#tony orange roulette

[piefullofspiders]

THESE DAMN GAY ORANGES

VERY rare enki art post what! the noise posted art oh my gyatt gang! lets wait anotha 69 years for anotha piece of her art >:)

[kamabrahr]

Writing Requests open!

Kieran here, ready to polish their English skills with some drabbles, headcanons, oneshots, and anything your heart desires as long as they follow the rules!

I currently am mainly into the wrestling fandom, so here’s the list!

Wrestlers I can certainly write for

Male:

Adam Cole

Bray Wyatt

Chris Jericho

Christian Cage

Chuck Taylor

CM Punk

Cody Rhodes

Darby Allin

Dean Ambrose  (I consider him a COMPLETELY different entity from Jon Moxley...sue me.)

Drew McIntyre

Eddie Kingston

Edge

Jeff Hardy

Johnny Gargano

Jon Moxley

Jungle Boy

Kane

Lance Archer

Luchasaurus

Malakai Black

Marko Stunt

Matt Jackson

MJF

Mustafa Ali

Nick Jackson

Orange Cassidy

Ortiz

PAC

Randy Orton

Roman Reigns

Sammy Guevara

Seth Rollins

Shawn Michaels

Sting

Tony Khan (*cough*)

Trent? (?)

Triple H

Undertaker

Wardlow

Wheeler Yuta

Female:

Abadon

AJ Lee

Alexa Bliss

Anna Jay

Asuka

Bayley

Becky Lynch

Bianca Belair

Britt Baker

Dakota Kai

Hikaru Shida

Io Shirai

Jamie Hayter

Kris Statlander

Lita

Liv Morgan

Maki Itoh

Naomi

Natalya

Nikki A.S.H.

Penelope Ford

Rhea Ripley

Ruby Riott

Sasha Banks

Shayna Baszler

Stephanie McMahon

Tay Conti

Thunder Rosa

If they’re not on this list, you are totally always welcome to ask if I can write for them, and maybe I can, depending on how much creative juice I have in me!

And here are the rules to getting that content:

 Send an ask, if you’re not sure on what you want, then you are always welcome to DM me.

Specify what you want (headcanons, drabble, oneshot) with which wrestler(s), and whether it’s fluff, angst, comfort, NSFW, or others (throw me an AU and I might just grab it!). If it’s something more complicated, I will go over to your DMs and ask you for more specifications. If you don’t specify anything, it’s free real estate for me, and you’re going to have to see what you get on my Russian Roulette for you.

Specify the kinks if there are any. If it’s a no-no kink for me or a kink I’m not used to, then I will go over to your DMs if you’re not on anon to talk it out, see what we can do, and if it’s anon I unfortunately might just have to chop you off the board, I apologize.

You can also specify on certain things like genders, petite, plus-sizes, some illnesses or physical conditions like a person with vitiligo, scoliosis, an amputee, etc., but please don’t go super specific on appearances like blue eyes, brown curly hair or the likes. I might write a wrestler x wrestler or a wrestler x OC for you if you really want it and I’m in the right mindset, but beware, the writing is in my hands and you might not get exactly 100% of what you want.

Please be patient! I’m a kindergarten teacher with loads of work in my hands and some very fussy parents to handle with on the daily (the children are great, the parents...eh), so I’ll get to you, I promise, it might take some time!

With that all said, send ‘em over!

- Kieran

[summahsunlight]

Good-Bye, My Love

Rating: T

Word Count: 2413

Summary: Letting go is the hardest thing to do. Tony centric, other characters mentioned/present. Written January 2014

Characters: Tony--but all others are mentioned, or appear at least once

Warnings: Tony centric, not Tiva, angst

It was late. Almost three in the morning and Tony was still awake. He didn't care about the fact that he had to be back at work in four hours or that his stomach was wildly protesting that he had not eaten in about six hours.

Tonight, however, he could just not turn his brain off.

He fiddled with his cell phone. Keeping his hands busy was in a weird way helping him think, while his eyes were posed on the screen of his laptop. Had it really been almost eight months since he had stared at it in May, willing it to tell him where Ziva had disappeared too? A lot had happened in those following months. Not all of it was good. Some of it had been, but after the attack at the gala, well, the blood of the wounded and the six dead had just stained that good. And there had been so many times in those months that he had sat in front of that computer, writing email after email to the woman he'd left behind. There was never any response, he didn't expect one, but he liked to imagine that Ziva was at least reading her emails.

So, here Tony sat at three in the morning, a blank screen in front of him. He had started this email at least a hundred times but quickly erased it. He knew, deep down inside that this was not something that could be written in an email. He thought about calling her but didn't know if she would be receptive. At this point, he'd come to the conclusion that he should just send a text asking if it was okay to call her. What would the harm be in that? A simple text asking if he could call, that he needed to talk to her.

Tony found himself playing a game of roulette—the odds of her answering his text was probably astronomical, but he had to send it. So, with slightly shaky fingers, he carefully wrote out, Ziva—I need to talk to you, please let me know when I can call. He hit send, slammed his laptop shut, drowning the living room in darkness and laid down on the sofa to finally fall asleep.

He must have checked his phone at least twenty times before getting off the bus. Even though it was on he was afraid that he'd miss her text or perhaps her phone call. He kept telling himself that she was going to answer him this time. She had to answer him this time.

"Oh, hi," Bishop's voice cheerfully greeted him when he strolled into the squad room. "Gibbs called to say he won't be in today but rule 3 still applies—what is three again?"

"Never be unreachable," Tony rehearsed monotonously. He put his badge and weapon away in the top drawer, resisted the urge to open the other to look at her necklace.

"I'm not even sure how you guys keep up with all the rules. I mean…there are sixty-two of them."

Tony sat down in his chair and glanced at his phone once more, even though he knew it had not vibrated to indicate he had a message. "Guess it's just a part of the job."

Bishop wasn't taking the hint that he wasn't in the mood to talk. He liked her. She was smart. But she definitely could not read people socially, and it wasn't like she did it on purpose after all. "He doesn't have them written down somewhere? I mean that would be really helpful. And I tend to get things to stick better in my head if I read them so, I'd really enjoy a Gibbs Guide to the Rules or something similar."

"They're not written down anywhere to my knowledge. His job is to teach them to you," Tony mumbled, rifling through his paperwork to dig into reports and requisition forms that he was severely behind on thanks to their hunt for Parsa. "Any more questions, Bishop?"

"Nope," she said with a smile and a shake of her head. With that she went back to work.

Something else he liked about her. Despite the fact that she wasn't the best at reading subtle hints, she did know that when the conversation was obviously done, it was done and she didn't push. Kate had pushed him, Ziva had pushed him, and to extent at times McGee had pushed him. All to the point where he'd found it difficult to open up to his team—Tony was trying to change. Hell, he'd made that damn casserole for McGee after all. Which reminded him, when he'd gone to drop it off the night before Tim had not been home. He'd left it on the doorstep with a note. Hope he got it. Damn, I should have called.

Thinking about this now, he glanced at his phone again. Tim was probably at the hospital with Delilah who was still recovering from her injuries. He wouldn't answer his calls, but he would answer a text message.

In no time his partner had responded thanking him for the casserole and that it was a really nice gesture, and Tony felt a sharp pain in his gut. Ziva still had not responded to him. Again he found himself typing a text to her, Please, Ziva, there's something…there's something important I need to talk to you about. Can we chat? Tonight maybe?

With a sigh, Tony put the phone back into his pocket. It was going to be a long day of paperwork and waiting for her to answer. At least it couldn't get worse.

It got worse. It got much worse.

Tony came back from lunch to only be called into the conference room. Bishop, Abby, Ducky and Jimmy were already there waiting. Tony glanced around the table at them and his nerves suddenly were on edge. "What's going on?"

"We don't know, Anthony," Ducky said, gesturing for the SFA to take a seat at the table. "Jethro called twenty minutes ago and asked that we meet him here."

"Last time we had a covert meeting I ended up loosing my badge," Tony snarked as he sat down.

"I highly doubt that if what Jethro had to say to us is confidential, then he'd be meeting us in here, where there are cameras," Ducky said with a smile.

Tony felt very little ease at his words. Something was obviously wrong. Gibbs would not have called to gather them all here, in the conference room, at the same exact time if something was not wrong. His fears and worries were justified when the team leader opened the door and walked in, McGee slowly walking behind him. The probie looked defeated, he did not look fine like he had suggested the day before. And Gibbs, while his body posture was the same as always, Tony could tell by the look in his eyes that the news they were about to share was not good. And for a fleeting moment Tony feared that Delilah had succumb to her injuries and passed in the middle of the night—it would explain Gibbs' absence this morning. He'd been with Tim, helping him mourn. Right? After all we've been through Tim has to lose the best girlfriend he's had in years, what more can you throw at us, God?

Gibbs shut the door and nodded towards McGee. "Tim has something he wants to tell you."

Tim. He used McGee's first name, Tony noted, Gibbs very rarely used the younger agent's first name. Tony's fists clenched nervously underneath the table. He felt the cold dread that he felt in the orchard at the first moment he knew that Ziva was not coming back with him.

"I…I haven't been very honest with you," McGee began with a heavy sigh, "everything is certainly not fine."

"Oh my God, McGee! Did Delilah need to have another operation?" Abby squeaked, her eyes welling up with tears. "What haven't you told us?"

"No, there are other operations planned," McGee assured her. "It's just…her injuries, well…they're more critical than I let on."

Ducky nodded his head. "Understandable, Timothy. Miss Fielding had numerous pieces of shrapnel removed from her body and that alone would cause trauma to vital organs in her body—oh my, I did not realize until now. I apologize Timothy."

Tony noted the sudden change of tone in his voice but he didn't need the medical examiner's tone change to let him know what Tim was trying to say. He was a trained investigator after all. "She's paralyzed," he simply stated.

"Y-yes. A piece of shrapnel transected her spinal cord," McGee stammered.

Silence fell into the room like an anvil. Tony suddenly felt so small and helpless—and stupid for pining away for Ziva to call him. McGee had a real life problem, with real life consequences and all the emotions that came with it. He should be the one falling apart, not Tony. "Aw, McGee, I'm sorry," the SFA whispered, sounding so terribly cliché to his ears.

But it was all that needed to be said. In an instant Abby was on her feet engulfing McGee into one of her hugs, Ducky and Jimmy were offering any medical advice that they could. Bishop bit her lower lip and glanced at Tony. And he knew—she felt as helpless as he did. Delilah and McGee had a long, painful road a head of them, and his probie was going to need him to hold him up, look out for him and he couldn't do that if he couldn't stop himself from running around in circles. Suddenly, his whole life the past six months had been shoved into perspective. Only he could end this misery he'd put himself in.

It was time to move on.

Arriving home after what was arguably one of the worst, case-less days of his life, Tony shoved his way into his apartment and slammed the door shut. He'd spent the rest of the day going through his paperwork as if he was a robot, all the while thinking about how McGee must be feeling. Bishop had talked his ear off, nervously, for the rest of the afternoon—citing articles and research about people who had suffered traumatic injuries rising above the challenge and living a normal, happy life.

What is normal? Tony asked himself as his back pressed into his apartment door. He had no doubt that Delilah had the determination to rise above, after of course her grieving process. But really, what was normal? Wheelchairs and doctor's appointments and whatever else accompany a person who has no use of their legs.

"Be happy you're goldfish," he mumbled to the two white and orange fish swimming about in the bowl. "Your life is so much easier than mine."

Tony put his weapon and badge away, hung up his coat, and went into the bedroom. He flicked the light on and looked around. Since returning from Israel he'd made some changes in his apartment. Maintenance had filled in the bullet holes and painted, replaced the glass in his window. Tony had bought a brand new, state of the art stereo. But the biggest change had come in the room that hadn't been touched by bullets. If he wanted to change, if he wanted to let people in—if he wanted to let a woman in—he needed a bigger bed.

Yanking his tie loose, Tony tossed it on that bigger bed now before he discarded his suit coat. Finding his sweatpants and a tee shirt, he changed, knowing that tonight, with half of his team at the hospital with McGee they wouldn't be called on a case. He was glad for this, because, frankly he was exhausted. Parsa was Homeland's problem now and the MCRT could recover from another one of his blows.

So, for the second night in a row, Tony found himself staring at his computer screen. This time he knew what he had to do. He found his cell phone and dialed her number, the landline number she had given to him just before disappearing. It rang a few times but then a machine picked up and her voice could be heard asking the caller to leave a message.

Tony took a deep steadying breath. "Hello, Ziva. If you're there, pick up or even if you are but just can't come to the phone—at least listen to me. Parsa struck again, gala in DC—Delilah was hurt, badly. Tim is fine. I'm fine and so isn't Gibbs. I just…I just thought you should know. We miss you Ziva. But I didn't call to beg you to come home—you made your decision. I hope your clean break, fresh start, whatever you want to call it, is treating you well." He paused for a slight second trying to gain his line of thought. Calling her at this number had been so impulsive. "We're…well Homeland is still looking for Parsa. I hope someone has your six over there, Ziva. Parsa…he isn't the only reason I called. We got a new team member. She's NSA, on loan really, but I'm starting to warm up to her. I think you would like her. Anyways, you don't have to call me back. Just felt like you'd…be interested in what's going on. And don't think that it's all bad news—cuz it's not. I, um…I met someone."

It seemed like the perfect time to pause. He wasn't sure why. Maybe to give her some time to process. He took another deep breath. "Nothing…nothing's happened between us..yet. I've been so confused, Ziva. About whether I should wait for you or not. But then…I remembered something you said to me. You told me that I had to let you go, that this clean break was not just for you, it was for all of us. It's just taken me longer to make the break I guess…and…and I'll always hold you in a special place in my heart, Ziva. Shalom ahuvati."

Holding back his tears, Tony hung up the phone and felt the weight lifting from his shoulders, the freedom letting go had offered him, even as halfway around the world, she sat next to her phone crying—not for them, or their opportunities lost, but for their clean breaks finally coming to fruition.

[spideyandstark]

Hey! I love your writing! If you wanted to, could you write something about how maybe when peter is out in patrol, his suit malfunctions and tony freaks out?

Thanks so much! Here you go :) Sorry it turned into like an entire fic lmao, I’ll throw it up on my AO3 as well

There are a lot of people in Queens.

Peter, of all people, is mind-numbingly aware of this. He hears them on the bus to school, breathing loudly, the overlapping smells of strong cologne and food and body odour almost overpowering his gag reflexes. Usually, he walks. It’s still painfully loud, with the screeches of taxi wheels - that horrible tug of rubber against concrete - and the shouts of angry, angry, angry people, but it’s less crowded, he guesses, and it’s nice when MJ walks with him (though he’d never admit it to her, her soft smirk of ‘later, loser,’ at the front gate is always the highlight of his day). 

So it’s always a shuddering relief when he pulls his mask on and Karen blocks out the bustling of the city. It’s a warm summer evening and the orange-and-rose-tinted dusk light is just about filtering between the skyscrapers. Peter’s perched on the corner of one such building, his eyes wide and bright beneath the crimson fabric. 

“Hey Karen,” Peter breathes, a smile just about tugging at the edges of his lips. “What’ve we got today?”

“Good evening, Peter. I’m picking up on an armed robbery. I’ll send you the co-ordinates.”

“Thanks!” He can barely conceal the excitement building up in his chest. Sure, it’s small-scale, but he’s realised it’s better than bringing down a cargo plane. Peter leaps off the roof and rears his wrist back to aim a fine stream of webbing at the adjacent building, soaring over the multitudes of people below, and finally dropping in front of the crime scene amidst a swarm of civilians rushing in the opposite direction. 

Peter enters the shop. It’s not particularly big, but large enough that there are customers on their way out, and Peter moves in front of them to shield their escape. He glances at the counter, where a man is pointing a gun at a cashier while she frantically pulls money from the register to give to him.

Peter clears his throat in such a dramatic manner that it’s almost comical. The man glares at him, and a partner appears from one of the aisles, aiming another gun at Peter’s head. 

“Whoa, guys,” he says. “Uh, isn’t it wrong to take things that aren’t yours?”

The man at the desk pushes the gun directly next to the worker’s head, and she releases a choked sob. Peter raises his hands instinctively, his eyes wide. 

“Hey, hey, hey, we don’t have to hurt anyone! OK, look, just, uh, just take the money, I’ll stay here.”

Peter offers an encouraging nod, and one gun goes down but the other stays trained on him. 

The lady finishes and hands over the rest of the money and they’re not interested in her anymore. Peter nods to her and she ducks down under the counter. The first guy raises his gun again, so this time two of them are aimed at Peter. 

“Karen?” he mumbles. “What are my chances of getting out of this?”

His AI, for the first time, does not answer his question. The ominous silence makes Peter’s skin crawl. Is he going to die? Is Spider-Man, the guy who fought the Avengers, going to meet his end in this too-clean, too-bright aisle of a supermarket during his summer break? 

“Karen come on!” Peter’s panic is poorly masked, and the young men’s gazes flicker up to the eyes on his suit, and realise they’ve been reduced to tiny, bright red pinpricks amidst a sea of emotionless black.

A gunshot fires through the room, and Peter instinctively moves, and rushes forward to snatch the gun away. But as he reaches out there’s a weird weakness in his arm and all of a sudden the suit’s overtaken it somehow, and he’s aiming a powerful punch to the guy’s head. With his strength, he could-

“Karen stop! D-Deactivate instant kill!”

Peter barely overpowers the force in his suit, but he manages to drag his arm back just before he hits the guy. The other one has run away with the money, and Peter tries to hold himself still so this enemy can escape too. Peter scans his build and mannerisms so that he can find him later. 

He’s positively vibrating in the suit, trying to suppress its want to kill. Peter gazes around in a panicked haze, spots the door and webs himself out, doing his best to avoid people on the streets. Peter runs and runs and runs, and he doesn’t stop until there’s no one he can hurt.

Tony Stark receives the bleep from his lab. He’s holding a screwdriver between his teeth and his eyes are narrowed as he tinkers with the Iron Spider suit and his hair is completely tousled from constantly tugging his fingers through it. There are bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes and an empty mug on his desk rimmed with coffee. 

“Boss, Peter Parker has left Queens.”

Tony’s sleepless-hazed brain takes several extra seconds to chew on that, but eventually he averts his gaze to the ceiling, his head cocked at FRIDAY’s words. “He’s - what? Is he coming here then?”

“No.”

“Wow. Elaborate?” Tony waves his hand in a dismissive gesture, pushing himself away from his desk and wandering over to his tablet.

“He’s heading along the Hudson River, towards the sea.”

Tony bites his lip. Peter hasn’t been particularly fond of swimming since the parachute incident. 

“And he’s in the Spider-Man suit?”

“I wouldn’t be able to track him otherwise.”

“Shut up.” Tony rubs his face. “’M tired.”

“Then I would advise sleep.”

“Helpful,” murmurs Tony with the semblance of a smirk. “But unfortunately, impossible, thanks to this kid.”

“Glad I could be of service,” says FRIDAY.

Tony pulls up Peter’s location on the screen and narrows his eyes as he continues down alongside the river at a rapid pace. He seems to be staying as high above the ground as possible.

His mind an anxious, sleep-deprived mess, his armour closing around his small frame, Tony steps into the light of the setting sun, takes off, and mutters: “Alright, FRIDAY, let’s find out where the fuck this kid is going.”

Tony lands by a surprisingly quiet patch of concrete that pans outwards from the city, and finds Peter facing the opposite direction, talking to himself- no, to Karen.

“Kid?” Tony allows his armour to slip away. “You okay?”

“M-M-Mr. Stark!” Peter whips around, and Tony frowns at the ominous pricks of red at his eyes. “O-Oh my g-god, get away from me, get away-”

“Kid! What’s up?” The armour stays open behind Tony. The man takes a tentative step forward. “You’re -”

Peter lunges towards him and Tony’s eyes widen as he sidesteps to dodge the punch. He glances at Peter in surprise, and the suit is wracking with gentle sobs. 

“Peter - I’m gonna go back in the suit, okay -”

“P-Please,” Peter cries, trying to direct himself away as Tony steps back into his armour, the faceplate forming around his worried expression.

“Can you not deactivate Instant Kill? I’ll override it, alright? Just hold on,” murmurs Tony. At his words, FRIDAY drags up a screen in front of his eyes. But Tony frowns. “Wait a sec, Pete, can you not control your movements at all? Instant Kill isn’t supposed to-”

Suddenly Tony’s suit opens again and powers down. He stumbles out of it and glares at the armour in shock, a million theories running through his mind, ‘broken’ not being one of them. As he gazes back at Peter, who is trembling violently as he struggles to hold himself in place, he realises that they’ve been hacked.

“Pete,” Tony spins around on his heel and claps his hands together, focusing on the matter at hand. “We’ve been hacked, you understand? I’m gonna bring it up on my phone and override our suits, you’ve just gotta hold on until I can-”

“Mr. Stark, I can’t - I can’t - I’m so sorry-”

Peter rushes forward again, hands clenched into tight fists, his eyes squeezed shut beneath his mask. He’s tried taking it off but something’s keeping it in place.

Tony tries to focus on his phone but ducks to dodge Peter’s first punch; the second just about gets him, striking his shoulder powerfully - Peter whimpers loudly at the contact, and murmurs another “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his arm jerking violently as he tries to rear it back.

Tony does his utmost to hide his wince, his ever-suave features contorting just slightly for the briefest of moments; then he’s back on the app, sporting a probably-dislocated shoulder and trying to dodge a sobbing mess of a spider-enhanced kid.

"I’m s-so s-”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” murmurs Tony, sidestepping this time to avoid a kick.

“F-Fight me back, Tony,” Peter cries. “I’ll hurt y-”

“Again,” says Tony, clenching his teeth as Peter hits him a couple more times in the ribs, and desperately coding into the device, “I don’t wanna hear it, Pete.”

So Peter’s sobbing and trying to hold himself back. At one point Tony ducks behind his open suit, just for a few moments of peace so he can finish overriding the system, but then Peter kicks it aside and it crumples sadly on the ground and Peter releases another pained cry - he’s always looked up to Iron Man - that makes Tony’s heart scream. Peter tries to claw at his mask but it’s stuck, still; and with the armour out of the way, his suit forces him towards Tony again, his web shooter combinations switching ominously to one unbeknownst to Peter, like the worst rendition of Russian roulette.

“T-Tony, I don’t know what-”

The web lands on Tony’s phone and Peter yanks it away. Then he throws a web grenade. 

“Shit!” Tony rears to the side, just about avoiding the bulk of the onslaught of webbing, but it catches the back of his leg and keeps him standing in place. Trapped. A human punching bag.

Peter sways slightly but the suit keeps him upright. Tony gazes at him imploringly.

“Peter. You can do it, kid. I just need the phone. I just need to put in one more number. Can you pass it over?”

And Peter gazes at him. Peter gazes at his broken mentor - ribs arm shoulder leg head heart - and the tears keep on spilling. It’s all blurry, but the phone’s in his hand, and his suit is trying desperately to crush it. 

Peter tries to pry his fingers apart, clenching his teeth at the squeezing tension on his body, just like Tony had when he’d broken him. Tony is strong and he needs him to be strong too. 

“What number?” Peter gasps.

“One.”

His legs force him closer to Tony. Peter staggers to pull them back, but he’s approaching, his free arm raised in a fist, maybe ready to give Tony’s black eye a twin. 

(Or maybe ready to deliver the killing blow. It’s Instant Kill Mode, after all.)

His fingers are still half-clenched around the phone. He’s trying so hard to focus his energy on it. He supposes it makes sense that the suit is built to counteract super-human forces.

He’s way too close now. Tony is looking up at him. His features curl upward to form something of a smirk.

“That’s okay, kid. It’s not your fault. I’m proud of you, Pete. You saved so many people.”

Peter is still crying. The fist is closed above Tony’s head. He’ll snap his neck back.

He wants to say something. Maybe sorry or maybe that he’s become a sort of father figure, but Peter can’t say that because it’ll be too painful when he’s gone. So he says nothing, he keeps his hand trained on Tony’s head, and for one heart-dropping, fleeting moment, Tony’s eyes slip closed in acceptance.

Then Peter’s finger hits the button.

Tony opens his eyes. Peter’s entire body has relaxed, and he’s holding the phone in a shaking hand, and with the other he rips his mask off and his eyes are glazed and exhausted and his face is pale and there are tear tracks down his cheeks. Tony’s arms open instinctively and Peter stumbles into them, his legs buckling as they both sink to the floor.

Tony pulls his fingers through Peter’s curled locks, brushing them from the thin sheen of sweat on the boy’s forehead. “You’re okay, kid.” 

“But you -”

Tony cuts him off before he can get the words out. “No, it’s not your fault. Got it? I need to fix your suit.”

Peter sniffs and briefly pulls away from Tony to grab his rucksack. He rummages through it and pulls out the keys to his apartment and tosses them across to Tony, who smiles and starts cutting through the webbing on his leg.

When he’s freed himself, he stands up and brushes himself down. Peter is sitting cross-legged on the floor, his face in his hands. He doesn’t look at Tony, whose movements are slow and painful, as much as the older man tries to hide it.

“Kid,” says Tony softly. He’s extended his arm to Peter, who lowers his hands to his lap and glares up at Tony tearfully. Tony retracts his hand and runs it through his hair. 

“Don’t blame yourself,” says Tony, half-joking. “Or you’re grounded.”

“What? That makes -”“- no sense. Just like you blaming yourself for someone else hacking your suit. So come on, Pete, I want ice cream.” Tony folds his arms across his chest and glares down at Peter defiantly.

Peter half-smiles. “What flavour ice cream?”

“Maybe if you get off your ass, I’ll let you choose.”

That gets Peter up. 

It’s the same routine. Tony steps back into the armour, which is working again, and Peter steps on the suit’s feet and they both head back to the Compound. When they get there, Tony doesn’t tend to his injuries. He disappears and returns to the living room with a blanket and a Star Wars movie and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s (”Stark Ravin’ Hazelnuts?” Peter laughs) and forces the kid onto the couch. 

“Mr. Stark, are you -”

“Minor injuries.” Tony waves a hand dismissively. “FRIDAY says it’s fine if I wait a bit. We’re sorting you out first.” 

“But -”

“Put on the movie, I can’t work the DVD player,” murmurs Tony, sinking back into the cushions.

Peter smirks, certain that’s a lie, but he quickly bounds forward and slips the movie in. He returns to the couch and Tony pulls an arm round him. 

Peter manages to watch a good portion of it; Star Wars is his favourite movie, after all, but there’s a tugging fatigue at his eyelids and after an hour or so he can’t seem to fight the weight of them anymore. His eyes close to the hum of the TV and to Tony’s absent fingers tracing patterns in his hair and to a warm burst of affection in his chest.

When Peter wakes up, Tony isn’t beside him. His head is propped against a pillow instead of the man’s chest, and Peter realises with a jolt that he’s probably caused more damage to Tony’s broken ribs. He leaps to his feet, discarding the blanket and glancing at the TV for an indication of time, but the credits are rolling on a loop.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter calls. He wanders into the lab, where Tony always is, and finds the man passed out at his desk among his tablet and an improved Spider-Man suit. There’s a messily-made bandage on his arm, which helps ease Peter’s conscience somewhat, because at least he’s tried to take care of himself. 

Peter traces the suit and the eyes briefly light up with a soft, “Good morning, Peter. Would you like to test the new anti-hacking protocol?”

There’s a hacker out there he needs to catch and young men who got away with robbing a bank, but Peter’s got Tony, and that thought alone is enough for the corners of his mouth to twitch upwards into a smile. 

When Tony wakes up, there’s an inexplicable blanket draped across his shoulders, and a note on his desk in joyfully scrawled font: Thanks, Mr. Stark! 

Tony smiles. 

[ruckystarnes]

Drabble #4 Kid Games

Author: @ruckystarnes

Prompt: 64 from Kissing Prompts Being Unable To Open Their Eyes For A Few Moments Afterward 

Requested by: @ronnie-rebel

Character: Rae Roulette (a.k.a. My choice) - Tony Stark

Canon?: nope, it's an high school AU

Warnings: under age drinking implied

A/N: Send me a prompt and a character please specify which list (by title) you are going off of.

The circle was more of a square to fit the amount of people making it up: some were kneeling, some sitting, and a few were occupying laps of others. You had no idea how Seven Minutes in Heaven was brought up nor how it was decided that everyone was going to participate, yet here you were, surrounded by your classmates, twenty-two people whom you've know for most of your life at the boarding school you attended. It was spring break and the class genius, playboy, and millionaire heir, Tony Stark, decided to through a party at his parents' home as they were gone for some vacation.

"We all know the rules," the brunet smirked and you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as everyone nodded and agreed. "There's a closet four doors down the hall on the left for you to use. All I will request is that you don't make a mess." A few snickered and some of the girls shoved their boyfriends due to the comments. "As I am the host, I see it to be fitting that I go first." He walked over to the table and picked up a nearly empty vodka bottle and downed the rest of the clear liquid before returning, placing the bottle inside the circle. "Oh, and there's no redo's. If it lands on the same sex, you pass or you for it," he laughed, but his face was serious. He nodded to a few people and proceeded to spin the thing, causing it to move slightly from where placed it.

Everyone watched intently, except you. You didn't care for this game, nor did you think that the fates would intervene and select you to be his partner. So, you zoned out, fiddling with her phone as you typed out a message to your friend Natasha sitting across you in her boyfriend's lap. You were so engrossed that you didn't hear people laugh, cheer, or whoop until someone was yanking you to your feet.

It was none other Tony Stark.

"C'mon precious," he smirked, tugging you down the hall to the closet he designated, opening the door for her and followed her in. Closet was an understatement as it was large enough to be one of the forms back at school with fur coats, shawls, leather jackets, and some wool overcoats as well as hat boxes and shoes that lined the walls. You still hadn't said anything, just stood there looking everywhere but at him, hands behind your back and slumping slightly forward.

"Y/N," he said lowly, his voice making your skin prick and red to rush across your face. You slowly shifted your eyes to him, giving him an eyebrow raise, silently asking him 'what'. "We don't have to do anything, but I would like to kiss you. Just once." He gave a genuine smile, hands in his back pockets as he waited for your answer.

"Uh," you started and could only nod your permission. It wasn't everyday that your crush of five years asks to kiss you.

His hand was soft as he cupped your cheek and took a step closer to you, his foot between yours, as he leaned in and places the softest kiss to your lips. It felt like suede and tasted like oranges, making your eyes close and the tension in your body leave. It wasn't sloppy or demanding, just soft, slow, and delicate; everything that you knew this boy not to be. He kept his hands at your cheek and waist, loose enough that you could pull away if you needed. Even after it ended, you couldn't open your eyes, but he had his forehead pressed against yours as his breath fanned across your face.

"I've wanted to do that for a while now," he breathed, his thumb brushing along your cheek, the touch making you lean into it. "Y/N? You alright?" You could hear the concern in his voice, knowing you're probably starting to freaking him out quiet a bit not answering.

"Yeah," You whispered, your hand covering the one at your cheek as your eyes slowly opened, small smiling spreading across her face. "Just, didn't think you would ever say something like that," you scoffed and pulled back slightly to look at him, only for him to pull you close again, this time the kiss was more heated, making you melt into him.

[justanotherbuckydevotee]

All I Could Do Was Cry - Part 2

Word Count: 2,526 words. Prompt: “I’ve loved you my whole life and you’re about to marry somebody that’s not me. I can’t watch you do that” Warning(s): ANGSSTT. Cursing. So much sadness (I’m sorry) A/N: Final part! This had been frustrating but fun to write. It took me a while to get back, and I’m happy with this. I hope you’ll like the ending. Written for @theassetseyeliner ‘s writing challenge.

English is not my main language so sorry in advance. Happy reading!

masterlist 

part 1 || part 2 || Epilogue

** Gif is not mine. I found it on Google** 

To say you were exhausted was an understatement of the year.

Lying on your bed, you heaved a sigh. Your eyes felt swollen, and you don’t want to check the mirror to see the puffiness rimmed with red, not wanting to see yourself in that state yet. There’s a dull ache in your chest, and you feel like you could sink right into your mattress at the heavy weight of your sorrow.

You’ve lost count how many days you’ve disappeared, fallen into the hole of despair as you ignored the outside world. You didn’t have the energy to do much but lay there, looking up at the white blank ceiling, as the world outside continues to move forward. Thankfully, the office approved your last minute leave as you threw excuses about not feeling well. You hadn’t even bothered looking at the date, overwhelmed by grief of your mistakes.

Should you have told him about your feelings before? Would it have made any difference? These were the thoughts you mostly concerned yourself with, letting your mind roam to new unchartered territory of your feelings about your best friend.

All of which had the same answer: you’d have lost him either way. Because that’s the thing with falling for your best friend, you’ll lose them for having more feelings than the stereotypical framework of two friends who’ve known each other for so long. You’re waging a war with yourself, knowing the outcome wouldn’t be pretty but still battling with your senses and emotions. It’s like playing Russian roulette, with the difference being the chamber is full, but you still can’t stay away. Too captivated by his beauty and kindness.

So you continuously love him, shooting your heart every time you witness him kiss the lips of a girl who isn’t you, firing a round of bullets to your chest each time he tells you how much he loves her.

It’s suicide masked beneath a series of believable encouragements and convincing merriments for them both.

Your phone rings, again, and you let it, not even sparing a glance as it sat on top of your bedside table.

You’ve also been ignoring your friends, not wanting them to see you in this state. Natasha comes by the first night with Bucky when she heard you’d call in sick, bringing an obscene amount of junk food and alcohol that you barely touch. You know they’re just worried, but by the third night (or was it fourth?) you’d ignored their knocking, not wanting company. You texted them a simple reply when neither wouldn’t stop bombarding your phone with calls and messages, telling them that you just wanted to rest, that they shouldn’t worry. That you’d be okay.

But will you ever be okay?

Another call hits your phone, but again you disregard it. You see the bright light of the sun slowly change into a luminescent orange spilling into your bedroom from your high-ceilinged windows, indicating that yet another day had passed by.

Steve smiles at the guests passing by him, trying to put his anxiousness at bay. He’s got his phone next to his ear, another attempt at reaching you. He’s certain you haven’t forgotten about tonight’s rehearsal dinner, raising an eyebrow at Bucky when you didn’t show up at the wedding rehearsals that morning. The simple explanation Natasha gives seems defective to his ears, but Steve couldn’t get more out of her during the whole day, the havoc wreaked from the wedding planner and their wedding crew providing him absolutely zero chance to find answers, to find you.

Soon after, he’s being directed to shower and change for tonight’s event. He should be enjoying himself, a hand wrapped around his beautiful fiancée as they enjoy what is about to happen. He should be out there talking with his guests, thanking them for coming to witness this chapter of his life. He shouldn’t be in the corner, ears glued to his phone as he tries again and again to contact you, worried to his stomach at your missing presence when again his attempts turn unfruitful.

Pocketing his phone with a grunt, he decides to take matters into his own hands. You’re one of his best friends, god damn it, and you should be here.

He looks around and his eyes land on Peggy; she’s caught up with being the hostess as she smiles brightly at people, greeting people with her friendly attitude. If he slips out now, he’ll still make it before everything actually begins. He’ll just say he wasn’t ready in time.

Just as he’s about to step out of the private ball-room, he’s stopped by a firm grasp on his shoulder.

“Where are you going? The party is that way” Bucky says, pointing a finger at the direction behind Steve. There’s a smile on his lips, but it doesn’t really reach his eyes. Steve furrows his eyebrows, looking at his oldest friend with a sceptic look.

“I’m trying to find (y/n). Something’s not right” he responds. Bucky’s grip over him falters as Steve moves, determination now settling deep in his bones to try and settle what was going on. But Bucky stops in front of him again, blocking his path.

“Natasha did say she was tired. Let her get some sleep. I’m sure everything’s fine” he babbled, trying to steer Steve back to the party.

But Steve stood his ground. Something was definitely up.

“Okay. What’s going on?” he asks. It’s rare that he finds Bucky lying or trying to hide something from him, even rare when the subject of concern is you.

Bucky’s about to say something that Steve knows will just waste his time, precious time he could use to find you instead of playing cat and mouse here in this hall. So he cuts him off.

“What’s really going on, Buck?” he asks quietly. “She hasn’t returned any of my calls. Peggy even told me she’s been missing from work for days now. So, please, just tell me what’s going on?”

He’s eyeing Bucky for a few moments, watching the cool exterior of his best friend trying to come up with an excuse plausible enough to get him back inside. But he comes up empty.

Bucky sighed, dropping his head as he ran his fingers in his hair. Natasha was going to have his head.

“Okay” he begins, clearing his throat before looking at Steve again. “Look…” he says, but he can’t find the words to say it. Steve takes in a sharp breath, because nothing good ever follows when the conversation starts off like this. It takes him mere seconds before he’s hailed a cab and telling the driver your address.

His heart is hammering against his chest as he tries to even his breathing, having ran up the stairs to your apartment, the lift taking too damn long for the patience he has right now.

He’s pressed your bell, knocked several times, but there’s just silence from your end. There’s an incomprehensible feeling in his gut, churning his anxiousness into something much more ominous. There’s a sickening sensation bubbling from his stomach when you’ve yet to answer.

“(y/n!)” he yells. He’s thankful that you own the whole floor, leaving him to pounding your door to his heart’s content. He tries repeatedly, screaming your name with each bang. He doesn’t know why he’s riled up all of the sudden.

“I’m not leaving until you open this door” he declares. Again he slams his open palm over your door hard that he swears could’ve made a hole if he’s just balled his fist instead. He’s breaths are labored, not from running up but from this simmering anger inside of him.

He’s supposed to be at a fucking dinner, not bleeding his hands at banging your door. He’s frustrated that Bucky and Natasha doesn’t seem to want to tell him anything. He’s annoyed that you’re doing this to him out of the blue, furious that you won’t open this door and talk to him. You’re on of his best friends for heaven’s sake! You should be able to tell him anything because you trust him.

“Please, (y/n). Talk to me. Help me so I can help you” he tries again, pressing his forehead on your door. He can hear movements from behind the door, the pitter patter of your foot stepping on your floor, pacing back and forth, almost debating with yourself.

The image of you in distress melts his anger, uneasiness creeping its way back to him as he tries to make sense of the whole situation. Did he do something? What happened that made you distance yourself from him? Who hurt you?

He sighs, drained from what the day had entailed. Pulling himself back, he looks at your door for a moment, trying to understand what lay behind them, before slowly backing away. He doesn’t know what else to do but to walk away. every step he took was heavy, demanding him to stop and turn, to try again. That he shouldn’t give up.

His phone rings, a familiar ringtone he’s set up specifically for Peggy, so he answers and tells her he’s on his way.

He’s hours away from being proclaimed as husband and wife, elation coursing through his body as his heart flutters at the image of Peggy walking down the aisle. Steve can’t help but let heat rise from his cheeks because Peggy would be his. He chuckles to himself, realizing that after all this time she still has that kind of control over him.

“You okay?” Clint asks, emerging from behind a partition that gave Steve privacy in his bachelor suite.

“Just excited” he tries to act casual, but he can’t hide his wide smile. Clint pats him with a grin, happy to see Steve in this light because he deserves to have this. “We’ll be outside. Have a drink with us” he proposes, then goes to let Steve be. He’s adjusting his suit, checking his cuffs and fixing his hair. He’s nervous, but the good kind.

“The man of the hour finally graces us with his presence” Tony proclaims, gesturing grandly towards Steve as he steps into the study room where all of his close friends are.

Except you.

A small frown places his smile temporarily when he doesn’t find you where you should be. He asks Sam about your whereabouts.

“Don’t know. Probably helping Peggy” was his answer, handing him a glass before filing it with Brandy. It would make sense since you’re friends with them both, even more sense when he remembers you’re the one who introduced her to everyone.

But there’s a nagging voice in his head, agitation sneaking into him like that night. He’s been restless since leaving your complex, the ride back to the rehearsal dinner filled with him texting and leaving you countless voicemails. Bucky has yet to confide to him what’s happened, leaving a cryptic code of “It’s not my place to say”, a similar response from Natasha when he asks the redhead.

“You’ll just need to hear from her, okay?”

It was wearisome the way you’re silencing yourself. He’s bear witness to your breakdowns before, has experienced this sudden push from you, but never to this extent. You would always tell him beforehand, that you need space to clear your head. But the reasons behind those breakdowns were always told, never was he ever left in the dark like this. It was unlike you and the more he thought about it, the more he wants to go and find you.

“Cheer up, man. You’re getting married” came the voice of Sam, bringing him back to the present. He downs the drink in one go, before placing the glass on top of a mahogany table. Sam’s right, he should be because today was his day.

So he ignores the restlessness that continues to plague him, talking and laughing with his friends before the ceremony begins.

Wanda knocks on their door, her had popping out from the gap when she opens it, announcing that it was near time, throwing Steve’s phone at him.

“You left this downstairs. It’s been beeping nonstop” she tells him, before leaving them. He checks it, and upon seeing only your name on his screen he moves out of the study, needing to hear from you before he completely loses to his nerves.

He clicks the voicemail you left him.

“Hey Steve”. Your voice permeates and he’s glad to hear your voice.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer you. I just needed to be sure with myself that this is something I wanted to do”

You exhale shakily, and his heart wrenches in his chest, as if telling himself to prepare for the worst.

“I can’t go to your wedding, Steve” you croak, pausing for a moment to regain some control. “I can’t go because it pains me to see you with someone who isn’t me”.

An emotionless expression sweeps his facial expression, realization gradually dawning on him. It can’t be he thinks to himself.

“I’ve loved you my whole life” you whimpered, “and you’re about to marry somebody that’s not me” you manage to continue. Steve is standing rigidly, trying his hardest not collapse at your words in this moment.

“I can’t watch you do that” you sobbed, the emotions unable to be contained anymore, your struggle to remain collected breaking like a dam.

“You deserve this. And I am so happy for you, really I am, but it absolutely breaks my heart every time I see you together. I’ve tried to suppress these feelings since junior high but it keeps coming back stronger than before” you manage to blurt, inhaling a shaky breath before continuing “I knew I fucked up the moment I decided to cower behind my door that night, but what right did I have to destroy your chance at happiness? What right do I have to ruin something so great for you?”

“So be happy, Steve. Be happy with Peggy, and treat her with the kindness and devotion you have, because you both deserve it. I’m praying for the best for you and her, because at the end of the day you’re both my friends. You’re my best friend, Steve”

“But I cannot continue living like this. I’m telling you this because I can’t face you, and I don’t think I will ever face you again” you pause, gasping for air to flow down your throat.

“Live your life, continue on and never look back. I’m sorry Steve”

He still has his phone next to his ear long after the voicemail ends. His throat is dry and he can’t seem to move, stuck in this spot as the shock washes over him.

This is not happening he tells himself. He didn’t just lose his best friend over the phone right before he gets married. No, this was a nightmare, a vivid delusion that stemmed from his fatigue, his restlessness from worrying so much, from the stress of work and the planning.

He doesn’t register the voices of his friends behind him until Bucky grabs his shoulder.

It’s then that Bucky realizes what you’ve done.

tagging: @hellomissmabel @@alphaabucky @captnbarnesrogers @barnes-heaven @heartmade-writingbucky @minervaem @rotisserierogers @buckyywiththegoodhair @barnes-heaven ||  @iamwarrenspeace @memoirsofafangirl @lovely-geek @sarahp879 ||

taglist is open. send an ask if you want to join (: or to scream at me

[kerahlekung]

Keluarga 69...

Keluarga 69....

Adik abang,anak penakan,

Takdak keja takleh cari makan...

Mengikut direktori Pejabat Timbalan Menteri Kesihatan 1 Dato’ Haji Noor Azmi bin Ghazali. Manakala jawatan Setiausaha Sulit Kanan (SUSK) kepada Timbalan Menteri Kesihatan 1 pula Encik Muhammad Ubaidah bin Noor Azman serta Encik Noor Azman bin Ghazali sebagai Setiausaha Sulit kepada Timbalan Menteri Kesihatan 1.

Persoalannya... Adakah Noor Azmi dan Noor Azman adik beradik? Adakah Muhammad Ubaidah anak kepada Noor Azman dan juga anak saudara kepada Timbalan Menteri Kesihatan 1 Noor Azmi? Jawatan2 yang mereka duduki itu bertaraf gred 54 atau 52. Siapkan yang membayar gaji dan elaun kepada Muhammad Ubaidah Noor Azman dan Noor Azman Ghazali? Timbalan Menteri Kesihatan 1 atau Jabatan Perkhidmatan Awam? - mhdaily

Pesanan ikhlas dari Din...

Pendedahan Transaksi Jutaan USD, Dokumen Bank Antarabangsa Melibatkan Seorang Menteri Kanan gomen PN Di SPRM Putrajaya...

While rakyat queues for water, public 

tankers make special deliveries to VIPs...

Even as dry taps begin to flow in the Klang Valley, frustrated netizens were not amused upon learning that VIPs were allegedly getting special treatment by having water in tankers delivered directly to their homes.

Among the VIPs were Selangor Menteri Besar Amirudin Shari and his family. There were also allegations that federal ministers were getting the same special deliveries.

Unlike ordinary Selangor residents who were forced to purchase bottled water or wait in line for water, an Instagram posting by Amirudin's wife, Masdiana Muhammad, which had gone viral, showed an Air Selangor tanker parked right in front of their house with a hose entering the driveway.

"Thank you Air Selangor for sending water.

"I understand you are the frontliner right now, may Allah bless your services," said a part of Masdiana's caption on the photograph.

A separate screenshot from Masdiana's Instagram story posting yesterday also showed her children swimming in their private pool, with the caption: "Bila air takde" (when there is no water).

Netizens who commented on Masdiana's posting, in turn, shared their own photographs of queueing by the roadside to fill up water from public pipes or water tankers. When contacted, Air Selangor confirmed that it had sent a tanker to Amirudin's official residence.

"Yes, Air Selangor did send water to the MB's house," Air Selangor corporate communications chief Elina Baseri told Malaysiakini.

Quizzed whether it was standard practice for Air Selangor to deliver water directly to the menteri besar's house, Elina said: "We don’t just send to the MB’s house. We do our best to send and help all our customers.

"If you noticed in our press release, we even received help from other states because our tankers are not enough to accommodate 1.2 million accounts," she added.

When it was pointed out that the rakyat's unhappiness was due to the alleged double standard by Air Selangor, Elina declined comments and directed further questions to Amirudin's office.

An aide to Amirudin later told Malaysiakini that Masdiana had in a separate Instagram posting today apologised for her initial posts.

"I realise my error in uploading the initial photos that had given rise to various interpretations.

"In fact, there were people saying the tanker was sent to fill up the pool. That is absolutely not true," she said.

Meanwhile, Segambut MP Hannah Yeoh took to Twitter and hinted at alleged special treatments given to federal ministers.

"Houses of ministers in Bukit Damansara, I urge to consider requests from other residents there for water tankers.

"Let the tankers move according to the order of the roads there. Wait for your turn," said Yeoh in reference to the area which also covers Prime Minister Muhyiddin Yassin's residence.

The Sungai Selangor Phase 1, Phase 2, Phase 3 and Rantau Panjang water treatment plants had to be closed down on Sept 3 after detecting pollutants in the water.

This is after pollutants were discharged into Sungai Gong that flows into Sungai Sembah which in turn feeds off Sungai Selangor.

Water will be restored in three phases, namely from Sept 5 to Sept 7 under phase 1, Sept 7 to Sept 8 under phase 2 and Sept 8 to Sept 9 under phase 3. - mk

 From immorality to hero: 

Am I the only one baffled by PAS?...

It is insane to think that a politician can be termed a "hero" when he returns from an overseas jolly with his wife and plays Russian-roulette with other people's lives. That politician is nothing but a selfish and arrogant individual, who thinks that his position in government will protect him.

A hero is someone who dedicates his life to protecting others in an effort to make the world a better place. During this coronavirus pandemic, the true heroes are our frontliners - doctors, nurses, hospital cleaners, the armed forces and policemen.

It is easier to get blood out of a stone than a straight answer from a PAS politician. Do PAS MPs have a problem with reality, with reporters' probing questions, with the rule of law, with the ministerial code of conduct, or with upholding their responsibilities as lawmakers?

The ongoing political drama with Plantation Industries and Commodities Minister Khairuddin Aman Razali (above), who refused to observe the self-quarantine rules on his return from Turkey, cannot be forgotten.

Instead of censuring him, many PAS politicians tripped over themselves, trying to justify their colleague's abuse of power. On Sept 1, PAS president Abdul Hadi Awang skilfully dodged a reporter's question about Khairuddin's transgression, by talking about morals.

Hadi (above) is the last person who should lecture us on morals. He stuck the knife into Dr Wan Azizah Wan Ismail's back when she was nominated by now-dissolved Pakatan Rakyat (PR) to be Selangor Menteri Besar.

Hadi denied having talks about forming a unity government with the felon, Najib Abdul Razak's Umno-Baru, whilst pretending that PAS was a loyal coalition partner in PR.

Last November, Hadi expressed his support for former prime minister Dr Mahathir Mohamad but three months later, Hadi was safely installed as Muhyiddin Yassin's right-hand man after the Sheraton coup.

Khairuddin deliberately put the health and lives of others at risk. He did not act with any morality. Perhaps, PAS or Hadi's definition of morality is far removed from ours. If a DAP politician had failed to observe the quarantine rules, he and his party would have been crucified.

Hadi should come off his moral high ground and realise that anyone who breaks the law, is in breach of the moral code. He said: "If they commit a sin that is contrary with Islam and morals, we will fire them." Isn't breaking the law a sin? As a minister, Khairuddin's conduct reflected badly on PAS.

Politicians who think that politics and morals are mutually exclusive are dangerous people. Remember the former British prime minister, Tony Blair? As a committed and practising Christian, Blair would have believed in the sanctity of life, and yet, he took Britain to war against Iraq, based on a lie. Politics and morals cannot be treated as separate entities.

A few days ago, PAS spiritual leader Hashim Jasin (photo) made the bizarre claim that Khairuddin was a "hero". In addition, Hashim shifted the blame onto Health and Foreign ministries for their negligence.

Hashim's definition of a hero is not the same as ours. Someone who failed to self-quarantine, was economical with the truth and risked the health and lives of others, cannot be considered a "hero".

Last week, PAS' vice-president, Tuan Ibrahim Tuan Man's comparison of Khairuddin with lorry drivers and pilots was both demeaning and unfair. It also showed his lack of understanding of those who work for a living. Both professions are excluded from quarantine but must adhere strictly to the rules imposed on them for doing their jobs during the coronavirus pandemic.

The lorry drivers and pilots perform a vital role in keeping the economy and nation running, but if Khairuddin was missing from the government, it is doubtful if anyone would notice or feel his loss.

It is incredible that none of the senior PAS politicians showed good judgment and common sense. Instead of putting themselves in the shoes of the rakyat, they hemmed and hawed, and dug a deeper hole whilst trying to justify Khairuddin's crime. Nothing was mentioned about breaking the law, about the lack of professionalism or Khairuddin's lack of humility.

The Islam that was taught by my parents and elders, is similar to the version learnt by many of my Muslim relatives and friends. Those teachings do not gel with the version of Islam promoted by PAS.

Sendiri buat salah dok tunding jari kat orang lain. 

Kepala hotak hang...

Khairuddin's actions cannot be made halal with terms like "morality" or "heroism". He was also economical with the truth. There is another way of seeing the Khairuddin fiasco.

It is not just the story of a minister who broke the law and thought that he could appease the crowd by paying a fine and making an apology. He was only forced to do these, because of the public outrage.

This is also the story of the silence of the majority of Muslims. The ones who are quietly furious with Khairuddin and PAS' lame excuses but dare not speak out.

Where is the public condemnation of the wannabe clerics masquerading as politicians, who have tarred the religion, and the reputation of the Malays? Where are the learned muftis to denounce Khairuddin's wrongdoing?

For years, PAS claimed they were protectors of Islam and defenders of the Malays. Khairuddin has proven them wrong. - Mariam Mokhtat,mk

cheers.

Sumber asal: Keluarga 69... Baca selebihnya di Keluarga 69...

[longforgottenunofficial]

The Hitchhikers in the Mirror

[Info from newly rediscovered documents confirms much of what follows and adds details (in red).  Updated August 29-30, 2013 and May 1, 2014.]

You know the drill.  As the show winds down, you go past a set of mirrors, and in the mirrors you see one of the hitchhiking ghosts sitting beside you.  But it was not always so, says I.  If you rode the HM during its opening week, you would have seen something else in those mirrors. This was the original "Long-Forgotten Haunted Mansion effect," and it remains one of the most intriguing. I rode the HM on Thursday, August 14th, 1969 (I was 14).  There's a lovely story about how I got to ride during opening week, but that's for another time.  There has also been a mighty tempest over when exactly the HM first opened, but that's another post as well. Going past the mirrors, what I remember seeing is clouds of faceless, wispy spirits surrounding and mobbing the doombuggy.  They were undulating and following along with you as you scooted past.  Very cool.  But on my next visit, no more than a few weeks later, the wraiths were gone, and I was startled to see the familiar effect that we have there now.  "Hey, that's different!" was my reaction. Flash forward 35 years, and the Internet has provided a means for HM fans to discover and communicate with each other.  I dipped my toes into Doombuggies.com at my brother's suggestion, and—what a cool site.  Mansionology has been a secret vice ever since.  Well anyway, here was my chance, I figured.  Surely someone else remembers this effect, right?  Wrong.  I dropped an email to "Chef Mayhem" at Doombuggies.com and to Chris Foxx at the now-defunct grimghosts.com.  Here's what I wrote to the Chef on Aug 4, 2002:

And the similar email to Chris six days later:

No luck.  Neither had ever heard of my wraiths.  Well, let's throw the question open, shall we?  I started a thread on the DB.com chatboards and described the effect yet again: "One of the things I remember from my first ride on the HM, opening week 8/69, was that the HHGs did not reappear in the mirrors.  Yeah, they were standing there as always as you entered the crypt, but that was it.  Instead, in the mirrors there were wispy ghosts much like the graveyard wraiths surrounding the buggy as you moved along."  (I still have copies of the relevant sections of that discussion thread.) All of this tedious stuff is necessary to show that I was making these wild claims well before... THE... the... the  BLUE... lu... lu... lu PRINT... int... int... int ...came to my attention.  One of the participants in that chatboard discussion mentioned a HM effects blueprint in his possession with some curious items on it.  He graciously sent me a copy.  Eventually I was able to get a much cleaner copy of the same b-print (thanks to Datameister at Micechat). The HHG-in-mirror effect is produced by a set of 15 rod puppets on an oval track behind two-way mirrors.  The room is oddly shaped, being custom built for the ghosty-go-round.  Here's an old b-print that shows the set-up as it is today:

You can see the oval track and how it fits the room.  But on the effects blueprint I got from the poster at DB.com, there is no track; instead, there are three projectors focused on a wavy screen marked CURVED BACK PROJ. SCR'N :

Whoa.  This b-print is dated 4-8-69.  The original date on the other b-print is illegible, but it was updated on Feb 7, '69, and its last update was 4-7-69, the day before the other b-print was produced.  Thus, our projector system is on a b-print that was the direct successor to one which shows the effect as it is seen today.  Even without this info, it is plain that the ghosty-go-round was always what was planned, since the room itself is obviously shaped around it.  In contrast, the projector system obviously does not fit the room very well.  Look at all the wasted space.  So, what gives?  Why does the effects b-print which is actually closer to opening day have this funky substitute? Another source of info about the HM as it was in the beginning is newspaper reports and reviews of the new ride.  Pre-opening publicity stories that mentioned the HHGs began to appear in the Spring of '69:

"Ghostly hitchhikers trying to jump aboard" sounds like the effect as it is seen today.  There was a press preview of the ride at midnight, August 11, with the 12th slated as the official opening day.  A few reviews of the newly-opened HM appeared in the papers as early as Tuesday the 12th, but most were published Wednesday the 13th.  Among all of these, a handful make passing reference to the HHG-in-mirror effect.  Tony Lawrence in the Hollywood Reporter, Aug 13, gives a rather ambiguous description that could fit either effect:

In a review published a day earlier (the 12th), Sandi Mosley in the Orange County Register describes what sounds like our current effect:

f this was all we had, we could reasonably conclude that whatever that b-print showed, the Gus-Ezra-Phineas roulette we all know and love was there by opening day.  But there is another review that sounds altogether different.  This is from Keith Murray's review in the Pasadena Star-Times, published on the 13th:

What is this "peering into the fog" business?  And why does he apparently see only himself in the doombuggy?  Hmm.  The wraiths I remember did indeed look like a swirling cloud of spirits.  Now the evidence is getting murky again.  How do we reconcile Mosley and Murray?  Assuming they are both providing good faith, reasonably accurate accounts of what they saw, there is only one way to do it that I can see.  Mosley is explicit that she rode the HM at the midnight press preview Aug 11/12.  Her review appears on the 12th.  Murray nowhere claims to have been at that preview, and his review appears on the 13th.  It is possible that he rode sometime during the day of the 12th and wrote his review for publication the next day.  Mosley's and Murray's rides could have been 12 hours apart, or even more.  Was the ghosty-go-round there for the midnight showing and then hastily replaced by our projected wraiths?  That would explain it, but is there any warrant for such a scenario? Of course there is, or I wouldn't be wasting your time (or mine).  Something must account for the alternate set-up behind the mirrors, after all.  What we now know from newly discovered material evidence is that the projected wraiths were simply the backup for the HHG ghosty-go-round.  It probably could have been set up in a matter of hours.  Look, it's not complicated.  Here are the two side-by-side:

Okay, now let's superimpose them:

See?  The wavy screen sits right in front of the HHG track, about where the low curtain stands in this photo:

Edit: In 2014 this 1969 schematic came to light, showing both of the effects superimposed, exactly like above.

And why would they need this backup?  Because if the ghosty-go-round goes down, they will douse the lights on the motionless hitchhikers, and now you've got the guests riding past mirrors looking at themselves and nothing else.  That's intolerably dumb.  You have to put something there.  You need a backup effect if the planned one fails. Did they anticipate such a failure?  You bet they did, that's what the blueprint is all about. ��In addition, there is the intriguing comment made by show author X Atencio in Storyboard magazine.  Speaking of the HHGs, X said:  "It was kind of an afterthought, though.  It didn't come until the ride was practically put in there."  Based on this, both Doombuggies.com and Surrell's Haunted Mansion book (at the time of this writing the two most authoritative sources for all things HM), claim that the HHGs were a last-minute addition to the ride. Bull crap.  The problem with X's remark is that what it says is literally impossible.  The show building went up in 1968, and the HHG-in-mirror gag is plainly visible in 1968 blueprints.

The idea itself is much older, going back to Ken Anderson's plans for a DL haunted house in 1957-58.  Guests walk down a hall with mirrors on each side showing ghosts accompanying them.  Traveling ghosts looping around a central barrier that hides their return, coupled with clever use of two-way mirrors—yep, it's all there.

The best explanation for X's flub is that the originally-planned HHG effect—the one that is there today—did not look like it was going to be ready by opening day.  The problem could have been something as simple as an unavoidably delayed shipment of a vital part.  So a temporary effect was worked out and constructed, something to have in the mirrors until whatever demons were ailing the Gus-Ezra-Phineas show were exorcised.  (We now know that this backup effect was built in the middle of April.) But the Imagineers wanted to show the press what the permanent effect was going to look like once it was up and running, so they managed to get the ghosty-go-round jury-rigged and working for the midnight showing, and then they immediately went back to their backup.  They were still using that on Thursday when this geeky teen rode.  I suppose that X's memory of this frantic mess was a little hazy, and that's why he spoke misleadingly to Storyboard. How did the backup effect work?  If I may speculate, it was yet another example of Yale Gracey genius at work.  The projectors were the same as the ones Yale invented for use in the Blue Bayou lagoon (the clouds moving on the "sky") and used again in the HM for the misty clouds moving along the wall in the Limbo loading area and on the scrims in the graveyard.

The wavy, curved screen was 40 feet long and 12 feet wide.  It was back-projected with these moving ghosts.  The curves made them undulate and gave them animation.  They were bright enough to be seen in the mirrors against the dark outside of your doombuggy, but were washed out and therefore invisible against the much brighter interior where you sit.  This delicate balance was achieved by adding new lights, both in front of the buggies (spotlights) and behind them (new fluorescent lighting).  Records show that these were installed at the same time that the backup effect was constructed, as part of the same project.  Thus, the ghosts looked like they were surrounding and mobbing you, but they were not inside the doombuggy with you. There's a photoshop recreation of the effect HERE. Whew.  All that for that.

Due to the nature of tumblr posts, I could not change the text color to red. I bolded the highlighted areas.

Originally posted: Monday, April 26, 2010 Original Link: [x]