as Chris has ripped off my skirt, and tights already while I kick off my heels. Chris groaning against my skin kissing, and rubbing up my thigh. Pulling my red thong to the side wiping his two finger up, and down a few times still kissing on me before licking a stripe onto my wet core making him groan, causing vibrations to be sent through my body allowing me to moan. His tounge flicking up, sliding his fingers into me curling up, and down,pumping in and out,sucking and kissing on my pussy, muffled groans and high pitched moans tugging on his hair ever so lightly while his other hand rubs the top of my clit. Til I feel the knot in my stomach.

"oh sh-shiiittt..umph c-hri..FUCKK..MM-gonna c-" I moan not even finishing before I release on chris

"Fuck baby you did so good mmph mama." He huffs out breathless.

He cleans me up. Tying my corset, and putting my skirt and thong back on. He pulls me into his chest from my waist standing me up.

"look baby im sorry. i wanna try,and i know, im an awful guy and im always but i wanna try and i know im a piece of shit but we can make this work."

"make it work by fucking our ways into apologies everytime?!" I reply

"no mama please listen. we can work i know it. im sorry baby. forgive me please?" He apologizes

I dont reply and just kiss him as a 'its okay'. but really we knew it wasnt. Our relationship is a mess and always has been. Hes out with other girls hurting me, but 'he will change' according to him.

2 days pass and again chris is away somewhere. Until I get a text.

CHRIS🫀

Chris🫀- hey dollface can i come over ?

why?-me

Chris🫀- cs i want too?

Sorry. Yeah u can-me

^- loved by CHRIS🫀

I put my phone down and huffed. I got up off the couch and got ready for chris. about 15 minutes had passed and there was a knock at my door. I run downstairs to go open the door and to no one's surprise it was chris.

"Hey mamas" He says hugging me by my waist.

"Hey baby" I say taking in his embrace while he lets go and walks away, I close the door and walk over to chris.

"why'd u wanna come over?" I ask

"so I can see my pretty girl?" he says in a duh tone

I chuckle as I straddle his lap and lean into his soft lips for a small kiss.

"why dont we go to my house, hm?" he says holding my lower waist

"but chris-"

"I know, I know, every time we see each other im taking you home but cmon"

"fine."I sigh.

They get home

"Mmph chris!" I moan into the kiss. As soon as we got home we were kissing in the bathroom making out and moaning. I hope nobody catch us.. but I kinda hope they catch us.

"shh baby their gonna catch us."

"sorry." i whisper

We went on for around an hour fucking in the bathroom while nick and matt were home still.

"fuuck you did so good princess" he breaths out kissing my temple, cleaning me up.

I cant manage any words still huffing out catching my breath

"did i fuck u dumb ma?" he chuckles picking me up and laying me in bed dressing me in his fresh love set.

"th..thank you baby" I managed as he dressed me.

He just kissed my head and walks to the closet changing

"wanna go get food mama?" he asks

"please" I say softly still dumb fucked.

"can you even walk?" he giggles

I try to stand up he fail almost falling as he grabs me holding me up he chuckles softly before speaking.

"c'mon mama i got you dont worry" he says holding me stable as i take step after step hoping nick and matt dont see us.

we walk out the house and he sits me down in the passenger seat and buckles my seat belt for me kissing my temple before going to his side

"can we get chic fil a?" i ask softly

"yes mama" he says intertwining our fingers and resting them on my thigh.

"you know i love you right?" chris speaks up

i look at him confused as because our 'relationship' if you can even call it that is a mess. Hes out kissing and sleeping with other people and everytime he sees me hes taking me home. As if im one of his hoes. We were a mess mentally. Both of us and us together.

"baby your the baddest girl i know. i love you so much and im so sorry for everything ive done i love you and care about you. no body else matters. only you ma." he says

"what?.. i- chris.. you mean that?" i say on the verge of tears.

"yes my princess." he says squeezing my hand

"i love you too. im sorry for everything and-"

"dont be sorry ma" he says cutting me off stopping at a red light giving me a quick but sweet and passionate kiss.

naz speaks- this took so long and its short nd sucks ass im gonna cry.. but i love this song sooo..

request are open feel free to leave them!

@is4belle and I's tiktokt acc-sturnsma.

#Spotify #les childish gambino #childish gambino #favorite songs #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #fanfic #eventual smut #smut

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the-haunted-office · 7 months ago

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(A starter for @alabonshay!)

"As Stanley came to a set of two open doors, he entered the door on his left."

Stanley has forgotten how many times he's heard those words spoken in that order by that voice. Enough times that he doesn't need to be told to take the door on the left anymore, but the voice still feels the need to tell him. That's just how the Narrator is, though. Omnipresent, though perhaps not omniscient. Controlling, but not in control.

Stanley goes ahead and enters the door on the left, though. He has no reason to deviate this time around. Nothing in his gut telling him to go right instead, or to jump off any platforms, or to head down any dark and ominous corridors. Besides, it's not that he wants to listen to the Narrator this time around or that he has any particular gut feelings. He simply wants to see outside, even knowing it isn't real.

It may be the last time he sees the outside ever again, and in his yearning for freedom, he can't help but take whatever he can get.

"-2845- Stanley, have you even been listening to me? I swear, it's like talking to a wall with you sometimes. I don't know why I even bother."

Stanley presses his lips together and enters in the code behind the boss' desk, although he manages to resist rolling his eyes. He hadn't realized he'd been tuning out the Narrator. Everything is on autopilot this time around, it seems, and most of the time through the Story he doesn't even need to listen to the Narrator to know where he needs to go. It's the same thing every time, so what's the point?

The fireplace swings open, the Narrator drones on, and Stanley continues his march, onward toward the Ending he's reached dozens if not hundreds of times before.

Getting there is the boring part, and as the clank and clang of his shoes echo on the concrete floors and metal catwalks, Stanley begins to tune out the voice in the ceiling again.

The voice in the ceiling notices.

Meanwhile neither of them notices when something goes fantastically... different.

"-Stanley decided that this machinery would never again exert its- Stanley, you're just not listening to me, are you? Here you are, seconds away from your freedom, and you're acting like you're a walking corpse. I might as well be talking to one. I don't know why I bother with you sometimes, if I'm honest."

Stanley gives a small shrug in acknowledgment as he enters the door into the room with the Mind Control machine. He can see the blue glow from the enormous monitor just beyond the door. Here, he'll have to make his choice whether to turn the machine On or Off.

"Well, if you're so content with being dead already why don't you- .....What the HELL is THAT?"

Stanley comes to an abrupt halt, because he sees it too. Something is standing there in front of the controls. Something a lot bigger and bulkier than he is, and better dressed to boot.

Lacking any other reasonable way to respond to this situation, the office worker just stands there. And waves a hello.

#alabonshay #here we go! hope this works for you! x)#please don't feel like you have to match lengths or anything #excited about getting this one started hehehe

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morkitten · 3 months ago

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thoughts on Sonic Frontiers so far

I was clowning a lot on Sonic Frontiers before release and it took me until now to play it because it really looked like a cynical half-baked attempt at trend-chasing open world stuff, a genre that I already feel is very much not good. But, playing it, I feel better about it than how I thought I would feel playing.

Now, I still think it's a problematic game and definitely not one of my favorites, but when it comes to "open world games", again, a genre I really don't like, I find this as definitely one of the better/more tolerable ones I've played, simply because of the garish floating structures strewn all over these environments.

These look like shit and they're all over the place, but, it does mean that exploration requires you to do actual Sonic action-platforming to explore and to collect stuff, which is a lot more Game than the dull meandering of many open world games. All the problems of open world games are here - million collectibles for a million different things, a lot of things are just thrown out there and don't feel designed, but controlling Sonic is fun, and he's fast, meaning these environments don't feel as tiringly huge as they may appear at first.

The story so far is weirdly mature and it has this strange melancholy feel that I think is very interesting, even if I wouldn't write Sonic like this, it's fun to have a game that takes such a different swing. Sonic's friends are forced to confront themselves and their failings and sadness as they've been reduced to, uh, spirits hanging on cyber-purgatory hell. Sonic's friends are fucking dead and he needs to rescue their souls and hang out with them to comfort their loneliness as they interact with the ghosts of the last living memories of people of a genocided ancient civilization. That's, uh, something!

I do think the constant name-dropping other past games and events and characters feels a bit too much. It does feel like Ian Flynn trying to overcorrect or overdeliver on "fandom complaints" about past Sonic games, about how their stories don't feel meaningful, about how they seem to pretend no other game exists, etc. Sometimes he'll slip in some meta commentary based on fandom complaints about past Sonic games too, there's a line where like, Amy asks Sonic if it feels nice to roam around freely "with no guardrails", as if addressing complaints that people have with games like Sonic Unleashed, Colors, Generations and Forces relying on "hallway"-style level design a la Crash Bandicoot, or, and I haven't gotten to Tails yet, but I do know there's a line where Tails complains about his own character writing in Sonic Forces, and it's like, this is a bit too much. I don't need to be informed of what Sonic reddit discusses about in their spare time, this kinda stuff is lame and insular.

The combat isn't superb but it's interesting that they had to rethink so much in order to give Sonic combat at all. Every big enemy is like a completely different beast that takes specific parts of Sonic's moveset to use against them, and they're decent attempts at doing that! I would just rather not fight them again after fighting them once, though. Also, Sonic has fun and flashy moves that feel fitting to him.

Those are my impressions so far, might reblog this later with more of my thoughts as I progress through the game.

#sonic frontiers #sonic the hedgehog #sonic #sth

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 2 months ago

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David Rowe

* * * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

October 31, 2024

Heather Cox Richardson

Nov 01, 2024

House speaker Mike Johnson (R-LA) has responded to news stories about his plan to get rid of the Affordable Care Act (or Obamacare) by claiming his comments at the closed-door campaign event on Monday were taken out of context. But they weren’t. The tape is clear. Johnson said that Republicans want “massive reform” to the Affordable Care Act, also known as “Obamacare.” When an attendee asked, “No Obamacare?” Johnson laughed and agreed: “No Obamacare. The ACA is so deeply ingrained, we need massive reform to make this work, and we got a lot of ideas on how to do that.”

MAGA Utah senator Mike Lee reposted the video of Johnson and commented: “Kill Obamacare now[.]”

Trump today posted on social media that he never mentioned repealing the Affordable Care Act, “never even thought of such a thing.” But this was either a memory lapse or a lie, because in 2016 he ran on repealing the ACA and his 2016 platform called for “a full repeal of Obamacare.” Within hours of taking office in 2017, Trump issued an executive order weakening the law, and when the Republican-dominated House voted to repeal the law, Trump held a celebration in the Rose Garden and declared the ACA “essentially dead.”

Senator John McCain (R-AZ) bucked Trump to protect the ACA then, and Trump began this year’s campaign with a promise to get rid of it before backing off. Even still, the vague promise in the 2024 platform to “increase Transparency, promote Choice and Competition, and expand access to new Affordable Healthcare” sounds a lot like Johnson’s promise to restore “the free market” to health care.

While Democratic nominee Vice President Kamala Harris has been campaigning in the swing states of Wisconsin and Pennsylvania, Trump today held a rally in Albuquerque, New Mexico, a state President Joe Biden won by almost 11 points in 2020 and that Democrats are likely to win in 2024. Trump had to hold the rally at a private airplane hangar after city officials refused to rent the Albuquerque Convention Center to the campaign because it still owes Albuquerque almost $445,000 from a similar rally in 2019.

Once there, he made it clear he was trying to repair some of the damage caused by the extraordinary racism and sexism on display at his Sunday rally at New York City’s Madison Square Garden, where a comedian called Puerto Rico “a floating island of garbage.”

Courting offended voters, he said: “Don’t make me waste a whole damn half a day here, OK? Look, I came here. We can be nice to each other, or we can talk turkey. I’m here for one simple reason: I like you very much, and it’s good for my credentials with the Hispanic or Latino community.” That outreach might not be enough to bring back the voters lost after the Madison Square Garden event.

The campaign is seeing other weaknesses, as well. Meredith McGraw and Jessica Piper of Politico reported today that nearly half of the ballots already cast in Pennsylvania have come from voters over the age of 65, and although the numbers of registered older voters are divided evenly between the parties, registered Democrats have made up about 58% of Pennsylvania’s early votes, compared to 35% for Republicans. Those numbers might well simply reflect different approaches to mail-in ballots, but they also might explain why Trump is already claiming fraud in Pennsylvania.

He is also seemingly nervous about Pennsylvania because women are voting there at a much higher rate than men in the early vote: 56% to 43%. And Democratic women are the biggest group of new voters in the state. New voters who were too young eight years ago to hear the Access Hollywood tape, in which Trump bragged about sexually assaulting women, have been hearing it on TikTok lately, as younger users record their reactions to it and call out their older male relatives for voting for anyone who would talk as Trump did.

“I moved on her, and I failed,” Trump says in the tape. “I’ll admit it. I did try and f*ck her…. I moved on her like a b*tch, but I couldn’t get there, and she was married,” Trump said. “You know I’m automatically attracted to beautiful— I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab ‘em by the p*ssy. You can do anything,” he said.

The Harris campaign and pro-Harris organizations leaned into the history of women’s suffrage today with videos highlighting those who fought so that women could vote and reiterating: “We are not going back.” To assist those women who might not feel safe letting their husbands know how they voted, women have been posting notes in women’s public bathrooms assuring other women that their vote is secret. A Democratic advertisement voiced by actress Julia Roberts powerfully makes the point that women do not have to tell their husbands how they vote.

Right-wing figures like Charlie Kirk have expressed alarm at the gender gap in voting. As well, there has been a right-wing backlash to the idea that women will vote for Harris while letting their husbands assume they’re voting for Trump.

Former House speaker Newt Gingrich (R-GA), who famously cheated on both of his first two wives, expressed dismay at the idea that a woman might need to keep her vote secret from her husband. “For them to tell people to lie is just one further example of the depth of their corruption,” he said. “How do you run a country…saying wives should lie to their husbands, husbands should lie to their wives? I mean, what kind of a totally amoral, corrupt, sick system have the Democrats developed?”

On the Fox News Channel’s The Five this morning, host Jesse Watters said that if he found out his wife “was going into the voting booth and pulling the lever for Harris, that’s the same thing as having an affair…. That violates the sanctity of our marriage.” Christian pastor Dale Partridge posted: “In a Christian marriage, a wife should vote according to her husband’s direction. He is the head and they are one. Unity extends to politics. This is not controversial.” But, he added, “submission does have limits. A wife doesn’t need to submit to her husband in sin (in this case voting democrat).”

Tonight, at an event with right-wing host Tucker Carlson in Glendale, Arizona, Trump seemed to move beyond misogyny to murderous intent. He turned his increasingly violent rhetoric against former representative Liz Cheney (R-WY), who has urged Republican women to vote against Trump. “She’s a radical war hawk,” he said, “Let’s put her with a rifle standing there with nine barrels shooting at her, OK? Let’s see how she feels about it, you know, when the guns are trained on her face.”

Carlson is friendly with authoritarian Hungarian prime minister Viktor Orbán, who has undermined democracy in his own country and is close to Russian president Vladimir Putin. Today Orbán posted that he had “Just got off the phone with President [Trump]. I wished him the best of luck for next Tuesday. Only five days to go. Fingers crossed[.]“

Meanwhile, a lot more major endorsements for Harris have been coming in.

Today basketball legend LeBron James released a powerful one-minute ad with clips of Trump’s many racist statements and drawing a straight line from him back to the most violent days of the civil rights movement. “HATE TAKES US BACK,” it says. In a post sharing the video, James wrote: “When I think about my kids and my family and how they will grow up, the choice is clear to me. VOTE KAMALA HARRIS!!!” James has 53 million followers on X.

The Economist today endorsed Harris, warning that “a second Trump term comes with unacceptable risks.” Former New York City mayor Mike Bloomberg also posted on social media that he had voted for Harris “without hesitation,” and added that he hoped undecided voters would join him. “Trump is not fit for high office,” he wrote in a Bloomberg op-ed. He praised Harris’s positive vision and bipartisan outreach.

Conservative judge J. Michael Luttig published an op-ed in the New York Times on Tuesday, titled: “My Fellow Republicans, It’s Time to Say ‘Enough’ With Trump.” The former president is unfit for office, Luttig wrote. “When we entrusted our Constitution and our democracy to him before, he betrayed us.” Luttig assured readers that “[t]here could be no higher duty of American citizenship than to decisively repudiate” Trump.

He reminded his fellow Republicans that they had always “proudly claimed they would be the first to put the country above all else when the time came. That time has come…. All Americans, but especially Republicans, will live with their decision the rest of their lives.” “The choice for America next Tuesday,” Luttig wrote, “could not be clearer.”

Ever since Vice President Harris tapped Minnesota governor Tim Walz as her running mate, Democratic governors have been demonstrating their support for one of their own. Today, for Halloween, Democratic governors Wes Moore of Maryland, Janet Mills of Maine, Maura Healey of Massachusetts, Gretchen Whitmer of Michigan, and Phil Murphy of New Jersey each dressed to match a photograph of Walz.

“No tricks this Halloween!” Whitmer posted. “Just dressing up as our friend [Tim Walz]—excited to elect him and [Kamala Harris]. If you haven’t yet, make a plan to vote: http://iwillvote.com[.]”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#Heather Cox Richardson #Letters From An American #David Rowe #political cartoons #political #Mike Johnson #Affordable Care Act #Obamacare #women's rights #human rights #Women subordinate to their husbands #vote #voting rights #election 2024 #Liz Cheney #murderous intent

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dogwatch05 · 2 years ago

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Bored in economics

@mmemory1

(I should mention this is over chat in a google doc) So after arguing about check vs cheque we have this during our econ class:

A:"Utopia" "Unobtainable"

B: econ is great

A: I want to write a monologue

C: do it

A: a villianish hero human monologue

B: the unobtainable utopia: the story of the world's nerdiest villain

threat to the economy

threat to society

And here starts the story that took place in econ. Each paragraph is a switch between C and A, starting with C:

"'Utopia.' Something that will remain unobtainable under the rule of your king. He sits upon a throne made of blood and lies and you all bow your heads to him, lapdogs to your dearest tyrant.

Then the smart ass human in the back of the room pipes up and says "Utopia will never be obtainable long run, ever, so your point is invalid"

The villain stops, looking over slowly at the human in the back of the room with venom in their eyes. "Say that again, boy."

"Utopia will never be obtainable long run, ever, so your point is invalid"

The villain sighs and walks down from the platform the throne sits on. With a wave from her sword, the crowd in the room parts to show the human standing alone in the back.

The human was a sickly looking stick of a boy with glasses that made his eyes the size of his forehead. Unfazed, he walked forward to the edge of the crowd. "You see, when economics and basic human nature is considered, utopia will never be possible. Everyone being employed will lead to skyrocketing prices and inflation and along with that there would be-"

The villain rolls her eyes as the explanation drags on. "Stop, stop." She waves her free hand in front of the boy. "You talk to much. I'm not here to lead these people, I'm hear to end a tyranny and that will bring a utopia for those who have long suffered. I do not care for their economy because it will fall no matter the outcome."

"Ah but here comes human nature. When everything is taken care of, every need and want fulfilled, humans become complacent and vain. And with complacence and vanity come rapid reproduction and violence until the whole of the place is dead"

"The you rule. You and your scrawny form obviously know *so much* about humans and their primitive tendencies. The king is right there," she places a cold hand on the boy's shoulder and gestures up to the king struggling in his restraints.

(B pops in) A bystander stares silently at the spectacle happening before him. He thinks, hoping she cannot hear his every thought, "Damn. Economics is intense." (Back to C and A. A starting)

"Yeah see, that's my dad and he disowned me because he didn't want a smart son, he wanted a strong son. Try and beat this family reunion."

"Then kill him and take your rightful place on the throne," she bellows out into the room. The crowd murmurs and nods, some cheering for the boy. "Show him your strength of mind and willpower. I will lend you the strength of my five sons if you do so."

"Why kill him? He's already lost all credibility to his allies and his people. No one will take him in to their kingdom after his failure of an economics plan. But yes kill him," The boy waves the sword she had given him around in the air and turned to face the woman," kill him even when he poses no threat. Encourage violence and only make the situation worse." He slammed the sword in a downward motion wherever it was swinging. Behind him he heard a gurgle. Turning around he saw the tip of the sword resting at the end of a long gash down his father's throat. "Whoops"

The crowd erupts in a cacophony of cheers and chants. The villain grabs the boy's arm and raises it in the air, lifting him off the ground. "To your new king! May he bring you prosperity and health in this new age!"

#We got bored #economics #one shot #cooperation #mmemory1 #DogWatch05 #short story #fantasy

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theotherrookie · 26 days ago

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Echoes Of The Past ((for mah girl Willow!!))

That was it, then. The outskirts were burning at last and the Citadel was shaking before the army of misfits and forgotten pressing at its glass gates. The flimsy barricade thrown together by the Carthage Guard barely held the crowd that had gathered around the bridge and only kept growing under the watchful eye of a storm of drones.

One man stood among it all, a bloody sledgehammer in his silver hand and the frail arm of a scared little girl in his other.

"I don't give a shit about your revolution!" Johnny shouted to the crowd below, "Give me Mantis or the girl's dead!"

The clicking of heels on the steel platform announced her arrival. Willow stood with her arms folded behind her back and her blue gaze was fixed on the man. After he had been so insistent in disproving her death, he had no right to look like he had just seen a ghost.

He had no right to still be breathing, for that matter. She was disgusted by this cockroach of a man and the lengths he willingly went through to get what he wanted. Johnny didn't stop before anyone. Not his gang. Not a scared child.

He was getting restless now. Willow brought her right hand up to her chest and bowed, her gaze never trailing off Johnny and the kid trapped in his steely grip. "Here you go, Johnny. I'm right here where you wanted me. What can I do for you today?"

Johnny Steelhand was a man who knew too much. He had learned her weaknesses and discovered her true nature. Then, he had tried to kill her because of it, as well as because of her previous murder attempt. As he stared her down, Willow had a good idea of what he was thinking about. She could read it on that ugly mug he called a face.

"Come on now, you've never been shy with your questions before." she added.

He motioned at her with the sledgehammer. "How the hell did you survive?"

"The same way as you did, I suppose. I crawled out of Hell and got back on my feet." She glanced over one of her gloved hands, "With some much needed improvements. Now, release the child so we can settle this argument already."

Oh, he couldn't wait. Johnny eagerly kicked the little girl out of his way as he braced his sledgehammer. He took a step forward, expecting a reaction, only for his taunting grin to turn into a frown when he got none.

"Aren't you gonna defend yourself?"

As if on cue, a cold night breeze blew over the platform. Willow spared a glance to the crowd below, as the kid was reunited with her family, while her hand reached up to unzip her coat. Johnny immediately caught a glimpse of the hilt of a katana, though it took him a whole two seconds to look back to his hammer and dismiss the threat.

He sneered, "Ready for a rematch, darling?"

Willow saw no reason to reply as the two circled each other. She didn't have to wait for long before Johnny took a swing. A sledgehammer to the face was his trademark, he had taken down so many in the same gruesome way.

So he couldn’t help a surprised grunt when his hammer suddenly stopped, even more when he realized it was Willow's hand alone that was holding it in place.

"I'm sorry, Johnny. I'm afraid I can't let you do that. These people are ready to follow me and I can't afford to humor your little tantrums right now." She tilted her head, "And to be honest, your sight offends me. Stay back."

Johnny was shoved back with ease and as expected, reached for his gun next. Three shots were fired and promptly deflected by Willow's sword, before the madman reached to grab the blade with his robotic hand.

"So you found a good Ripperdoc. Big deal. Don't think you can take me out with that." A harsh twist of his wrist and the sword went flying. "I've got the experience while you're just a faulty soulless machine."

Johnny leaned forward like a predator ready to pounce, only to be met by the same unfazed look Willow had kept throughout this exchange.

"You still haven't realized, have you?" Willow replied, a fanged grin spreading across her face, "I don't need a weapon to kill you."

There was no witty comeback, only a gasp as Johnny felt a cold grip around his neck. Willow watched closely to not miss the instant he realized that it was his very own hand that had turned against him. He stared at her in sheer horror while his fingers dug further into his skin. His heart pounded in his chest. His lungs were burning. Somehow, he knew that she could sense all of it like that prosthetic belonged to her.

He was her captive, a prisoner in his own body.

"See? You're way more bearable when you're quiet."

She stepped away to retrieve her katana as Johnny fell to his knees.

"I have plans, Johnny. I'm going to take this island and Carthage for myself. Then… Well, I suppose the sky is the limit. In any case, I cannot afford to be sloppy. You must go and take my secrets with you."

She gladly relieved Johnny of his weapon and flicked the switch. The battery buzzed quietly before she lifted the sledgehammer above her head, and struck his legs and organic hand. Johnny Steelhand's last words were nothing but a confused gurgling as the katana was drawn through his chest.

Satisfied with the result, Willow kicked Johnny's bloody carcass towards the edge.

"Burn in Hell. And this time have the decency to not come back."

The crowd below cheered as the river below claimed what remained of Johnny Steelhand for itself. Willow then stood up and turned back to the bridge and the Carthage tower off into the distance. She exhaled and let her mind wander until she met those of the humans she had come to call her brothers. It was time.

"Delenda Est."

Four shadows joined her while the security drones turned around and began shooting against the barricade.

#foxedthecards #cyber core - Willow

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yourreddancer · 2 months ago

Text

Helen Cox Richardson 10/31/24

MAGA Utah senator Mike Lee reposted the video of Johnson and commented: “Kill Obamacare now[.]”

Meanwhile, a lot more major endorsements for Harris have been coming in.

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misfitwashere · 2 months ago

Text

October 31, 2024

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

NOV 1READ IN APP

MAGA Utah senator Mike Lee reposted the video of Johnson and commented: “Kill Obamacare now[.]”

He is also seemingly nervous about Pennsylvania because women are voting there at a much higher rate than men in the early vote: 56% to 43%. And Democratic women are the biggest group of new voters in the state. New voters who were too young eight years ago to hear the Access Hollywoodtape, in which Trump bragged about sexually assaulting women, have been hearing it on TikTok lately, as younger users record their reactions to it and call out their older male relatives for voting for anyone who would talk as Trump did.

Meanwhile, a lot more major endorsements for Harris have been coming in.

—

#heather cox richardson #letters from an american

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syrupspinner · 5 months ago

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i just defeated Ben and Ed

dead game, am i right?

ill come out and say that, for better or worse, the most notable thing about this game is how much it shows its age.

so, indie games have always been innately countercultural in my opinion. people make indie games because theyre inspired to do something the AAA industry lacks, and a lot of the indie games that pop off into popularity do so because they offer something that mainstream gaming cant. in the current zeitgeist, we can see that best by comparing the innate simplicity and modest of indie games compared to sony's big 10-years-in-the-oven blockbuster. thats not to say indie games dont have work put into them, id never say that the year after pizza tower and sea of stars game out, but those are video games for gamers, not cinematic experiences for the general public

all this is to paint a picture of the mid-aughts, where gamers were freaking the fuck out about their hobby being made casual. the industry didnt want to cater to the same closed circle of hardcore dedication forever, and wanted to follow the wii's success by making gaming something everyone can enjoy. in other words, less call of duty, more wii sports. also unignorable is super meat boy hitting the shelves in 2010. i bought a copy from walmart as a kid (a physical disc that made me download steam to play it) and was shocked by the difficulty and the humour trying way too hard to be offensive. woah, an aborted fetus is the bad guy, youre just like the kid in my class whos mean to girls for attention. either way, it was a runaway success, and set the standard for indies to be rude & tough even if they werent directly inspired

so, ben and ed happens. an unflinchingly difficult platformer that has a meanspirited and gross edge to it. and yeah, this sure reads like someone wanted to make a difficult game all right. it's not I Am Bread levels of fuck-you-just-because, but it still feels like it cares more about being hard than being fair

like, the penultimate level has buzzsaws swinging back and forth across a pit of acid that the platforms dunk you into sometimes. add some laser sharks and we have an avgn bit. but it doesnt feel like ive been given a fun challenge here, just something hard for the sake of saying "look at me i did a tough thing" to all my friends. it doesnt feel intrinsically rewarding to overcome, because the difficulty is cheap

also, in the very same level, you can press tab and ragdoll under everything for like... two minutes straight. thats not hard, dude.

my final conclusion is that this game feels like its chasing trends from the time and doesnt hold up as a result. maybe itd feel less like that if the game didnt have the same "look at me im so dark and yucky" vibe that every newgrounds game had? like, the premise of kidnapping a zombie and making them play wipeout is already bleak enough, you dont have to make the antagonist jontron with acne and litter the game with ads for meat-flavoured dentists or whatever the fuck.

to close this off, i think this whole thing can be summarized by saying if you know about this game in the current year, at least if youre anything like me, you probably know about markiplier losing his shit

youtube

whats at the end? ...a facebook link, to a page trying to kickstart an ARG that fizzled out due to lack of interest and seemed to just be a roundabout reference to a creepypasta from almost 15 years ago.

alright

#ben and ed #defeated #Youtube

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minalune-lettersto · 2 years ago

Text

March 17th, 2016

Memories of Cheaters, Lovers, and Emptiness: Part Three

Part Three

...

Emptiness

I am writing this on the day I surrender. I have been a battleground for 7 years. My mind waging war on my body. So many battles were won but the war was lost today.

I woke up dead.

I perfected my makeup with steadily shaking hands. My face expressionless; I let my hair down out of its bun. I clipped back the hair framing the left side of my face, revealing my ear and showing off my high cheekbone. I methodically arranged my hair and pulled on my yang tattoo necklace and re-centered my Supernatural necklace, the twin to the one resting my boyfriend's neck. I pulled on my black dress, the one that makes my figure look perfect; its neckline starts where my necklace ends. Added the leggings because it is the middle of winter and chose my black platform lace up heels; I am ready to depart. I turn my dead eyes away from the mirror and turn off the light. I grab the Beautiful Day perfume and engulf my dead lungs in it. My spark-less body now smells like a spring day. I gather my stuff and leave the house saying “I love you” to my dad as I close the door. I walk to the bus stop getting on the bus to the mall.

It is pouring rain.

My umbrella in hand; waiting for the next connecting bus, I take one last picture of myself.

I still look alive.

I get onto the connecting bus I take it all the way to the bridge stop. Getting off I let the rain pour over me. Matting down my hair and soaking my dress; the rain is never ending. I walk all the way up the sloping bridge to the apex where I set my backpack containing my school books and materials. I sit down on the cold and wet concrete. Pulling out my phone I send a video message to my boyfriend in New York apologizing with my dead tongue. The words are poisoned in my empty mouth and they fall flat.

I do not cry; my eyes are dried up from years of holding back tears.

I stand up my entire body is now soaked but I don't feel cold. My body already chilled to my core. I scoot up onto the ledge and swing my legs onto the other side. They dangle off, swinging in the wind coming off the freeway below me. I watch the cars looking for my semi-truck that will end this. When I find it I know this is the one; it is red and is going faster than the other cars. It is still far off so I look up and see the view.

The freeway below is a speedway of curves and straights.

The hills are vibrant green leading up into the white snowcapped mountains. They look crisp and untainted by the smoke of the city. I look past the mountains and into the sky. The clouds are grey above me but where the mountains are the is sun turning the sky various shades of reds, pinks, purples, and oranges all fading out into the blue gray of the raining sky.

It is pure beauty.

My semi is rounding its last corner and I ready myself for the push off. I hold my legs out and measure out the distance and time. When the semi passes my ankles I close my eyes and push off. I feel the air passing through my hair creating a wild show.

I am flying and free.

The semi hits my body midair and I stop. I am still on the ledge but I am lighter. I killed the dark part of me but I am still alive. I see the Emptiness, crushed by the semi, lying dead on the freeway. I slide my legs back over the ledge and slide off. I gather my school books and materials and walk back down from the bridge. I walk into my class early and start writing. I write of my memories and of my future hopes.

I write to fix my life.

I’ll try again tomorrow night.

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phoenixyfriend · 3 years ago

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#9 “Tell me to stay and I will be here for as long as you’ll have me.” with Obi-Wan & Jango & Satine? (... or Obi-Wan/Jango/Satine, I'm not picky)

Hurt/Comfort Dialogue Prompts

Oh, I'm going to make this deeply stupid and AU because I got struck by a plot bunny and I'm taking it out on a prompt.

Satine hates the man named Jango Fett.

They've met before, once or twice. He'd known her father, before the latter's assassination. She'd met Jango when she was a child, before he'd lost his people at Galidraan, before she'd lost her sister to a terrorist group and her father to a blaster shot. She'd thought him gruff but kind, at the time, and very sad.

Now, she just wants him to trip on a pipe and brain himself on one of the many rusted, broken beams around them. She won't strangle him herself, won't turn her back on her oaths and commit violence, but she's not too proud to hope for an accident.

"Pick up the pace, princess."

"I am a Duchess," she snaps, lifting her skirts to step delicately over something that might have been machinery at one point.

The only light they have is from his helmet, and the only reason she hasn't fallen from the fabric catching on some matter or other is that he has a sense for when she gets caught.

He'd suggested that she pull the skirts up to gird her loins, and then found that the numerous layers made it impossible. He'd offered to cut the skirt down to something more manageable, without depriving her of the coverage she still needed in the cold of these darks, dank ruins. He'd then found that the vibroblade did nothing against the skirts.

(She was a pacifist, not stupid. Of course her clothing was reinforced.)

"I don't care," he says back through grit teeth. She's not sure why he hasn't just left her for dead, but she's not going to complain. Much. "Just move."

They've been making their way through the ruins for hours. They still don't know how they got here. They have no way to find out.

They just head up, and hope it gets them somewhere.

(Signs litter the walls, all in a script unfamiliar to them. Archaic, or simply foreign, they don't know.)

"Wait."

She freezes.

Fett moves behind her, light shifting with the noise of his beskar, and then he says, "I'm going to turn out the light for a second. Give us a minute to adjust to the dark after I do. I think I saw something glowing, but I can't tell with the flash on."

She nods, sure that he can see it, and they are engulfed in the dark again.

It's not for long, because the glow that Fett described is real. Faint, far off down the hallway and a pale blue that winks in and out in multiple spots at once, but there.

"We'll need the light to make it there without you getting rust sickness," Fett mutters. He flicks the headlight back on. "Might get some kinda hint out of it, whatever it is."

"You'd risk it?"

"Don't have any other choice," Fett tells her. "Move out, Princess."

----

They reach the blue glow, entering a large, cavernous atrium, just as dark as the rest of the ruins so far, but much less cramped than the previous hallways.

It is mostly floating motes of something, and the something in question makes Satine's skin crawl. She has no idea what it is. She doesn't think Fett does either, but he's a little busy trying to get a scan of the room around them. Satine can just barely see the floor from the blue light, and she steps closer carefully. Part of her screams about deep sea fish and wild space ancients, creatures that use light to hunt, but they've had nothing else yet. No hints.

This place feels ancient. Perhaps the spirits that linger are even older.

"Kryze!"

"I'm fine," she calls back, deliberately refusing to understand the man's worry. She just... reaches out.

And one of the blue lights comes to her.

Fett swears and comes closer, but Satine pulls her hands to her chest, cradling the little light to herself. It's larger than she'd expected, perhaps the size of a Chandrila plum. It's warm, too.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Fett snaps.

"It's friendly," she says. "I think."

"You think," Fett hisses, the noise crackling through the vocoder. He puts a hand on her shoulder. "Listen--"

The lights coalesce. They are, for the moment, blinding, and Satine flinches away.

Fett has a blaster out before Satine can even open her eyes again. She knows the noise better than she'd like. She can identify which blaster it is by the click of the safety alone.

Any Mandalorian her age can.

"Oh dear," an unfamiliar voice says. "I'm afraid that--well, yes, Mando, hello there. I'm afraid that the blaster won't do much to me. I'm already long dead, you understand."

When Satine manages to blink the spots out of her vision, it's to see a glowing, slightly blue-tinged human figure in clothing that is distinctly Jedi, if very... very outdated.

The man--she thinks it's a man, beards usually indicate such--smiles and waves at her. "I apologize for the light show. It's been quite some time since I've had reason to take a solid form."

"I can imagine," Satine says, her voice weak even to her own ears. The man isn't much older than her, or at least wasn't when he... died? Or perhaps he was elderly when he died, and just rolled his age back as this spirit for some reason.

He smiles kindly, and then looks past her shoulder to Fett. He rolls his eyes, and smirks, and says, "Su cuy'gar, Mand'alor."

"I am not Mand'alor," Fett growls out. "I don't hold that title anymore."

"You do in spirit," the figure claims. "None other can say the same, not yet."

Before Fett can argue further, the man smiles pleasantly, and says, "I don't suppose you could remove yourselves from my shrine? Just a few steps back, thank you."

Satine looks down. She notices the raised platform and carved sigils and the stone column she hadn't seen in the earlier darkness, and flushes. She steps back and down, and Fett does the same.

"Now," the figure says. "As I was saying--"

"What are you?" Fett demands. "Ghost of a Jedi?"

"Something like that," the figure allows. "I was not just a Jedi, but... yes, I'm something you could call a ghost. I'd prefer simply a spirit."

"Like the ka'ra," Satine mutters, and grunts in disagreement.

"Those, Duchess, are only Mandalorians."

"Then I suppose it is fitting that I am both," the spirit says, and his form shifts.

Armor. It does not cover all of him--his pelvis and head are distinctly bare--but the shapes are distinctly Mandalorian. The colors aren't quite exact, with the blue glow he carries about him, but she's fairly certain she's seeing blue, green, and black. Reliability, duty, and justice.

Fitting, for a Jedi. The symbol for the Order is on his pauldron, even, and the hilt of his saber hangs easy at his side.

The gasp that comes through Fett's vocoder is harsh. She can't imagine he likes this.

"You--" he cuts himself off, takes a breath audible even past the helmet, and tries again. "There is no way you are Tarre Vizsla."

"No, I'm afraid not."

"So you must be Obi-Wan Kenobi."

The man smiles and tucks his hands into his sleeves, the swinging of the fabric allowing them the glimpse of vambraces beneath. He ducks his head in a shallow nod. "I am indeed."

Satine feels how empty of blood her own face is. She can't imagine Fett is doing much better.

"This is the Kar'ta-yaim be talyc rang," Fett mutters, horrified in a way that Satine feels her own self echoing. "You..."

"Well, we certainly never called it that," Kenobi says, head tilting faintly. "But I imagine that after the siege... Yes, Temple of Bloodied Ash would certainly reflect our final days."

It was one of the few stories that didn't pit Jedi and Mandalorians against each other, in the histories.

It had been the first attempt to coexist, the warriors of the saber and the warriors of iron. None managed to wed the two philosophies the way Kenobi had, but that hadn't mattered. They'd lived together, in peace. The reports had been clear enough, that there hadn't been weapons storage. There hadn't even been real defensive measures, barring the force fields. The Jedi had refused to let war reach this building, even whilst the Sith still raged across the galaxy. The other temples could handle the atrocities afar. The children, the elderly, the infirm, they were all to find a home here. The only weaponry were the sabers and whatever metals the Mando'ade carried in their armor.

Just a place of peace, a home to research, to children, to hospitals, all slaughtered to the last man, and set ablaze after. Nobody had ever tried such an attempt at peace between Mandalore and Jedi since. The location has been lost for longer than anyone remembers, but...

"Why are we here?" Satine asks.

"I wonder," Kenobi says, seeming far too pleased for the revelations of the last minute. He strokes at his beard, and then turns and sweeps an arm across the air. As he does, a whirring noise surrounds them, stuttered and heavy, but growing in power. Bit by bit, the sections of the wall that he'd gestured at begin to glow.

There are lights set into the wall like circuitry, warm and bright. The generators, which much be centuries old, at the least, continue to run.

"They draw energy from the river in the mountain," Kenobi says, before either of them thinks to ask. "Come along, my dears."

Satine hesitates. So does Fett.

Kenobi turns, presumably noting that their footsteps aren't following him. He smiles, and the corners of his eyes crinkle.

Satine can't remember how old he supposedly was, at his death. His eyes are much older, but...

"I assure you, it's perfectly safe," he tells them. "The building won't hurt you."

"The building?" Fett asks, sounding perhaps a little more dubious than the situation warranted. They were already talking to a figure of legend.

"Yes, the building," Kenobi repeats, indulgent in a way that Satine would have found irritating if aimed at her, but rather approved of like this. "The walls are already straightening out, I feel. And the droids are going to be clearing out the debris soon enough. The rust will be a little difficult to manage, of course, but..."

"What do you mean the walls are going to straighten out?" Satine asks. "And how... this place has been dead for centuries, hasn't it? How did you wake it?"

"Duchess Kryze, I didn't wake the Temple," Kenobi tells her. She doesn't know how he got her name. "You did."

She doesn't know what to say in response. She stays quiet, and waits for him to elaborate.

"Is it because she woke you up?" Fett asks, clearly unwilling to play a waiting game. "You're a... guardian? The keyholder to the power?"

"Mand'alor," Kenobi says, with a smile playing on his lips behind the carefully-groomed beard, "I am the Temple."

What.

He smiles and starts walking backwards, gliding in a way that makes it clear he doesn't need to step, really, because his feet don't stay planted where he puts them. They have to follow, now, or risk losing him. "My consciousness, my very self, is woven into every bit of this building. I have no flesh, not anymore, but while my sense of self stays coherent in the Force... the Temple is my body."

"How?" Satine demands, hurrying to keep up. She tries to ignore the way the flagstones shift and settle ahead of her, still and level by the time she steps forward. She tries to ignore the grinding of metal, as it's pulled into the walls like it's soup instead of stone. She tries to ignore the creaking of the foundation about them, and stays focused on the pleasant smile of one of the only two Mandalorian Jedi in history that maintained the balance.

"Do your history books carry the name of my apprentice?" Kenobi asks.

"Skywalker," Fett says immediately. "And... Tano, I think, before she changed it. She escaped, didn't she?"

"Yes, she was away at the time," Kenobi says, voice distant for but a moment. Somewhere far off among the tunnels, there is a mighty crash. "I'd fought until I couldn't any more. My armor, what I had of it, protected me from the flames. I'd worn a helmet during the siege, and it filtered the smoke, even as I lay dying from other wounds... between that and the Force, I lasted long enough that Anakin found me. The others had all died of smoke inhalation, if they hadn't succumbed to their injuries or the flames themselves by that point."

"The fire didn't reach you?" Fett questions.

"Mm, no, the alcove I was in was all stone, and there wasn't anything flammable enough nearby to reach," Kenobi says, sounding distant again. "In any case, Anakin found me. He was... distraught. Desperate. Not entirely sane, I think, but with what he walked into, I can't find it in myself to fault him."

"Master Kenobi," Satine finds herself saying. "What did he do?"

Kenobi's smile is sad. She'd call it resigned, really. He's lived--sort of--with this situation for centuries now. It makes sense. "He took my mind, my soul in the Force, and 'saved' it in a way that would leave me tied to the world past my death. It was ingenious, but... I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. I don't think Anakin realized what he was doing until long after he'd already succeeded at the impossible."

"He cursed you," Fett declares.

Kenobi shrugs. "I think he expected the temple to be cleaned and re-inhabited again soon enough. It wasn't, as you can see. The generators have been gathering power for centuries, but the fire destroyed most of them, and we didn't have anything in reserve with how much we poured into the shields during the battle. I couldn't fix the ruins, and with the horrors that had occurred, nobody was coming back. Anakin said he would, he promised, but... he disappeared. He visited, and he spoke with me, but a few years in he was simply... lost. I had a connection to his ship's signal, and it winked out in the blink of an eye, and never came back."

Oh. Terrifying.

"For all that I am the Temple, now, there are still secrets here that I don't yet understand," Kenobi tells them. "Your arrival, for one thing. The sediment carried up the mountain has slowly buried the temple over the centuries. There isn't a way in, save for two tunnels leading to the river, both of which I know are untouched."

"We just woke up here," Satine admits.

"Yes," Kenobi says. "You did. And part of me knows why."

"...part?" Fett asks.

It's a fair question to ask of a man who happens to have a brain that is also an entire building, somehow.

"Areas are cut off from my awareness," Kenobi admits freely. "Cave-ins and the like, mostly. There are one or two that I think I cut deliberately, due to what lay within."

Also terrifying, thank you.

"But I do believe I know what happened," he says, with that same damnably soft smile. "You two are the leaders of your people, yes? Tradition on one side, and peace on the other."

Satine shares a glance with Fett, and then turns to Kenobi and nods.

"Then I do believe it's simply the right time," he tells them. "You'll need to work together."

"I don't think so," Satine immediately denies.

"The Force works in mysterious ways," Kenobi tells her. "And if it brought you here--and you couldn't have arrived otherwise, I promise you that--then it was for a reason. Two leaders, the same people, with ideologies that I do believe are possible to bring together into, if not mixing, then at least coexistence."

"Impossible," Fett says. "The New Mandalorians are cowards, Kenobi. To share a culture with them--"

"Is as unlikely as Jedi and the old Mandalorians?" Kenobi asks, smiling so very politely that Satine wonders at how they aren't frozen stiff at the sight of it.

The sigil of the Order gleams mockingly from his pauldron.

Kenobi huffs out a breath, just a shadow of a laugh the slightest duck of his head, and then he turns and waves open a door.

Beyond him, sitting clean and pretty and entirely free of dust on its ancient stand, rests the Darksaber.

Satine stares.

She's sure Fett does, too.

"That can't be real," she says, her mouth moving before she can control it. "The Darksaber is lost, but it's popped up in history too recently to have been here since the fires."

"I saw it in Tor Vizsla's hands less than a years ago," Fett confirms. The vocoder cuts emotion from his voice, but not enough. "This place has been locked tight for centuries. The saber can't be here."

"The same could be said of the two of you," Kenobi points out.

It's true.

Satine steps forward, when it becomes clear that Fett won't. She picks up the weapon, holds it like the antique it is, square and unwieldy, but so very, very old that she cannot deny its importance. Weapon or not, it is her people's history.

She lights it.

The blade burns black.

"Turn it off," Fett rasps, and she does.

Satine looks back at him, and then to Kenobi. She turns fully, and steps forward, and holds it out to Fett.

He looks at her, uncomprehending.

"If you'd like to check for yourself," she says, and her voice is too quiet, but she can't help it. Something is happening, something heavy and broken, and she can't ignore the pressure of the future in this moment.

Fett takes the saber. He looks at it in his hands, and she thinks he is shaking.

"Your people need you, Mand'alor," Kenobi says, and there is no room for question. "They also need the Duchess."

"Why you?" Fett asks, voice strained and shattered in a way Satine can't even begin to pick apart.

"It was either me or Tarre, really," Kenobi says, with an idle shrug unfitting of the situation. "And I'm a little more... accessible, shall we say, to those who aren't sensitive to the Force."

Kenobi steps forward and rests an immaterial hand on Fett's shoulder.

"I already failed my people once," Fett says, barely audible.

"And now you shall save them," Kenobi says. His voice is firm. It is as if there is no question, to him, about whether or not Fett will succeed. "You won't be alone, either."

Satine shifts her weight, refusing to meet Kenobi's eyes. Her hands fist in her dress, and her mind races.

"What do you need of me?" Fett manages.

"...Mand'alor?"

"What do you need of me, Master Kenobi?"

Satine looks up.

Fett... Fett removes his helmet, and looks at Kenobi with an expression that is more desperation than deference.

"To cooperate with those who would follow a different creed," Kenobi says, so low it's practically a murmur. His hand, still intangible, reaches out to cup Fett's jaw. Fett leans into it. "To protect those who cannot do so for themselves. Our people are warriors, Mand'alor, but to refuse violence for violence's sake, after the wars that have killed our home and rendered it little more than glass, that is its own bravery."

"Master--"

"Listen to me," Kenobi says, and Fett falls silent. "You will need to protect them. The Duchess may have the funds and the support to bring forth education, agriculture, childcare, and so on, but there are many who would take advantage of that peace. She provides the home for tradespeople, but you are the shield that keeps them safe."

It could be a balance, Satine tries to tell herself. Maybe.

Kenobi seems so certain of it, and Satine may hate violence, but she is far from unaware of the pirates and warlords that nip at their borders.

"The foundlings need homes," Kenobi continues. "The stories need to be told. The culture is fading, Mand'alor. Bring it back."

His eyes flick to Satine, and she looks away.

(Her pressure was only ever on violence. Her advisors had pressed at the erasure of the rest, but if it meant children grew up without the worry of their parents dying in pointless battle, then wasn't it worth bending?)

(Couldn't she look the other way as they tightened restrictions on even symbolic vambraces, if it meant few too-small bodies in the streets?)

(Her planet was a wasteland. What did culture mean in the face of so many dead?)

(She knows Fett doesn't see it that way, but she is the only governing New Mandalorian with any blood on their hands. She knows the weight of violence, of lives taken by her actions.)

(She knows it, and she rejects it knowingly.)

Fett breathes harshly, and Satine closes her eyes.

"I agree to try," she says. "If we can get out of these ruins and back to our people... I will try. I cannot speak for my people on this, but to instate the old Mandalorians as a planetary guard... it may be doable."

"Little steps, my dear," Kenobi says. He looks down at Fett, who's... not well, it seems. "The Mand'alor needs some help, I think. I'm no trained mind healer, but I imagine I can help. More than most, maybe. There are few who know what it is to be a sole survivor."

He smirks, just a little, at the joke that he is not, in fact, a man who survived.

It's not very funny.

"I'll stay," Fett says. "I'll... I'll learn. Master Kenobi, you... Tell me to stay and I will be here for as long as you’ll have me."

"As a student?" Kenobi asks, catching on to just the same thing as Satine has. "Not in the Force, surely, but... you truly wish to stay?"

"There are none left alive that I would trust to show me the way," Fett says. Beseeching, he reaches for Kenobi, and his hands pass through. There's a pain in him that Satine can't quite comprehend, and Fett falls to his knees. "Please."

"You need only ask," Kenobi says. "The Duchess will look after our people until the King takes his throne, and then you will rule together."

They'll have to, Satine tells herself, and steps forward. She puts a hand on Fett's shoulder, and pulls him to his feet.

"Where do we begin?" she asks.

#satine kryze #obi wan kenobi #jango fett #ghosts #massacre mention #is this vaguely inspired by GLaDOS and Castle Heterodyne? ...yes #but less murdery overall #star wars #the clone wars #Phoenix Answers Memes #supernatural au #kinda #one shot #death mention #child death mention #horror au #also kinda

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heyaeolus · 4 years ago

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Hii, are you taking request? If it's not bothersome, that haikyuu as a parent was adorable XD and I would like to request something similar. How about Haikyuu as dads embarrassing their daughter/son, (maybe Kuroo, Bokuto, Oikawa and Atsumu) who would most likely do this 😂

HQ boys being embarrassing fathers

The length is pretty inconsistent depending on what situation I thought out for the character. I personally think I’m not that good with jokes he he he...

I HOPE U LIKE IT OMG

AND YES I TAKE IN REQUESTSSSS

Bokuto

We all know he is loud and we don’t even have to say it

You were usually the one who drives your daughter to school but today, you end up waking up late because a certain someone decided that you needed the extra sleep (yes he’s sweet but you have a meeting with the executives)

So you’ve now got two wonderful girls with Koutarou, they’re now 6 and 12 years old

“Koutarou don’t do anything weird, okay.” That was a fair warning for him but it goes right off his ear as soon as he zooms off because hE GETS TO DRIVE HIS PRINCESSES TO SCHOOL

Your youngest was the first he dropped off. He sent him off with a big smooch and an “I love you, little owl!” Your youngest shouted back an “I love you too!” to his daddy with a big grin before running off to her classroom.

The challenge came when he dropped off your eldest. Being in her school, your daughter doesn’t want everyone to see how much of a daddy’s girl she is so when Koutarou leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, she dodged

In a second, Koutarou’s hair deflated. Your daughter tried to reason, “Dad, not here. It’s my school!”

“Do you not love me anymore, baby owl? Have you found another guy to replace daddy?

“DAD, NO. You’re overreacting.”

“No, baby owl. You should kiss daddy when he wants one!” then he tries and leans in again but this time your daughter gets off the car and shuts the door on her father’s face leaving Koutarou to his despair

But alas, there’s a solution to it! Koutarou rolls down the window of his car and pops his head out and shouts “I LOVE YOU BABY OWL! HONEY BUNCH! MY SWEET LITTLE PUMPKIN!”

Your daughter is good as dead right then as the children around stared at her father, chuckling. Others even taking a video of what was happening. Your poor daughter is as red as a tomato as she bolted further into her school grounds.

“DADDY WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU EVEN IF YOU DON’T LOVE HIM BACK”

“Mom, save me.”

The video of that incident instantly graced the internet, going viral in under 24 hours. It was safe to say Koutarou is not allowed to drive your daughters to school again. But he’s happy he got his kiss from his eldest now.

Oikawa

Another dude here that is sweet with his daughter. Literally pours his heart to his sweet little angel and gives her everything.

Sometimes, you fade into the background with these two.

One Saturday, your daughter came with company. To your horror, it was a guy named Hiro. Although decent looking, you don’t like the fact that she is engaging in romance as early as her age.

But Tooru thinks otherwise, “Oh? My sweet little angel has inherited my charm!”

Your daughter blushes at her father’s comment and pulls her company into the backyard. Settling on the bench swing in there.

It was fine and everything’s going good with him and her company until Tooru’s voice rang from inside.

“Y/D/N-chan and Hiro-kun sitting on a tree~ K I S S I N G ~”

Your daughter turned and found his dad cruelly comfortable leaning on the ledge of the window overseeing the backyard, toying with a rose that she recognized were the ones you bought to put in the vase at the living room

As if once is not enough, Tooru repeated the verse again. Your daughter felt like bURSTING

She put her face into her palms, furiously blushing. She turned to Hiro who is now awkwardly laughing at the sight of your husband. She tells him, “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry for the existence of my father. Don’t mind his presence.”

“OuCH! Y/N-chan! Why’d you do that?! I was only entertaining our visitor! Come here watch them with me.”

Sawamura

HA you bet Daichi is the model father but yes, you are partially right. He’s pretty tight with some things but is still sweet. But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t got some pretty embarrassing moments

You guys are in the mall for the weekend, shopping for new clothes as winter is approaching. You were separated from them when you followed a saleslady to find your size of the shoes you wanted

Your daughter was on her phone while her dad stood by her, shopping bags in his hands. He peeked into her phone a few times, finding her chatting with a guy. When she giggled to herself, it was peak protective father mode for Daichi “Sweetie, who are you talking to?”

“Oh. Just a friend, dad.”

Daichi scoffed to himself, skeptically glaring at the back of his daughter’s head. Thinking, “How could you lie to me, sweetie?”

Moments after, the father and daughter pair turned their heads to a guy’s voice calling out your daughter’s name. Daichi grew rigid as soon as he saw the boy

The boy, completely oblivious of Daichi’s mood, ran up to your daughter with arms spread. It was to Daichi’s horror that his daughter came into the guy’s arms and hugged him back. Daichi let them exchange a few words after but his aura is just hard to shake off with him staring hard at the guy. He soon bids goodbye, bowing at Daichi

But before he could go farther, Daichi talks to your daughter, rather LOUDLY.

“SWEETIE, I DON’T WANT YOU HUGGING RANDOM PEOPLE NEXT TIME” People around were already staring at them as Daichi continues his rant with a straight face

“Dad, geez, he’s a friend!”

“NEXT TIME YOU DO THAT THAT PERSON WILL MEET MY WRATH”

The next time your daughter had that friend over at your house along with some others, he was weirdly sweating and keeping very little space for himself

“Are you okay?” you asked the boy

“Ah, yes. Thank you, Mrs. Sawamura.”

Daichi smiled to himself while your daughter shook her head at the side in pure embarrassment

Atsumu

Atsumu has a big internet fanbase. He also keeps all his accounts active, especially his twitter. Your son blocked him in almost every platform with the exception of Instagram and Facebook for formality.

Atsumu is, rather, a supportive father to your son.

Example number one: once, your son posted a sad quote in Facebook and Atsumu commented with “Let’s have a boys’ talk later, buddy” your son deleted the post

When Atsumu came home that night he went straight to your son’s room knocking at his door. Your son was quick to reject his father, “NO DAD. THANK YOU BUT NO.”

The next one was when your son advertised Osamu’s onigiris with a picturesque post over at IG and the piss-haired twin didn’t think before he commented, “I can make better onigiris than Samu, buddy.”

You came home that night with about two days’ worth of rice on the kitchen and Atsumu wildly rapping at your son’s door. “YOU HAVE TO TASTE THIS BUDDY THIS IS BETTER”

#haikyuu drabbles #haikyuu dads #daichi sawamura #oikawa tooru #bokuto #Miya Atsumu #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #aeolus answers #aeolus breeze

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wolferine · 3 years ago

Text

Unforgivable - Part 3

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: When the reader loses their temper, it causes them to commit an act they can never take back...

Warnings: Violence, blood, language

Word count: 2413

Part 2

Tags: @yeetus-thyself @phoenixofash @lilclownx @yeeterthekeeper @alessiapn @diaryoflife @user19422004 @zoldszemulany56

You sit alone on a park bench, wearing a heavy black backpack filled with Hammer’s latest invention. He’s here too, more than a mile away, watching you from the shadows. Your task is to do all the talking and distracting; Hammer wants to take the kill shot. You don’t really care, as long as Tony Stark dies for what he did to Natasha.

At midnight exactly, Tony walks up to you, wearing a hoodie, jeans, and his signature sunglasses. However, you know from experience that Jarvis is inside the sunglasses, providing him with information about you and his surroundings.

“It’s a little late to be wearing sunglasses, isn’t it, Stark?” you say, standing up. Hammer lined your backpack with lead so Jarvis can’t see into it, but you’re still nervous.

“You know I have astigmatism,” he says.

“I don’t really care,” you respond. “Take them off.”

He doesn’t need a second warning.

“So, what’s up with you, Y/N?” Tony pockets the sunglasses. “Where have you been lurking all this time?” He stops about ten feet in front of you.

“Just…working through some things,” you reply.

“For six months?” Tony scoffs. “We waited for you to come back.”

“You know I couldn’t do that.” Your jaw clenches. “But for you, Stark? I’d make an exception any day of the week.”

“What’s up with all the theatrics tonight, huh? Would’ve been a lot simpler to have this chat at the Tower,” Tony says.

“I’m not an Avenger anymore.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” you snap, trying not to let your impatience show. You’re waiting for Hammer’s signal, but he seems to want to take his time. Your eyes drift to the glowing blue arc reactor in the center of Tony’s chest and you put your right hand in your pocket casually.

“Just spit it out, Y/N. Why am I here?”

“You’re here to die, Stark.”

“Well, have at it.” He opens his arms tauntingly and you tense, ready to tackle him to the ground and beat his head inside out.

“You killed Natasha,” you snarl, and his expression changes. But you don’t have time to process it, because suddenly, the watch on your wrist vibrates.

Hammer’s signal.

You take your hand out of your pocket, now holding onto a tiny sensor disk, which you throw at Tony’s chest. It latches onto his arc reactor and powers it down instantly, preventing him from activating his Iron Man suit.

Then you dive to the ground, because Hammer starts blasting away with his rifle.

Tony catches a few bullets in his chest and legs, unable to react to both threats at the same time. He falls onto his back, blood pooling around his body as he gasps for air. You activate Hammer’s suit, which tears out of your backpack, covering your torso and limbs in a thin layer of metal armor.

You climb to your feet, your helmet snapping over your head, and charge towards Tony. But something—or someone—completely blindsides you, sending you skidding in the direction of the carousel.

It looks like a variation of Iron Man, although the suit is smaller and more feminine. The colors are black and red, evoking a pang of familiarity in your chest. You stand again, an eight-inch blade shooting out of your right wrist, and you beckon the Iron Woman (?) to come at you.

She does, but when you swing your blade at her, she blocks it and punches you so hard in the chest you fly back into the carousel and knock a horse completely off its pole. You’re pretty sure you cracked a rib as your breathing sends a stabbing pain up your side. You hang onto a bench to get up, and suddenly the carousel comes to life, lights flashing and music crackling through the speakers.

You’re transported back to the day you were last here with Natasha, when you asked her to be your girlfriend.

Both of your horses are out of sync. When she goes up, you go down, and neither of you can stop laughing. You’re pretty sure you’re the oldest adults on the carousel without kids, but you don’t care.

The way her hair effortlessly blows in the wind and the way her eyes crinkle when she laughs lights up your heart, and you still can’t believe she chose you over everyone else in the world. You’ve never been so in love with another human being before, and you don’t think there will ever be another like her.

When the rides end, you take her hand and lead her to an empty patch of grass in the shade of a tree.

“Natasha, will you go out with me?” you ask, your voice trembling. She nods and brushes her fingers over your cheek. “I promise to keep you safe and love you every day for the rest of my life—”

“Calm down, it’s not a marriage proposal.” Natasha laughs as you sweep her off her feet. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Just preparing.” You kiss her and feel her smile against your lips. You’ve never been happier.

You’re so stuck in your head you don’t even notice the Iron Woman coming after you until she punches you in the face. You stagger back, stunned, as she punches you several more times. The face of your helmet snaps off and you feel your nose bleeding. You slash out with your blade wildly, forcing the Iron Woman to back off.

“Y/N,” the Iron Woman says, and you don’t even care how she knows your name, “You need to stop.”

“Get out of my way.” When you leap towards her, she lifts her foot and kicks you in the chest. You somersault backwards, head over heels, as she retreats. The rotating platform of the carousel does nothing to help your balance and the lights and noise distract your focus. You crouch behind a stationary horse, searching for her amongst the painted animals.

You break the blade off your wrist, poised to throw like a javelin. When the Iron Woman pops out from behind a black horse, you bring your arm back to throw the blade, but she fires from her gun before you can. The bullet bounces off a pole and buries itself in your left cheek.

The pain is like a branding iron as you scream and fall to your knees, the blade slipping out of your fingers. Blood pours out of your mouth, the taste of metal coating your tongue as you gingerly reach in to swipe the burning chunk of lead over your teeth. You finally spit the bullet out, but the pain persists.

The Iron Woman holsters her gun and approaches you, thinking you’re too distracted to notice. But you do, another blade flicking out of your left wrist and you ram it into her thigh as hard as you can. The blade crunches through the plates of her armor, but she elicits no reaction to being stabbed.

“Y/N,” the Iron Woman repeats.

“Just die already!” you scream, withdrawing the blade and trying to stab her again.

The Iron Woman’s helmet slides back and you freeze when you see her face.

It’s Natasha.

Immediately, your anger melts into confusion and happiness.

“H-How…How is this possible?” you stammer, more blood spilling from your lips. “T-They…They told me you died.”

“No.” Natasha shakes her head, kneeling to your level. “But you never came back for me.”

“Because I hurt you—” Hammer had said she was dead, and that Tony—no—you—had killed her.

“I forgive you, Y/N. For all of it.”

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” You stumble back, tears and blood mixing on your face.

“Please come back to me, Y/N,” Natasha begs, as your head spins from the turn of events. “I still love you.”

Suddenly, it’s like all of Hammer’s training reverses. Tony was never the one responsible for harming Natasha—you were. And now Tony’s bleeding to death, which was again, your fault. You won’t let this rest on your conscience. You’ve done enough damage and now it’s time to redeem yourself, as little as you can.

“This is all Justin Hammer’s doing,” you say, letting Natasha pull you to your feet. “He’s had me kidnapped for the past six months. He thought I would be able to help him kill Tony, but he’s not going to be successful anymore. Because you weren’t part of the plan.”

Natasha smiles and you feel your heart melt. Whether or not she’ll take you back, you owe this to her.

“He’s about a mile out, west from here. He has no guards—arrogant bastard—it’s just him and his rifle. You go get him and I’ll get Tony,” you say. Natasha nods and flies off. For a moment, you’re filled with jealousy over her suit. How come Tony never made you one?

You make your way off the carousel and find Tony still on the ground. You check his pulse. It’s weak, but there.

“Tony, I’m so sorry,” you say, as a spray of bullet rips through the ground. You grab his arms and pull him to take cover under a bench.

“Y/N?” he mumbles.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

“No…” Tony says, grabbing your hand. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I was a complete asshole to you that day—”

“No, I’m the one who tried to shoot you, for God’s sake—” You rip his shirt into ribbons to wad up against the wounds in his chest and legs. “You’re gonna be okay,” you promise. “It’s Justin Hammer who’s behind all of this.”

“I recognized his work from your suit,” Tony gasps. “It looks like shit.”

“You can tell him that yourself.” You find yourself smiling despite the circumstances. “He wanted my help to end his ultimate rival. He manipulated me into thinking that Natasha was dead and that you were the reason for it—” You pause. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

“It was the least I could do for you.”

“I know she probably won’t want me anyway after all this, but it was good to see her again.”

“She only wants you. It was always you or no one.”

You throw yourself onto Tony when the bullets start again and you feel them bounce off your back and legs. Fortunately, when Hammer made your suit bulletproof, he probably didn’t think it would have to bulletproof against his bullets.

Suddenly, the gunshots stop and the silence is deafening.

When you finally look up, you see Natasha flying over, holding Hammer by the collar.

You don’t even mind when your face splits into a painful smile. “That’s my girl.”

***********************************************************************

Two weeks after Hammer is arrested, Natasha convinces you to come by the Avengers Tower. It’s a strange feeling as you walk in for the first time in over six months. When you left, you’d never thought you’d be back, but here you are. Your only belongings are a single duffel bag with some clothes stuffed inside.

You ride the elevator up to the Avengers’ quarters. You’re a little more wary of the SHIELD agents that pass you, wondering if anyone will double-cross you again, but you remain courteous. You punch in your code to see if it still works and it does, the doors opening.

“Look who’s finally come home.” Tony’s there to greet you and he hugs you tightly.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, still guilty you almost got him killed.

“Good, no thanks to you.”

“Sorry again.”

He waves you off.

“Where’s—” you start, but then you see her. She comes around the corner in a wheelchair. Your heart drops to your feet.

“Things have been a little different since you left,” she says. So that’s why she had no reaction when you had stabbed her at the carousel. She has no feeling left in her legs after your bullet pierced her spine.

“Natasha, I’m…I didn’t know. Shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here.” You turn around, but she rolls into your legs and grabs your hand.

“Please stay,” she says. “Like I told you before, I’m not mad.”

“But you have every right to be.”

“Can we talk?”

You nod numbly and let her lead you back to where your shared bedroom with her was. Nothing inside has changed. In fact, your clothes are still hanging in the closet like you’d never left. You sit on your side of the bed.

“What do you want me to say, Y/N?” Natasha asks.

You shrug. “Call me an asshole for what I did. Tell me you’d never want me back.”

“Okay. You’re an asshole for shooting me and leaving me,” Natasha says without hesitation, and you flinch. But somehow, you find solace in hearing her say the words you’ve played over and over in your head for months. “And yeah, after the whole thing happened, I didn’t think I could ever take you back. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you and told myself if I ever saw you again, I wanted you to know that I forgive you.”

“But I don’t know if I could forgive myself,” you whisper.

“Well, I forgive you, and I think if I can do that, you can, too.” It hurts her to see how much you’ve changed in the past six months. Your face and body are thin from malnourishment and Hammer’s torture. Your eyes are dull and permanently swollen from basically crying every day for six months. Some of your fingers are crooked from not healing correctly and you have scars running up your arms.

She reaches out and touches the puckered mark on your cheek from the bullet. “Besides, we’re kind of even now.”

“Hardly.” You chuckle.

“We can start slow,” Natasha says, putting her hands on your shoulders. “Because I’m not sure what still works down there, anyway.”

You smile, and her heart warms at the sight.

“Can I lie with you?” she asks and you nod, scooping her up and carrying her to the bed. You put her down gently and lie next to her. She pulls you close until your foreheads touch and you close your eyes as you breathe in her familiar scent. “Why did you pick the carousel as the meeting place?” she asks.

“I…I don’t know,” you mumble. “For some weird reason, I thought I’d see you again, at least in my memory. But then I did in real life, too.”

“I’m so glad you came back,” Natasha hums, brushing her lips against yours.

“I’m so glad I did, too.”

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

AN: The end! :) Fun facts:

-Part 1 was inspired by the scene in X-Men: First Class where Magneto accidentally deflects a bullet into Charles’s spine (which resulted in Charles’s paralysis). -Part 2’s Iron Black Widow suit was inspired by a concept art photo I saw that was cut from Avengers: Endgame. Here’s the link to that post. -Part 3’s carousel scene was inspired by the season 1 finale of Netflix’s Punisher.

Join my taglist for future stories here! Thanks for reading, and until next time...

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff fanfic #black widow x reader #black widow fanfiction #marvel imagine

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bunnys-beetlejuice-blog · 3 years ago

Text

been a while since i posted a fic update! anyone wanna read some cowboy au nonsense? sure you do! well here it is

The blinding, unforgiving midday heat is enough to raise blisters on the skin. Looking out over a crowd of folks booing him, calling for his demise, probably should have had some kind of emotional impact. On the occasion of one’s death, after all, one does expect tears. Flowers, laid out in lace, dark veils and coal black clothes, a few muffled sobs from those further back in the funerary procession, unable to contain themselves. Instead he’s met with the dusty faces of former neighbors and strangers alike, all eagerly waiting to hear the exact tone and pitch that his neck will make when it snaps.

Bored, he turns his attention from the crowd, and watches a lizard scurry across the wooden planks of the gallows, as a man to his right fits a rough bit of rope around his neck. It scratches, but he doesn’t react, not feeling frightened or even especially interested. A similar rough twine is binding his hands together behind his back, keeping him from having any viable way to save himself. The crowd is calling for blood now. Hangings generally are not gorey affairs, but he did once see a drop too sudden and a rope so long that the fella wasn’t just hung, he was decapitated. Beetlejuice glances back down at the crowd, tries to imagine what direction his head would roll if that happened here, and smirks, because it seems to him the last thing he’d see would be the view from inside the skirts of some of the women standing front and center. Not the worst last sight a man could have. “You think you could hurry this along?” he asks the man fitting the noose around his neck. “Sun’s beatin’ down somethin’ fierce an’ I ain’t got my hat.” His personal possessions are back at the sheriff’s office- hat, bandana, silver plated, pearl handled pistol, and his custom belt buckle, just about the nicest, and maybe only, thing he ever paid for. God damn corrupt lawman’s probably gonna pawn his stuff as soon as he’s swinging. Maybe before. Maybe his last worldly possessions are already gone. S’not like he’ll need them, where he’s goin.

A face he recognizes is led up from the crowd, an ancient wizened body tanned for years by the all too eager sunlight and scorching sands. It’s the local preacher, who he remembers from his formative years. The old man used to give him bread and plain, unseasoned chicken in return for listening to him talk about god, and if he hadn’t been nearly starved to death half the time, he might have spat in the old man’s face. Shouldn't charity be done for the sake of charity, not proselytizing? He’d said so once, and that was the last meal the old miser had given him. Jackass.

“Beetlejuice,” the preacher begins. His name is said with disdain and a curled upper lip. It’s one of the reasons he chose it, honestly. “You still have time to repent, young man. I remember you, as a child, bright eyed, curious about the kingdom of heaven.” Well now, that’s the very definition of taking artist liberty. “Now, here, you have one more chance to repent, to accept god’s mercy, and avoid the lake of fire.” The crowd is watching, waiting to see if he will confess his remorse. Beetlejuice hums, rocks on the balls of his feet, and then sighs. “.. C’mere,” He mumbles, jerking his head to indicate the old man should step closer. The holy man does. “I got a lot to confess to, preacher man, an’ not much time.” His voice is soft. The ailing man can’t hear him, steps closer, if only a little. “So much to confess to, in fact, I oughta just… Skip th’ whole thing an’ go straight to hell!” And Beetlejuice reels back, and then slams his forehead into the old man’s face. The sickeningly satisfying crunch of cartilage tells him he’s broken the preacher’s nose, as the elderly man falls back, crying out in pain, blood gushing from his new wound. The crowd roars, furious, and he grins, and laughs. “Ain’t no good extendin’ your pious pity to me!” he calls, gleeful, as he’s pelted with whatever the people watching can get their hands on, and the old man is helped, taken away, led off of the platform. “Enough, enough, we will have order!” a lawman cries, coming up the gallow steps, to stand in front of the outlaw. It’s enough to get the crowd to settle, or at least stop throwing things. There’s still a bad energy in the air, which Beetlejuice can taste on the tip of his tongue. His smile is rictus, he’s delighted to be the cause of it all.

“This man has been tried and found guilty,” the lawman continues. The trial had been very short, and his incarceration shorter. He understands he’s being made an example of to other outlaws, bandits, and trouble makers. They intentionally didn’t give him any time to plan anything, or for any coconspirators to come and assist him. Joke’s on them. They could have taken all the time in the world. Ain’t nobody alive who cares for this outlaw. Not a soul who would dare to come and stage a rescue. He’s utterly alone. “He’s allowed his last words. Clearly,” the lawman turns, eyes Beetlejuice, who smiles flirtatiously. The other man’s expression shifts from annoyance to disgust. “He’s disavowed the advice of Pastor Neighbors.” “M’not so sure you’re usin’ that word right, friend,” Beetlejuice snorts, but he’s ignored. “Any last words?” the hangman to his right asks, his hand itching to grip the lever that will drop the floor and finally, finally, release the outlaw from the confines of mortal life.

Beetlejuice grins.

“If any of you have a message for th’ devil, give it to me!” he shouts, with a cackle, and he watches in rapt and morbid delight at the way the faces in the crowd twist. “I’ll carry it down to hell for you!” The crowd is furious enough it almost seems to him they’re going to storm the platform, and maybe beat him to death. The wave of gasps from the women folk is particularly amusing.

“Enough of this!” He hears the voice of the lawman, disgusted, and the hangman must agree, because the last thing he hears is the lever being thrown, and the floor gives out under him, and he’s falling, falling, falling.

His ass hits a chair.

There’s a moment of blinded confusion, because he's gone from the unbearable dusty sun of midday California, to a cool, dark, musty smelling interior. His eyes need a moment to adjust to the change. He’s sitting in a room he doesn’t recognize. The chair under him is plush, but just thin seated enough to be a tad uncomfortable. He squirms in it, confused, and finds his hands are still tied behind his back. He turns his head. Seated across from him is a young woman.. Well, little girl might be more accurate, she’s maybe fourteen. There’s a wicked looking hoofprint emblazoned on her right temple. The blood that’s leaking from the wound has gone a sickly old color. They stare at each other. “Did that hurt?” she asks, first, and he squints, because he’d been about to ask the same question. Her hand has gone to her throat, as she looks at him, and he looks down, pressing his fat face into his fat neck to create an unflattering double chin as he does so. He can feel the rope around his neck. He follows the line of it with his eyes, and turns to look up. The rope travels up from him, into the ceiling. It’s still taught, like he’s suspended by it, but his ass is touching chair, his boots are on the ground, and he doesn’t feel choked by it’s presence. He tuts. “Didn’t feel a thing. That hurt?” he tries to gesture to her wound, but again, he’s reminded his hands are bound behind him. She stands. “Hurt a bit, but then I got so dizzy I didn’t hardly feel it, after,” she tells him, and then, like the good little frontierswoman she is, she produces a knife from inside some pocket in the volume of her skirts, and gratefully, he leans forward. She rests a knee on one of the chairs, to get a better angle, as she uses her bowie to cut through the rope at his wrists. “Awful kind of you, half pint,” he tells her, and she smiles. “Ain’t nothin.” She settles into the chair next to him, which is a little surprising, but he doesn’t mind, over all. “You’re an outlaw, then?” she asks. He grunts, and then turns to face her, with a grin. “You probably heard of me. They called me Th’ Ghost, on occasion, cause I could slip away without bein’ caught-” he watches her eyes travel up the line of his noose, and then settle back on his face, a little less impressed than she ought to be. He responds by pinching her nose, and she swats at his hand, and laughs. “I do think I heard of you,” she concedes. “I’m Presley.” “Presley, alright. You got a clue where we are, kiddo?” “I just was told to wait.” “Told by who?”

Across the room, a window he hadn’t registered as being there slides open. This place vaguely resembles a bank, he realizes, and so that means that’s the teller’s window. A woman with a tired expression on a pretty face peers out at him. “Hey, dead beat,” she calls, her accent thick around the words. “Juno wants to see you.” He motions to himself, questioningly. She raises an eyebrow in silent confirmation. “Should I care?” he asks, and her upper lip curls in the most beautiful version of a sneer he’s ever seen. “You’re real funny. Get in there before she loses her temper.” And she reaches up, and slams the window shut.

He looks to Presley, and they both share a little shrug, before he stands, and takes a step. The rope going through the ceiling moves with him, not along any visible track, that he can see, but seeming rather more like a toy balloon on a string, bobbing along as though after a child winding their way through the crowd of a state fair. There’s a door by the teller’s window, and he makes for it, only for the window to slide open again, and that beautiful face to reappear. She looks him over, not seeming particularly impressed, but also not outright cruel. “Where’s your handbook?” she asks. Beetlejuice tilts his head. It lolls a little comically to one side, presumably because his neck is broken. She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. “You can’t be serious. You didn’t bring your handbook?” “Listen, lady, even if I had whatever book you’re talkin about, I couldn’t read it,” he counters, and she pauses, at that. “Illiterate. Of course. What’s even the point of the handbook when so many folks can’t read it?” she mutters to herself, and then she waives him at the door, the conversation apparently over. Alright.

The door, predictably, leads to a hallway, a bit unlike anything he’s ever seen before, in terms of sheer length of the thing. It twists around like a snake, and the number of doors along the hall leads him to believe wherever he is, it’s massive. The hallway is empty, save for a man at the far end, mopping, and there doesn’t seem to be anything around for him to tuck into his pockets. Too bad, he mopes, as he carries himself down the hall, boots clacking in a way he finds tactile and pleasant. He passes the custodian, who stares at the floor behind him and sighs, and Beetlejuice looks back to see a mess of dusty footprints he’s left on a previously slightly damp but otherwise pristine floor. With a snort, he spits into the bucket of mop water, and the other man jumps back, disgusted, as Beetlejuice cackles, and continues his leisurely walk down the hall.

At a certain point he realizes he’s got no idea where he’s going, but it doesn’t especially matter. Wherever he is now, whatever version of the afterlife this is, because clearly, that’s what this is, it doesn’t seem to be fire and brimstone and all that bullshit, so he takes it easy, opening doors at random and peeking through. The things he sees don’t always make sense to him, feel like they’re out of place from the world as he knows it. He opens one door, and suddenly he’s staring at what must be a city, but the buildings are so tall they’re touching the sky, going up past the clouds, up into the heaven he doesn’t believe can really be up there. The people are dressed strangely, men and women wandering around in little more than underclothes, which he likes, instantly, and the streets are black with painted yellow lines, instead of dust and earth. Some kind of metal.. Something, a trolley without a track, moves on it’s own down the street, and he catches a glimpse of faces inside. He gets lost in the contents of this door, staring for a long time, entranced, and then it’s slammed suddenly. He turns, catches sight of the custodian with his hand on the door, and growls, an animalistic sound he didn’t know he could do. And then he stops, and turns to look, because the custodian is still a ways behind him, mopping with spit water. It’s the same man. “You don’t need to go poking your snout into places it doesn’t belong,” the man says, simply, and then in a blink, both versions of him are gone from the hallway. Maybe that’s just an… afterlife thing.

He reaches, after what feels like a boring and dragging eternity of twenty whole minutes, a set of saloon doors, the swinging kind. There’s a void of blackness behind them, but the draw he feels is unmistakable, and he pushes them open, and walks through. Instead of a room black as ink, he finds himself… standing on the wooden porch of a bar he remembers frequenting fairly often, in his younger days. At least, he has clear memories of walking into the bar. How and when and why he ended up outside of it, well… whiskey has a hell of an effect on a man’s memory. It’s a fairly chilly desert night. The chirping of crickets and the long ways away lonely baying of a dog is a sort of familiar comfort, but god damn it, he’s just left this world. He wasn’t intending on coming back to it, ever. The dusty streets are dim, illuminated only by the moon, the stars, and the few lamps still burning in windows. The town is quiet.

On the dirt road in front of him is a woman, staring at him. She’s small, older, nicely dressed, with hair shorter than he’s ever seen on a lady, and a mouth sort of like a toad, long and downturned. There’s an unlit cigarette between her fingers. She’s watching him, curious and apathetic all at once. He returns the look. “Juno, then?” he grunts, stepping off the porch. No dust lifts when his boots hit the unpaved road, which he notes. Maybe he’s not really here. Maybe he’s a ghost. Fitting.

“Lawrence “Beetlejuice” Shoggoth,” she says, as he comes to stand in front of her. “Took you long enough. You realize I’ve been waiting here for days. You get lost, or something?” Her tone is sharp, like a schoolmarm with too much on her hands and not enough energy for it all. He feels a little sheepish, if only because no, he hadn’t realized that. “Gimme a break,” he says, instead of an apology. “I just died.” “Like that makes you special,” she huffs, and then, waving her unlit cigarette in his face, machine rolled, not hand, he notes, she asks, “Have you got a match?” He produces one from one of the many pockets of his moss green duster, strikes it on his thumb, and holds it up for her. She has the decency to look grateful, as she leans in, cigarette to her lips, and lights it from that little flame. “So,” she exhales smoke, and it curls from the corner of her lips, and out a previously unspotted slash to her throat. No wondering how she died, then. Speaking of, he glances up, to see that his noose is no longer floating above his head, and turning, he catches sight of it dragging on the ground behind him, long and snake-like in the way it’s twisted and coiled. Juno snaps her long red nails in his face, brings his attention back to her. “You weren’t supposed to die, you know. You’ve mucked things up for me.” “Whut?” he grunts, a bit thrown. She rubs her temples. “You were supposed to go in your seventies. Catch tuberculosis and wither away in obscurity. How old are you?” “Thirty four, or abouts,” he croaks, and she takes another drag. “You let yourself be caught,” she accuses. Well.. yeah. But how the hell does she know that? “I got pinned down in a shootout. Lucky they didn’t blow my head off, right then.” “You’ve gotten out of worse.” She looks almost.. Disappointed. “And then you put down your weapons, instead of fighting it out.” “I was surrounded.” “You were sloppy.” “What’s it to you, anyway?” he growls, again low and animalistic, which Juno ignores, as she walks circles around him, studying him. “You let yourself be caught, and you let yourself be hung. You didn’t even try to get away. You might not have killed yourself, but you let them kill you, for you,” she says. “And it’s giving me a hell of a time, both because it’s changed you, and because I have to put you somewhere, Beetlejuice, and now no one knows where you should go.” “So what does that mean?” “It means, my little statistical outlier, that you’re going to be staying up here, probably a lot broader a time than it would have taken you to just live your life and die at seventy,” she sighs, rubbing at her forehead. “Which is a shame. Because.. I was looking forward to.. To you. And now we both have to wait longer,” and here, she finishes her circle of him, to stand face to face with him again, and she flicks his ear, the way he always imagined an frustrated mother might. “Because you gave up. You weren’t supposed to give up.” “Wasn't much worth livin’ for,” he says, and it’s got more emotion behind it than he meant to give it. Juno’s hand goes to her throat, and she looks pained. “I guess that’s an inherited trait,” her voice is soft, and he squints at her, confused. Instead of giving him any context for that, she points down the dusty main road. Shining under the moonlight, he can see, vaguely, a dark shape suspended in air, near the gallows. “Go put your suit back on,” she says dryly. “And try not to cause enough trouble that I have to come up here and get after you, understood?” “What part of outlaw ain’t you gettin?” he snorts, and she responds by giving him an affectionate pat to his scruffy cheek, before she takes another drag, and vanishes inside the swirling smoke. He’s left standing on his own.

His “suit” is still hanging, he notes, looking up at himself. He’s strung up on a tall pole by the platform, leaving it free for more use, if need be, with his body on display as a gruesome reminder for potential criminals that this is a hanging town, and they’ve even hung their most despised son. His neck is bent at an ugly angle, a little bulge at the side betraying how exactly his bones had shattered, and his skin has gone a bad color, gray and foul looking. But aside from that, he’s not rotted the way he would think he ought to be. Juno’d said she’d been waiting for days, presumably meaning it has been days since his death, but his body is looking remarkably unbuzzard pecked and unrotted. He shimmies up the pole he’s hung from, his ghostly noose trailing behind him, and the moment he touches his own boot, the world spins, going upside down and inside out in a way that’s too painful to try and perceive.

“Gahh-” says Beetlejuice, because he’s back in his body, which is still being hung by that god damn noose, and he realizes, annoyed, that he has no way of cutting himself down. He kicks, pointlessly, one hand going to the rope at his neck, to clutch it and try to keep it from choking himself again, and the other grabbing at the rope further up, gripping it to pull himself up, give himself some slack, instead of hanging taught. It’s not the most coordinated he’s ever been. At least there’s no one around to watch him struggle.

“Holy shit, the body’s movin!” he hears someone holler. Oh, come on.

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#beetlejuice au #beetlejuice fic #beetlelands fic #my writing #beetlejuice broadway #beetlejuice the musical #this is so self indulgent #i love westerns so this is all i can focus on rn

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