#workforce care in construction

[crows-rook]

Newly minted ambassador Josephine Montilyet is being shown around the Grand Necropolis by the snivelling nobility. They intend to show her how Mourn Watch take care of the Necropolis as well as boast about their ethically sourced workforce. When they enter, the first thing Ambassador Montilyet notices is a skeleton wearing a flower crown. It's poorly constructed yet surprisingly holds together as the skeleton swings it pickaxe.

They come across another and another until now even the skeleton guards are wearing them. The noble is getting noticeably upset, confused and somewhat angry thinking someone is playing a prank on them and trying to ruin the ambassadors opinion of Nevarra. They decide to take her to the memorial gardens only to find the source of the disruption.

A young Foundling who goes by the name Ingellvar is offering anyone they come across a flower crown, grinning from ear to ear when they take it. Vorgoth assists. The noble intends to take the being aside and lecture them on keeping their ward in check only for Ingellvar to offer Josephine a flower crown.

She accepts.

Twenty years later, Josephine still has that flower crown pressed and safely preserved behind framed glass. It's one of her favorite gifts and a fond memory of a child happy amongst the dead and their eldritch guardian watching over them.

[vunblr]

The Price of Silence (Blue-collar Bucky #1)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Unprotected sex. Dirty talk.

Summary: Porn with a little plot, what can I say.

Word Count: 9k.

notes: None. Just filth.

The world had shifted after the Blip, mutated into something unrecognizable. Bucky had learned to survive in chaos, but survival wasn’t the same as living. His government-mandated therapy sessions had been a performance. A carefully crafted facade to prove he was “reformed,” that the Winter Soldier was no longer a threat. It worked. The government gave him the pardon he’d been promised and promptly forgot about him.

Finding a job had been the first hurdle. The Blip had flooded the workforce, and employers weren’t keen on hiring a man with his history, no matter how clean his record now appeared on paper. The rejection became a pattern, confirming what he already suspected, there was no place for him here.

But the construction site didn’t care who he was. They didn’t ask questions when he showed up looking for work. His enhanced strength made him an asset. Moving steel beams, hauling concrete, cutting down hours of labor with what he could do in minutes. He worked silently, head down, invisible among the noise of drills and heavy machinery. On Fridays, he got his paycheck and a little extra for the tasks only he could do.

The city still treated him like a ghost. People stared, whispered, or crossed the street when they recognized him. He didn’t hide his arm anymore; he let the matte black vibranium gleam under the sun. Let them look, let them flinch. It didn’t matter anymore.

The tattoos had started as a cruel inner joke. The red star below his clavicle had been his first, an ironic reminder of the weight he carried. It hurt like hell, his serum-enhanced skin required tebori, the old Japanese hand-poking technique, to get the ink to stick. The pain didn’t bother him. If anything, it made him feel alive, comforting him in ways the therapy never had. Over time, more tattoos joined the collection, sprawling over his arms, chest, and back. A physical map of what he’d endured, what he wanted to forget, and what he knew he never could.

The nose piercing came on a whim. A flicker of rebellion against expectations, though no one had any for him anymore.

The monotony of construction work became his new routine. It was predictable. Safe, in a way. Until one Monday, the foreman sent him to pick up the crew’s lunch order, a task usually assigned to Stephen, who was out sick. A small errand, a minor inconvenience.

He didn’t expect it to change anything. But then again, nothing ever went as planned.

----

The bell above the door jingled softly as Bucky stepped inside. The smell hit him first: fresh bread, sugar, and butter mingling in the warm air. It was... comforting. He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the dimmer light of the bakery after the bright glare of the sun outside.

The place was small but welcoming, with neatly arranged baskets of bread on shelves and a glass display case showcasing pastries that looked too delicate for his rough hands. He pulled off the working gloves he’d forgotten he was still wearing, shoving them into the back pocket of his worn jeans. His vibranium fingers glinted faintly in the soft light, but he didn’t care who noticed.

Behind the counter, she looked up from where she was restocking some pastries, offering a bright smile the moment she saw him. “Hi there! What can I get for you?”

He froze for half a second. People didn’t usually smile at him like that. Don’t usually smile at him at all. Period. He cleared his throat and glanced around, suddenly unsure of how to navigate this. “I’m here for the construction crew’s order.”

She wiped her hands on her apron and nodded. “Right, the sandwiches,” she said, moving behind the counter to grab the large paper bag already packed and ready. “Stephen’s usual pick-up, huh? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“No,” he muttered, keeping his gaze on the countertop. “He’s out sick. They sent me instead.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” she said, sliding the bag onto the counter. “You’re working on that new apartment building, right?” Her tone was bright and conversational. “Big project”

He nodded, unsure of how to respond. People avoided small talk with him, and he was usually glad. His appearance purposely did much of the trick but she was treating him like a normal customer, with no hesitation, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

“Do you want anything for yourself?” she asked suddenly, leaning her hands on the counter. “Coffee, maybe a juice? It’s on the house for you guys, you are spiking out incomes.” She winked.

He blinked, caught off guard. “No. I’m fine.”

Her smile didn’t waver. If anything, it softened, like she could sense his discomfort but didn’t want to make a big deal of it. “You sure? You look like you’ve been out in the sun all day. Hydration’s important, you know.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile, though he didn’t let it form. “I’m fine,” he repeated, less harsh this time.

“Alright,” she said, stepping back with a small shrug. “If you change your mind, let me know. No rush.”

That threw him even more. No rush. No expectation for him to hurry up and leave. He picked up the bag, mumbling a gruff, “Thanks,” before turning to go.

But something made him glance back before stepping outside.

Fuck it. He wanted juice, and she offered. Also, she was nice to look at. “Actually, yeah. I could drink some juice before heading back if the offer’s still on,” he half-smiled.

Her head tilted slightly, and a playful look flashed in her eyes. “Of course! What kind of juice do you like? Orange, apple, maybe something else?”

He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck with his metal hand. The hoop in his nose glinted under the bakery’s light as he shifted slightly. “Uh… orange?”

She set the bottle in front of him. “There you go.

He nodded, twisting the cap off and taking a sip. The cold, tangy juice was a welcomed sharp contrast to the sweltering heat outside, and he found himself relaxing just a fraction.

“You guys must be working like crazy out there in this heat,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning casually on the counter. “I mean, you’re probably used to it, but still, it can’t be fun.”

“It’s work,” Bucky replied simply, glancing at her. He expected her to press and ask more questions, but instead, she nodded like she understood.

“Well, here’s hoping Stephen feels better soon,” she said, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “But if they send you back, I wouldn’t mind. You’re a lot less grumpy than him.”

That caught him off guard, and his lips twitched into the faintest ghost of a grin. “I’ll let him know you said that.”

Her eyes widened in mock horror, and she let out a warm, easy laugh. “Oh, no, don’t you dare! I can’t handle more of his attitude. He’s bad enough already.”

Bucky tilted his head, leaning one elbow on the counter, the edge of a smirk ghosting across his face. “Maybe you could persuade me to stay silent,” he said, dropping his voice slightly.

She froze for half a second, her brows shooting up as the teasing in her expression turned to something a bit more curious. Then she leaned forward, resting her hands on the counter, playfully. “Oh, really? And what exactly would that take?”

Shit. His brain stalled. He could feel the weight of her gaze, the way she was waiting for him to respond. His mouth opened, then closed again, his thoughts scrambling for something -anything- that wouldn’t sound like the mess of half-baked flirting swirling in his head. Finally, he muttered, “Uh… garlic bread. That might do the trick.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, and for a second, she just stared at him like she was trying to decide if he was serious. Then, she burst into laughter again, her head tilting back slightly as the sound filled the space between them. “Garlic bread, huh? That’s the bribe of choice?”

He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck as the tips of his ears burned, pretending to fuss with the juice bottle. Yeah, maybe he really did need to work on his social skills.

The thing was, he usually didn’t have problems getting laid. A bold woman with a venturous streak might approach him at a bar or whatever dimly lit hole-in-the-wall he happened to be in, probably looking for an anecdote to share later: I hooked up with the Winter Soldier. And he didn’t care. He wasn’t a monk. If a touch on the arm, a whispered suggestion, or a couple of drinks got him laid, he went with it. The bar’s bathroom, a dark alley, it didn’t matter. It was impersonal, and mechanical.

Was he a manwhore? Probably. But after everything they did to him, every time his body had been used for someone else’s agenda, he couldn’t be bothered to care anymore. Sex, when it happened, was more transaction than connection. An itch scratched, and nothing more.

This was different. This wasn’t the haze of dim lights and alcohol. It wasn’t the brazen touch of someone who wanted something from him in a questionable pub. It was broad daylight, with no pretense, and she wasn’t throwing herself at him or giving him a shortcut to the finish line. She was throwing the ball back in his court, expecting him to make an effort, to do the work.

And his brain? It shut down. Completely.

He stared at her, watching the way her laughter softened into a teasing smile, and her hands rested lightly on the counter as if she didn’t realize she’d just short-circuited every social skill he thought he had left. She wasn’t avoiding his gaze or putting on a mask of bravery. If anything, she was waiting. Waiting for him to say something, to do something.

Instead, he just stood there like an idiot, gripping the juice bottle like a lifeline. Luckily -or not- the bell above the door jingled, cutting through the charged silence as another customer entered.

Her eyes flicked to the door, and her expression shifted quickly. “Duty calls,” she said lightly, tilting her head toward the counter as if to excuse herself. And just like that, she was gone, leaving him standing there like a misplaced piece of furniture near the small counter where the juice bottles were displayed.

The man who walked in looked like he belonged somewhere with air conditioning and private elevators. His tailored suit practically screamed money, and the glossy sheen of his expensive shoes didn’t have so much as a speck of dust on them. He pivoted past Bucky without sparing him a second glance, as if he didn’t even register the scruffy guy in worn jeans and a tank top standing there.

“Muffin,” the man greeted her with a tone that was just a hair too familiar.

Bucky noticed the subtle shift in her body language instantly. The confidence she’d carried moments ago was gone, replaced by stiffness in her shoulders and a forced smile on her face. “Good afternoon, Matt,” she replied, politely but devoid of warmth. “The usual?”

‘Matt’ smiled -a smarmy, self-satisfied smirk that made Bucky’s fingers tighten on the juice. “I’d add your delicious buns, but usually…”

Wait. Was this asshole actually implying-?

Her response was immediate, cutting him off before he could finish. “Yeah, as per usual, they’re not for sale,” she said, deflecting with a practiced ease. “Anything else, Matt?”

“I’ve been thinking, Muffin,” he drawled, leaning casually on the counter like he owned the place. “Maybe one of these days, you and I could share a coffee. I’m sure there’s more to you than just your delicious baking skills.” He smirked, trailing his eyes just a little too long to be anything but suggestive.

Something in Bucky snapped. Maybe it was the fact that she was uncomfortable, or perhaps because he was -horrendously- flirting with her first, maybe it was his stupid confidence, the heat, or just his crappy week. So he stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “Hey,” he said in a low tone, looking directly at the man in a suit. “You holding up the line or something?”

Matt blinked, caught off guard by the interruption. His eyes flicked to Bucky, narrowing slightly as he took in the scruffy man standing there, all broad shoulders and quiet menace. “Excuse me?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, and his gaze became cold and unwavering. “Just saying, some of us have places to be. Thought maybe you’d want to keep it moving.”

Matt scoffed, straightening his tie like it would help him regain some sense of control. “Maybe you should mind your own business, pal,”

Bucky didn’t even blink. His tone didn’t rise, didn’t waver, but the edge on it sharpened. “See, that’s the thing. You embarrassing yourself in front of the clerk here is my business since I’ve got an order to pick up, and you’re wasting my time.”

The room felt smaller somehow, the tension thickened the air as Matt stared at him, clearly debating whether or not to push his luck.

Bucky just stood there, unflinching, with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he was daring him to try.

“Fine,” Matt muttered, grabbing his order from the counter with a sharp motion. He threw a glance at her, his tone clipped. “I’ll see you around, Muffin.”

“Sure thing, Matt.”

The bell jingled sharply as he stormed out, leaving the tension lingering in the air like a bad aftertaste.

Bucky turned his gaze to her, and his expression softened slightly. “Sorry if I overstepped,” he said gruffly, holding her gaze for a moment longer than he intended.

She exhaled, easing the tightness in her shoulders as she offered him a small smile. “Don’t apologize. He’s been like that for years; he is the owner’s cousin.” Then, with a hint of humor, she added, “Thank you. That was... satisfying to watch.”

“Glad to be of service,” he said, dryly but with the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Now I can brag I’ve been saved by the Winter Soldier,” she teased, playfully.

He froze, and the smirk vanished instantly as his eyes darted to hers, startled. “What?”.

She shrugged, utterly unbothered by his reaction. “It’s hard not to notice. You’re not exactly hiding it.” She said, looking towards his vibranium arm. Then she nodded toward his shoulder, where the red star tattoo was starkly visible against his skin. “Nice touch, by the way.”

He blinked, caught off guard. Well, yes, he’d never intended to hide it. Hell, he wanted people to see it. But hearing her point it out so openly about that, caught him off guard. “Thanks,” he muttered, in almost a grumble, absently brushing his hand over his foreshoulder.

He shifted the bag of sandwiches in his grip, glancing toward the door. “I should probably get back,” he commented gruffly, as the air suddenly felt too tight for him.

“Of course,” she said, stepping back to give him room. “Wouldn’t want you getting stuck saving anyone else today.”

That earned her a faint twitch of his lips, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “See you around,” he muttered, already heading for the door.

-----

The rest of the week passed uneventfully. She served the usual customers, greeted the familiar faces, and kept herself busy with the daily rush. But in the quiet moments when she was restocking shelves or wiping down the counter, her thoughts drifted to him. He was barely recognizable under the layers of tattoos, the nose piercing, and the rough, scruffy demeanor. Nothing like the man she vaguely remembered seeing on TV years ago. Yet, the arm was unmistakable.

She found herself daydreaming about their brief encounter more than once, imagining the sharp blue of his eyes focused on her, like a storm always brewing just beneath the surface.

---

By Thursday, Bucky couldn’t resist the pull. He’d spent most of his life denying himself anything remotely indulgent, always practical, always keeping his head down. But this time, he decided he could allow himself a little something, a treat from the bakery.

Well, if he was being honest, it wasn’t really about the pastries. The thought of seeing her again crossed his mind more than he cared to admit. There was something about the way she spoke to him, the way she smiled like he was just another guy standing at her counter, not a former assassin with blood on his hands. It unnerved him, but it also intrigued him.

The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside. She was at the counter, chatting with a customer who was just leaving. When she glanced up and saw him, her expression brightened.

He felt his chest tighten slightly at the sight. Damn it, what the hell was he even doing here?

“Hi! Already coming to collect your bribe?” she teased, her tone laced with playful mischief, a brow arched as she leaned her elbows on the counter.

For a moment, Bucky just stared, caught off guard. Right. The garlic bread. His pathetic excuse at flirting. He shifted his weight while his mind scrambled for something to say that wouldn’t make him sound like a complete idiot. Manning up, he found his voice.

“Yeah,” he said in a lower, rougher tone. “Came to collect what’s mine.” He let the words hung in the air, deliberately, with unmistakable implication.

Her eyes widened slightly, but not with hesitation. No, she didn’t back down. Instead, she quirked a brow, twitching her lips like she was fighting back a smirk. “Well,” she began, “I was just about to take my break. Perhaps…” She leaned forward just slightly, resting her forearms on the counter, “we can discuss the terms of your payment in the back? You know, the bread and... whatever you have in mind to assure your cooperation.”

For a moment, he froze, caught completely off guard. There was no way he was reading this wrong. Was there?

She tilted her head, waiting, the amusement flickered in her eyes as if daring him to make the next move.

Bucky cleared his throat, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of himself and his surroundings. The way his fingers gripped the edge of the counter, how his tanktop clung to his sweated skin, the hum of the refrigerator behind him, even the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the bakery air. “That so?” he managed, trying to sound unfazed, though he wasn’t sure he pulled it off entirely.

Her half smile widened, and she straightened, grabbing a small set of keys from behind the counter. “It is,” she replied simply. “Back door’s that way.” She gestured toward the far end of the shop, where a narrow hallway led to what he assumed was the staff area.

He hesitated, trying to gauge if this was really happening or if she was just messing with him. But there was no sign of mockery, no indication she was about to laugh at his expense. Instead, she turned and walked toward the back, throwing him a glance over her shoulder that felt like a challenge.

His legs moved before his brain could catch up, following her lead. Whatever was about to happen, he figured he’d see it through.

After the door closed behind him with a soft click, Bucky became painfully aware of the contrast between them. She stood there in her neat uniform, the pale beige fabric brushing just above her knees, paired with the frilly brown apron tied snugly around her waist. Her scent hit him, something warm and sweet, like vanilla and sugar, mingling faintly with a subtle hint of floral perfume.

And then there was him. Sweaty from the day’s work, his tank top clinging in spots, jeans dusty from the site, boots worn and scuffed. His hair was slightly damp from the heat, sticking to his neck in unruly strands, and the only thing remotely clean were his hands. He always made a point of washing them before leaving work, some ingrained habit of not wanting to spread the grime of his life any more than necessary.

He stood there, awkwardly shifting his weight as she set the keys on a small table by the wall, looking entirely at ease, like this wasn’t strange at all. Meanwhile, his heart was thudding against his ribs, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t fazed by the walking disaster in front of her.

“So,” she began, leaning against the edge of a small table, crossing her arms over her chest. Her tone was light and playful. “Shall we discuss the terms of your so-called payment?”

He cleared his throat. “You sure about this?” he muttered, gesturing vaguely to himself. She tilted her head, and a spark of amusement flashed across her face. “You mean to tell me you braved the heat, the dust, and possibly your dignity to come in here, and now you’re getting shy?”

His lips twitched despite himself, and the ghost of a smirk formed on his lips. “Not shy. Just... considerate.”

Her laugh was soft but genuine. “Well, aren’t you a gentleman,” she teased. “But if I had a problem with the way you look, I wouldn’t have let you back here, now would I?”

That threw him for a loop, and he found himself momentarily speechless, a rare occurrence. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing to the side as if searching for something to say. “Guess not,” he finally muttered.

“Good,” she said, pushing off the table and stepping closer. “Because I don’t mind sweaty construction workers who like garlic bread.”

He blinked, caught somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “That right?”

She nodded. “That’s right. Now, tell me. What’s the real reason you came back here?”

Her boldness disarmed him, but in a way that made him want to keep going, to see where this would lead. “Figured I’d try my luck,” he admitted, meeting her gaze.

“Well,” she said, softening her tone “seems like your luck might not be so bad after all.”

The way she looked at him then, confident, like she saw right through him and wasn’t the least bit fazed left Bucky feeling more exposed than any of his tattoos or scars ever could. He wasn’t used to this, to someone holding his gaze without hesitation, without fear or judgment. It stirred something deep in his chest, something uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

“Guess not,” he muttered, rougher than he intended, and he stepped closer without even realizing it. She didn’t back away.

She tilted her head, a playful quirk to her brow. “So, does this mean we’re negotiating now? Or are you just going to keep brooding at me until I hand over the garlic bread?”

That pulled a chuckle out of him, low and brief, but genuine. “You don’t quit, do you?”

“Not when it comes to getting what I want,” she said simply.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to her mouth for half a second before he caught himself and looked away, focusing on a random spot on the wall instead. “You’re bold,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Hmmm I’d say you like that,” she countered, her tone light but her eyes sharp, like she was testing him.

And she wasn’t wrong. He did like it. Maybe too much. It was the kind of boldness he wasn’t used to anymore, the kind that didn’t come with an ulterior motive or veiled fear. It was just... her, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, it had him drawn in like a moth to a flame.

“Maybe,” he admitted.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward. She didn’t look away, didn’t fidget or try to fill the gap with empty chatter. She just waited, giving him space to make the next move.

“I’m not good at this,” he finally said.

“At what?” she asked like she could sense he wasn’t just talking about their little back-and-forth.

“Any of it,” he said, gesturing vaguely between them. “Talking. People. This.”

Her lips curved into a small, understanding smile. “Lucky for you, I don’t need you to be good at anything. Just honest.”

His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous habit he hadn’t quite shaken.

“Well,” she said after a beat, stepping just a little closer, “if it helps, I think you’re doing fine so far.”

Bucky's gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there a little longer than he should have. The temptation to lean in, to close the distance was maddening and he swallowed hard.

Her voice cut through his thoughts, teasing and sharp. “Deciding your price?”

His eyes snapped back to hers. For a moment, he was thrown, like she’d read his mind and decided to call him out for it. Her expression wasn’t mocking, though. “Maybe I am.” the words left his mouth before he could overthink them.

She leaned a little closer, just enough to shrink the space between them. “And? What’s the verdict?”

For a second, all he could do was stare at her, at the way the corner of her mouth tilted up, like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. His brain scrambled for something to say, anything that didn’t make him sound like an idiot.

“You’re making it hard to think,” he admitted finally, a dry edge to his tone that made her laugh softly.

“Good,” she shot back, tilting her head. “Means I’m doing my part in this negotiation. And you still haven’t named your price,” she said, dropping her voice just a fraction.

That did something to him, something that made his chest tighten and his palms itch. She was bold, fearless, not afraid to meet him where he was. Hell, maybe even a step ahead of him.

“Maybe it’s not something I can name,” he muttered, almost testing the waters as he took a slow step closer to her.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and the playful glint in them softened. She didn’t move back, didn’t shy away. Instead, she held her ground. “Oh?” she murmured, her gaze never leaving his. “Then how are we supposed to settle this… negotiation?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, “I guess that depends on what you’re willing to offer.” he said, noting neither of them was willing to break the tension first.

Her answer came in the form of a step forward, closing the remaining gap between them. She tilted her up, and her voice dropped as she said, “I think you’re the one who needs to make the offer. After all, you’re the one collecting a bribe.”

That knocked him off balance for a fraction of a second, and he just stared at her.

Her laugh was soft, almost a hum, as she leaned back slightly, one hand coming to rest on her hip. “You don’t seem like the type to play coy,” she teased.

He felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck, though he forced himself to hold her gaze. “I’m not.”

"So?" she asked, flicking her gaze to his lips, her tone was challenging but soft, like she already knew the answer and just wanted to hear him say it.

That did it. His resolve snapped like a taut wire. Slowly, deliberately, he cradled the side of her neck with his vibranium hand, firm but careful, while his other hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

"So," he murmured against her lips, his voice low and rough, "I think I'll just take the rest of my payment. And then... maybe some more."

He closed the remaining distance, capturing her lips in a kiss that was neither tentative nor tender. It was demanding and unapologetic. Everything he couldn’t say in words poured into the connection.

She let out a small gasp, and her hands instinctively found their way to his chest clutching his tanktop. He took that as permission, deepening the kiss. The faint scent of flour and sugar mixed with something distinctly hers, made him a little dizzy, a little reckless. And for once, he let himself take what he wanted.

When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead lightly against hers, he caught the sight of her lips, slightly swollen, and her uneven breathing as she looked up at him. He wondered if he should stop there.

Then she did it. Her hand slid upward, fingers threading through his hair before fisting it lightly, pulling him closer with a confidence that sent a spark down his spine. She pressed herself against him, soft curves meeting the unyielding hardness of his chest, and that was it, he lost it.

A low, guttural sound escaped him as he claimed her lips again, this time with less restraint. The backroom faded away. No shelves, no counter, no lingering scent of baked goods. Just her. Her body, her warmth, her lips moving against his like she was just as lost in this as he was.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping for air, her eyes were half-lidded as she stared up at him. She wetted her bottom lip. “Not bad.” she managed to breath.

“Still think I’m underpaid,” he shot back.

"Oh, I don’t take advantage of hard workers, sir," she said, low and teasing as her lips skimmed along his stubbled cheek. Her teeth nipped at the rough skin there, sending a sharp jolt through his body that went straight to his cock.

Her hands moved to the buckle of his belt, working the leather with an almost infuriating slowness, like she was daring him to stop her, or daring him not to. “By no means are you going to be left underpaid,” she murmured with mock formality as her gaze flicked up to meet his.

He couldn’t help the low chuckle that rumbled from deep in his chest. “That so?” he rasped as he let his hands slide from her waist to her hips, gripping just tight enough to feel her warmth through the thin fabric of her uniform. “You always this generous?”

Her fingers hovered just above the waistband of his lowering jeans, brushing the bare skin with a maddening lightness. Then she smiled at him, slow and deliberate. “Only with hot sergeants who gave a lot to this country.”

Something snapped. His hand darted down, grabbing hers where they lingered teasing his skin. His fingers closed over hers. Not harsh, but firm, the rough calluses of his palm contrasting with her softness. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” he growled low in her ear, rougher now, deeper, his restraint fraying with every word.

“Why not?” she whispered, with a tone laced with defiance, though her breath hitched ever so slightly as he stepped closer.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he dipped his head, trailing slow kisses on the curve of her neck. Her breath shuddered as he worked his mouth thoroughly, and his stubble scraped along her sensitive skin. His free hand slid lower, gliding over the fabric of her uniform until it reached the curve of her ass. Without hesitation, he squeezed, digging his fingers just enough to pull her flush against him.

Her hands, now pinned between her body and his waistband, flexed slightly, testing like she was still daring him to see how far he’d go.

“You’re playing with fire,” he murmured against her neck, as he pressed her harder against him.

She tilted her head slightly, giving him more access, curling her fingers into the hem of his tank top. “Good thing I don’t scare easy,” she replied breathlessly, and his grip on her tightened, molding his vibranium hand to the curve of her ass as he pressed her harder against him.

Without breaking their connection, he moved with fluid determination, gripping her hips and spinning her so that she faced an old counter. The sudden shift elicited a breathy laugh from her, laced with surprise and excitement.

He leaned in, brushing his chest on her back as his lips found her neck again, suckling and nipping her skin. She arched instinctively pressing herself against him, bracing her hands on the surface counter. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

His flesh hand slid down her side, curving over her hip before venturing beneath the fabric of her uniform. His fingers splayed against her bare thigh, pushing the hem up inch by inch, grazing her skin with agonizing slowness.

Her breathing hitched as his hand roamed further, the metal of his fingers creating a stark contrast against her heated skin. He squeezed her again, this time directly over her bare flesh, eliciting a sharp, involuntary intake of breath.

As his hand traveled upward from her hip along her spine, her dress bunched around her waist, exposing her to him. He relished the sensation of her bare skin beneath his fingertips, trailing higher to the small of her back. Her shiver told him everything he needed to know.

Her head tilted back, her breath coming in soft, shallow gasps. “James” she whispered, half warning, half plea.

His lips curved into a smirk as he bent closer. “Bucky” he rasped, his stubble brushing her ear. “What’s it gonna be, doll? Should I stop?”

Her answer came in the way she pushed herself back against him, reaching behind to tangle her hands on his hair. He grinned darkly against her skin, sliding his hand along her back as his lips continued their descent, tasting every inch of her exposed neck and shoulder.

Bucky’s hands continued their ascent, his fingers trailing over her heated skin until they slid under the fabric of her bra. He cupped her breasts, his palms rough and warm, squeezing with a pressure that made her gasp: firm enough to send a thrill through her body, but not enough to hurt. She arched into his touch, responding instinctively, and a soft sound escaped her lips spurring him on.

“Like that, huh?” he muttered, as he pressed himself harder against her back. Her hands gripped his hair tighter for balance as he shifted closer and his solid, muscled frame blanketed hers. Then, with deliberate intent, he slid one thick thigh between her legs, pressing it firmly against her pussy. The friction made her knees weaken, and she let out a breathy moan, rolling her hips against him instinctively.

He growled low in his throat. “You’re making it real hard to keep this...civil,” he rasped, though the way his hands kneaded her and his thigh pressed against her left little room for civility.

She turned her head slightly to meet his gaze, eyes dark with need and amusement. “You know, if you keep things civil like this, I might... stain your pants. How are you going to present yourself tomorrow to work, all messy?”

Bucky froze for half a second at her words, tightening his grip on her hips as her teasing tone penetrated his brain. His gaze darkened, and the corner of his mouth quirked in a smirk that was anything but innocent.

“You think I care about that?” he murmured, roughly, sending shivers down her spine.

Her head tilted slightly, exposing the curve of her neck to him. “Mhm,” she hummed, her breath hitching when he shifted his stance, pressing her harder against him. “Just trying to save you the trouble of explaining… why your responsible worker pants are a mess.”

Bucky let out a low growl, dipping his head to her neck. His stubble scrapped deliciously against her skin as he nipped at her pulse point, making her gasp. "Luckily for you, muffin, it's been a long time since I give a fuck about other people's opinions, let alone explaining myself. So you can get my damn pants wet like the naughty girl you are to your pussy's content.

The brazen bluntness of his words sent a pang directly to her needy clit. “Oh,” she exhaled, with a trembling voice. “Is that so, Sergeant?”

He leaned in closer, as his vibranium hand tightened on her hip, grinding her harder against his thigh. “Damn right, it is,” he growled, and the deep rasp of his voice vibrated against her skin. “Now stop stalling and show me how messy you can get me.”

She let out a soft moan as she pressed harder against him, and her movements became more erratic, more needy. “You mister-” she gasped, her words catching in her throat as a wave of pleasure made her pussy clench deliciously, “are a fucking tease.”

“And yet,” he muttered, curving his lips into a wicked grin against her skin, “here you are, soaking my damn pants just like I told you to.”

Her laugh came out breathless and broken, “Cocky bastard,” she managed to say before nearing the precipice. "F-fuck, Sarge," she mewled, as her voice broke on a high, desperate pitch while her hands gripped at the counter for dear life. "I’m gonna-"

Bucky’s grip on her tightened, and his vibranium hand slid up to press flat against her tummy, anchoring her firmly against him. “Do it,” he growled into her ear, in a hot and ragged breath. “Let go for me, muffin. Make a mess, cream my fucking pants.”

Her body tensed, and her thighs trembled as she ground herself harder against his thigh, chasing that final push over the edge. “God, Bucky,” she whimpered, her head falling back against his shoulder.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his lips brushing against her ear as he coaxed her along, keeping her steady with his hands as she fell apart. "Good girl."

The sound she made was half a sob, half a moan as the tension inside her snapped, pleasure crashing through her in waves that left her gasping and shaking in his arms. She clung to the counter as her body jerked uncontrollably, and her breath came in short, desperate bursts.

He didn’t let go, keeping her firmly against him, grounding her body as she rode out every last second of her orgasm. When her movements slowed, and her body went slack against him, he pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss to the back of her neck.

“You okay?” he murmured, with a mix of roughness and softness as his hands remained firm on her hips.

She turned her head slightly, glancing at him over her shoulder with a dazed, dopey smile that made something inside him twist. “Mmm-hmm,” she hummed, languid and satisfied. “That was such a nice ride, Sarge.”

A soft squeeze at her hips reminded her where his hands still were, and she placed hers over them, giving them a light, playful press. Then, with an ease that made his pulse quicken, she turned around to face him.

Her fingers grasped the hem of his tank top, deliberate but unhurried as she tugged it upward. “But,” she said, her voice taking on a teasing lilt, “I still owe you the price of your silence.”

As she pulled his tank top up and over his head, her eyes immediately fell to his chest, and her gaze widened for a beat. The light from the room caught the silver gleam of the bars piercing through his nipples, hard to miss against the expanse of ink and scars that marked his skin.

Her lips parted slightly, and a playful grin broke across her face. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises,” she murmured teasingly. She reached out without hesitation, grazing her fingers over one of the piercings. “Naughty, Sarge. Very naughty.”

He let out a short huff of laughter. “Don’t act so shocked,” he muttered. “Thought you’d figured out by now I’m not exactly by-the-book.”

She tilted her head as she thumbed over the cool metal, sending a shiver through his body that he didn’t bother to hide. “Guess I have a lot to learn about you,” she mused, tracing her fingers over the lines of his chest, pausing now and then to admire the ink and scars.

His smirk deepened, and he tugged her closer “Plenty of time for that, Muffin.” He conceded.

Her hands roamed freely now, mapping the hard planes of his chest, alternating her touch between featherlight and deliberate. She flicked the tip of one of the piercings with her thumb, earning a sharp inhale from his lips.

“Sensitive?” she teased, glancing up to meet his gaze.

His jaw tightened, and the way his hands gripped her hips told her she’d struck a nerve. “You tell me,” he rumbled, edged with a warning that didn’t quite mask the rough undertone of arousal.

She laughed softly, a low, breathy sound that made his cock twitch. “You’re full of contradictions, Sarge. All gruff and serious, but with these…” she said, lightly tugging on one bar with a wicked grin.

“Careful,” he warned, tightening his grip as his eyes darkened.

“Or what?,” she quipped, with a sultry voice, her confidence growing with every reaction she pulled from him.

His patience snapped. In one smooth motion, he shifted, lifting her effortlessly onto the counter behind her. She gasped, bracing her hands against his shoulders as he stepped between her thighs, crowding her.

The edge of the counter bit into her legs, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was the heat between them, the way his hands gripped her.

His fingers moved to the buttons of her dress, deliberate but unhurried, each undone clasp exposing more of her soft, skin. She shivered beneath his touch, and a quiet hum escaped her lips as her hands slid down his sides, tracing the lines of his ribs before settling at his hips.

The dress slipped further down her body, pooling at her waist, leaving her exposed to his piercing gaze. His eyes darkened as they swept over the rise and fall of her chest, and the slight tremble in her thighs.

"Damn," he murmured, roughly, almost reverent.

Her cheeks heated, but she held his gaze with a playful smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "What, you don't see this every day?"

"Not like this," he growled back, deftly unhooking her bra with a kind of precision that made her blink in surprise. The garment slid down her arms, and he caught it in one hand, tossing it over his shoulder without so much as a glance. It landed somewhere behind him with a soft thud, but he didn’t care. His gaze flicked down, lingering on her newly exposed skin.

He leaned down and trailed his lips through the curve of her neck, gifting heated kisses downward her skin until his lips latched one of her nipples. His tongue flicked, quick and teasing, as his hands roamed lower, slipping beneath the hem of her uniform skirt and gripping her bare thighs.

Her hands flew to his shoulders for balance before sliding up to tangle them in his hair. Her body was already pliant, sensitive from her release, but he wasn’t slowing down. His teeth scraped lightly, sending a shock through her system, and she arched instinctively against his mouth.

"Turn around," he murmured against her skin, almost a growling. His hands gripped her hips, spinning her gently but firmly until she was braced against the counter. She barely had time to catch her breath before she felt his fingers hook into the waistband of her drenched panties, tugging them down and letting them pool at her feet.

His jeans had already been shoved low enough to free his aching cock, and she could feel it, hard and insistent, pressing against her rear. “This okay?” he rasped against her ear, as his length drenching her buttocks with precum spoke volumes about his intent.

She nodded quickly, breathlessly.

Bucky didn’t waste time and his vibranium hand gripped her hip, as his flesh one guided himself inside her in one smooth, deliberate thrust. A low, guttural groan tore from his chest as her tight heat clenched around him, and her gasp of pleasure sounded like music to his ears.

“Fuck, Muffin,” he muttered, leaning over her, breathing hot against her ear. “So tight. Feels like you’re made for my cock.”

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the counter, instinctively pushing her body back to meet his thrusts. He set a slow, grinding pace at first, making her feel every inch of his thick cock, savoring how she trembled beneath him at every drag. One of his hands slid from her hip, trailing down her thigh before slipping between her legs.

“You’re dripping for me,” he observed roughly as his fingers found her clit. He rubbed slow, lazy circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. “Such a greedy pussy, doll. Pulling me in like you can’t get enough.”

She let out a breathless moan, her body arching against him as his words sent a rush of heat through her system. “Bucky-”

“That’s right,” he cut her off, almost mockingly as his fingers pressed harder against her swollen clit. “Say my name. Let me hear how much you love being fucked like this.”

Her response was a broken cry, her hips bucking against his hand as he picked up his pace. He grinned, sharp and wolfish, sliding his free hand up her back to fist her hair, pulling her head back so he could press his lips to her ear.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he rasped, as his thrusts turned harder, sharper. “I can feel it. This pussy’s squeezing me so tight. You gonna come all over my cock, Muffin? You gonna soak me, cream my dick like the good girl you are?”

She could barely think, the pressure building inside her reaching a fever pitch as his filthy words and relentless touch unraveled her completely. Her moans grew louder, and her body trembled as her release washed over her, clenching her walls around his throbbing cock.

“Fuck,” he growled, as the sensation tipped him over the edge. His hand tightened on her hip, and his thrusts turned erratic as he followed her into bliss, spilling inside her with a low, drawn-out groan.

He stayed buried inside her for a moment, resting his forehead against her shoulder as they both caught their breath. His fingers gave her clit one last, gentle stroke, making her shudder before he finally pulled back, steadying her with his hands as her legs wobbled.

“You okay?” he asked, rough but laced with an unmistakable note of satisfaction.

She nodded, glancing at him over her shoulder with a blissed-out smile. “More than okay.”

He smirked, brushing his hand over her lower back as he stepped away. “Good. ‘Cause we’re not done yet, little Muffin.”

She turned slightly, lifting her brows in surprise as a sly grin curled her lips. “Not done yet?” she asked, breathless but laced with intrigue.

Bucky’s smirk deepened as he took her hand, gently turning her around to face him. His eyes roamed over her glistening skin, mussed hair, and the marks his lips and teeth had left trailing down her neck. He loved how wrecked she looked, and knowing it was all because of him, sent a thrill coursing through his veins.

“Not even close,” he murmured, sliding his hands to her thighs and effortlessly lifting her onto the counter.

She gasped as the cold surface met her bare skin, but it was quickly replaced by a soft moan when he stepped between her legs, spreading them wide. His cock, still hard and wet, pressed against her slick heat, teasing her entrance.

“You’ve been so good for me,” he muttered, leaning in to brush his lips against hers. “But I think you’ve got one more in you, Muffin. Don’t you?”

Her breath hitched, and she couldn’t stop herself from grinding against him, desperate for more. “You really think I can take it?” she asked, playfully.

Bucky chuckled darkly, ghosting his lips over her jawline as he pressed the head of his cock against her pussy, not pushing in just yet. “Oh, you’ll take it,” he purred, gripping her hips firmly to hold her in place. “And you’re gonna love every second of it.”

He surged forward without waiting for a reply, parting her inner wallsin one deep thrust. Her back arched, and a loud moan spilled from her lips as he set a brutal pace right from the start, holding nothing back this time.

His hands roamed over her body, one sliding up to knead a breast while the other dipped down to find her clit again. “Feel that, doll?” he growled, his voice barely more than a rasp. “Feel how perfectly you take me?”

She nodded frantically, digging her nails into his shoulders as her body rocked against him, the counter beneath her creaking slightly with the force of his movements. “F-fuck, Sarge, I-”

“You gonna come for me again?” he interrupted as he worked her clit with expert precision. “Gonna soak me like the naughty little thing you are?”

Her answer came in the form of a choked cry as her body tensed, her third climax hitting her harder than the previous ones. She tightened around him, pulling him deeper, and deeper, and he groaned low in his throat, thrusting erratically as he chased his own release.

“Goddamn, you feel so fucking good,” he growled, gripping the back of her thighs and spreading them wider as he buried himself one last time to the root, erupting in long spurts of hot cum that filled her up and overflowed between them, pooling on the floor.

For a moment, neither of them moved, their ragged breaths being the only sound in the room. Slowly, he pulled back, steadying on her hips as he helped her sit upright, locking his eyes on the mess between her legs. His jaw tensed as he drank in the sight of her pussy, utterly wrecked and glistening from everything they’d done. He reached out, parting her swollen, slick folds with his thumbs with a deliberate, almost reverent care.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, thick with desire. “Look at you.”

Her cheeks heated, and the burn rose fast as she felt his gaze fixed on her. Her instinct was to press her thighs together, but his firm grip on her leg stopped her before she could move.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, brushing his vibranium thumb against her inner thigh as his other hand traced the outline of her puffy, sensitive lips. “Let me see you.”

She whimpered softly, gripping the edge of the counter to steady herself as his fingers continued to explore, brushing over her clit just enough to make her hips jerk.

“Fuck, this pretty little pussy of yours, completely ruined… because of me.”

She inhaled deeply, with embarrassment and lingering arousal. “Bucky,” she managed, her voice was barely above a whisper, a plea wrapped in his name.

He glanced up at her, quirking his lips into a cocky smirk. “What? Embarrassed?” His thumbs teased her again, pressing lightly on either side of her clit, enough to make her tremble. “Don’t be. You’re perfect. And you’re mine to mess up like this.”

His? Her thighs shook at his words, the low growl in his voice sparking something deep inside her chest.

Bucky leaned in, and his stubble grazed her inner thigh as he pressed a kiss there, lingering his lips as he muttered, “Maybe I should take a picture, so you know how fucking incredible you look right now.”

Her head fell back with a strangled, embarrassed moan. “Don’t you dare,” She protested, without much conviction.

He chuckled, finally easing up on her overstimulated nerves. Then, he pulled back, standing tall as he licked his bottom lip. “Good thing I’ve got a photographic memory. I’ll be thinking about how fucking incredible you look dripping my cum on the floor when I’m at home later, getting all needy.”

The heat on her cheeks spread down her neck and chest. “My god, Sarge, you say your prayers with that mouth?” she asked, her tone trembling with exhaustion and disbelief.

A low laugh rumbled in his chest as he pulled back to meet her gaze. “It’s been a long time since I stopped doing that,” he admitted, carrying an edge of cynicism that matched the wicked smirk tugging at his lips.

He couldn’t help but admire the sight before his eyes. Her disheveled state, the pristine uniform now wrinkled, pushed up and open, her lips swollen and glossy from everything they’d just done. For almost a second, a pang of guilt flared in his chest. Almost.

The notion of her going back to work in this state, dripping with his cum while she smiled and served customers, stirred something deliciously darker in him. The guilt was quickly overtaken by the way his cock twitched again, the lingering pull of need frustrating him as much as it excited him. He muttered a low curse under his breath.

“Here,” he said after a moment, offering his hand for her to stand up. “Let me help you look all pretty so you can carry on with your day.”

He grabbed her crumpled uniform and smoothed it down over her thighs, brushing his fingers on the soft skin under it as he worked to put her back together. When he reached her collar, he buttoned the top slowly, deliberately taking his time.

“You’re gonna walk out there,” he said, adjusting her apron with a hum of satisfaction, “looking just like you did before I got my hands on you.”

Her lips parted as if to respond, but the words didn’t come out. He leaned close, brushing his pierced nose against hers, mingling his minty breath with hers, before stepping back with a low chuckle. “So much better than the garlic bread.”

He stepped back, bending to retrieve his tank top from the floor. Without hesitation, he slipped the shirt over his head, dragging it down on the hard lines of his inked chest. When the fabric caught over his pierced nipples, he hissed through his teeth. He adjusted it with a slight tug, smoothing it over his abs, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t in any rush to leave the moment behind.

His gaze flicked to her form and a dark glint sparked in his eyes. His tone dropped into something deeper, more dangerous, as he added, “If anyone gives you trouble...”

He paused, letting the weight of his words linger between them. “You know where to find me.” It wasn’t just a statement; it was a subtle reminder of where he worked, down at the construction site.

Before she could gather herself enough to respond, he turned on his heel and made his way to the door. As his hand rested on the handle, he glanced over his shoulder one last time, his blue eyes filled with a hint of satisfaction.

“Enjoy the rest of your shift, Muffin,” he drawled, before disappearing out the door leaving her breathless and utterly wrecked.

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[gatheringbones]

[“Many years ago when the Channel Tunnel—connecting England and France—was being built (1986–1992), I got the chance to talk to a nurse working on the project on the English side. The project was big, deadlines were tight, and the workers, she told me, were suffering terrible conditions in the tunnel (a total of ten workers died during the construction (Smith 2015)). I wondered how complicated her job was as part of the onsite health personnel for such a large project. Not very. “The men mostly come to me complaining of terrible headaches,” she explained, “my job is to give them two aspirin and get them back down the tunnel as quickly as possible.”

Speaking of medicine under capitalism, Waitzkin (2000: 37) notes the fundamental contradiction between the perception of health as the ultimate “caring profession” and a society which establishes obstacles to the goal of alleviating “needless suffering and death,” for “[t]he social organization of medicine also fosters patterns of oppression that are antithetical to medicine’s more humane purposes. These patterns within medicine mirror and reproduce oppressive features of the wider society as well.”

Marxist scholars of medicine have theorised this replication of the wider class struggle within the health system in a number of ways. First, the priorities of the institution favour those of capitalism and the ruling class. For example, the modern system of health care emerged out of the need for a healthier and more reliable industrial workforce (Waitzkin 2000: 48); concern for the health of the working classes has tended to peak when there are imperialist wars to be fought, while the majority of current medical research prioritises lifestyle and “me too” cosmetic treatments for the global market rather than research on life-saving treatments for cancer and infectious diseases (see, e.g., Rapaport 2015). Second, the exploitative work relations within capitalist societies are replicated within the rigid hierarchy of medicine, with high-waged, upper middle-class consultants holding a great amount of decision-making power at the top, the lower middle-class nursing managers administering consultants’ needs in the middle, and—holding no power whatsoever and subject to the whims of health managers—the low-earning working-class orderlies and auxiliary staff at the bottom of the pyramid. Navarro (1976: 446) also notes the tendency of the medical profession to maintain and reinforce these class relations through “both the distribution of skills and knowledge and the control of technology” within the health service. Third, the health system functions as an institution of social control. That is, it reinforces the dominant values and norms of capitalism through its surveillance and labelling practices. In the words of Freidson (1988: 252), medicine acts as a “moral entrepreneur” to the extent that illness is viewed negatively and as something to be “eradicated or contained.” Even cancer, he states, is a social valuation by the profession, a moral rather than an objective judgement of the body, even if it is one “on which most people happen to agree” (Freidson 1988: 252).

Taking a Marxist approach to medicine includes recognising the policing function of the health professions to label and “medicalise” social deviance as illness, as well as reinforce the ideological prerogatives of capitalism as natural and common sense (for instance, through biomedical interventions focused on the individual rather than the wider social environment).

The social control function within psy-professional work practices and knowledge claims is reasonably easy to identify and has been a major focus of critical scholars—Marxist and otherwise—since the 1960s (see, e.g., Conrad 1975; Goffman 1961; Rosenhan 1973; Scheff 1966). The moral judgements that mental health experts make of people’s behaviour under the claims of scientific neutrality and objectivity allow them to sanction forms of deviance which run contrary to the prevailing social order. For example, Szasz (cited in Freidson 1988: 249) stated in 1964 that “agoraphobia is illness because one should not be afraid of open spaces. Homosexuality is an illness because heterosexuality is the social norm. Divorce is illness because it signals failure of marriage.”

Specifically, Marxist contentions of the psy-professions as agents of social control focus on the ways in which these experts contribute to the alienation of people from their own creative abilities. These experts utilise their knowledge claims on human behaviour to depoliticise attempts at social transformation at the group and community level, in turn acknowledging only individual solutions as possible. Consequently, states Parker (2007: 2), this “psychologisation of social life” performed by mental health workers “encourages people to think that the only possible change they could ever make would be in the way they dress and present themselves to others.”]

bruce m.z. cohen, from psychiatric hegemony: a marxist theory of mental illness, 2016

[v1nsmoke]

𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 // 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

oneshot - fallout's john hancock x reader

tw: mentions of drugs (usual hancock activity)

summary: after days of exiting goodneighbor, you and hancock finally get to talk

fandom: fallout

a/n: there is not enough talk about this fella omg… now that liking the ghoul from the fallout show is accepted, i can come forward (i chose the “romance hancock” option every playthrough). no pronouns used, so gender neutral ig? also the inspiration for the title is that one song thats viral on tiktok rn, also galvanized square steel mentioned

tags: -

wc: 0.6k

“Day twenty-five since leaving Vault 111, today is Monday and my location is Diamond City, it’s currently 2:41 PM. Me and my companion are at the noodle shop,” you say, speaking into your Pip-boy. 

Recently, you’ve been documenting every day, usually just a brief summary on that day’s experiences. These experiences consisted of hourly radroach attacks, accidental overdose on jet, or encounters with hostile Mr. Handy’s. Or accidental near-death situations with a deathclaw. That only happened once. 

You weren’t sure anybody would ever hear these, even better, be interested in these daily logs. Your companion seemingly couldn’t care less about these logs, as he ate his portion of ramen next to you. 

“The Institute remains undefeated, and I doubt it will change today, I’m not in the mood for it,” you continue.

“If it depended on your mood, it would be there forever,” Hancock cuts in with his sarcastic remark.

A sigh escapes your lips at his words.

“Maybe I should switch back to Dogmeat and send you back to Goodneighbor,” you reply.

“Now, what good would that do for you?”

“It would spare me from more of these remarks.”

“But can Dogmeat give you this?” He asks as he slides you a jet.

Hesitantly, but you accept it with a smile. 

“John Hancock, the ghoul you are,” you sigh.

A smile creeps onto his features. 

“See? You like me enough.”

“Whatever helps you sleep…”

You’ve been traveling with Hancock for the past week or so, after you accepted the offer of Bobby, who just so happened to lie to you. One thing led from another, and after finishing off Hancock’s bodyguard, you managed to solve the bad blood between the two of you by killing Bobby herself. 

Hancock was useful and good company, helping out where he could and making small talk with you. Not to mention that he was supplying you with a different kind of drug every day. They don’t have that stuff in Vaults…

Last night, the both of you got high as hell in the home you bought with hard-earned caps here, in Diamond City. It was mostly a box, so you decided to illegally expand it with galvanized square steel and eco-friendly wood veneers. So, after the finished construction - that lasted four days with the cheap and friendly workforce including Little John (Hancock) and yourself -, the two of you decided to celebrate.

He plopped down onto the mattress - the construction fee was too much for you to spend even more caps on a normal bed -, resting his back against the wall. You popped open a bottle of Nuka-Cola, taking your place on the mattress next to him.

“So, how do ya like it?” He asks, taking a Jet out of his pocket.

“So far so good,” you reply with a sigh.

“That’s all? Not ‘I love this place more than the Vault’?”

“I do like it more than the Vault, cause you’re here.”

He stays quiet for a few seconds before speaking up.

“That’s good.”

“That’s all? Not ‘Wow I, too, am really glad that I’ve got you and get to share Jet with you and that you defended me from that Deathclaw’?”

He lets out a slight chuckle, hanging his head low. 

“Thank you, then. For these past few days I’ve spent with you. Never thought I would find anybody who would accept me as their companion.”

© v1nsmokes 2024. Do not modify, translate or rewrite.

[dukeofankh]

Almost everybody has at least a *little* bit of a point.

Yeah. Even them. And being wrong about everything else doesn't actually change that. They might not know how that point should actually be interpreted, they might come to foolish or even actively harmful conclusions from that point. They might radically overstate how prevalent or important the point is. But don't fall into the trap of refusing to acknowledge things that are true just because a bad person says them.

I cannot tell you how many times I've seen someone from a group I belong to dunking on someone from some outgroup, even a very harmful outgroup, and in doing so, denying basically true things that we would absolutely agree with if we were talking about them in private.

I dunno. Maybe it bugs me for neurodivergent reasons. Maybe I'm a pedantic ass.

The other day I got into a massive fight online with a guy in a feminist group because he was squabbling with a bit of a dipshit who pointed out that men are under a lot of pressure to become financially successful, and that's why they do stupid shit like get into crypto.

And like... rather than say "yeah, men are still expected under hegemonic masculinity to be breadwinners, despite the advances of women into the workforce, the economy being in shambles and the middle class having been whittled to a toothpick at this point. We need to work as feminists to challenge that gendered expectation, and as leftists to rebuild the power of labour to allow everyone, both men and women, to have a living wage that can allow for a family and a dignified life." This other feminist guy decided instead that, since the concept of men being pressured to be economic providers was being used in a way that sounded like it was suggesting that women only want to date rich men, it was redpill propaganda and, therefore, fascist misinformation. He went with, "what are you talking about, Gen X killed the concept of corporate success as marker of personal worth, everyone agrees that being a workaholic is bad and unattractive now. The idea that you think you'll be judged for being poor is a lie spread by the right to radicalize you into hating women." He did not react well when I pointed out that he was just as wrong as the other guy was. More wrong, actually.

And like...you can build multiple arguments from the same data point. Some are well reasoned, some aren't. Someone can feel pressure and assume it's much more widespread than it is, or that it takes a much more extreme form than it really does. But if you're going to coherently argue against an idea, you have to honestly appraise the situation and figure out what grains of truth it has in it. You have to acknowledge that core root of truth and show them how it means something else.

If, instead of doing that, you just deny the true thing because the other person's argument is built on it and you want to stamp it out? Because, hey, they interpreted it wrong, it's not like they really believe something true? You act as though a fact used to support a lie is also a lie. And if you do that, and argue against the facts because their conclusions are stupid, you construct a little world where, in refusing to accept both their flawed argument AND the fact it's based on, you become more wrong than they are. And you make the deeply foolish choice of picking a fight in that world. And if it's on the internet, that little world can become pretty big. Tactically, it's about the dumbest thing you could do. It ensures that they will keep fighting you because...you're fucking obviously wrong? It radicalizes people, because suddenly the only people who will acknowledge the truth on this thing they care about are other terrible people. It makes your side look dogmatic and ignorant. And apart from all of that...it gets things completely backwards.

Your principles are what you want to use to change the world for the better. You believe them because you honestly believe that following your principles improves things, because they are based on a solid grasp of how the world works. Your beliefs follow from what is true. If you flip it so that whether something is true is based on whether it supports your beliefs...that's a bad road to go down.

[pathetic-gamer]

random, deeply unscientific poll time because I'm curious how well this website reflects the overall labor force lol

before you mark "unemployed," READ THE EXPLANATION AND INSTRUCTIONS

DETAILS AND INSTRUCTIONS:

*The number listed beside each category is the number of job positions available to the total workforce, not necessarily the number of people who are actually employed.

*Not having a job does not automatically make you "unemployed." Unemployed means you are a participating member of the workforce but don't have a job currently. To be consider part of the active workforce as defined by the BLS, you MUST be ALL of the following:

16 years of age or older

residing in the 50 states or DC

available for work

actively seeking employment in the last 4 weeks

not on active duty in the military

DO NOT select unemployed unless you meet ALL of the criteria above.

Examples of not having a job but not counting as unemployed: stay-at-home parent (I know this one is a bad reflection of reality, i know i know pls dont yell at me), a full-time student not currently working, a 25 year old who hasn't applied for any jobs in over a few months, someone with a permanent or temporary disability who is either not working/seeking employment or on FMLA.

Other notes and explanation:

This is a list of all non-agriculture industries that employ 10 million or more people, based on the most recent data from the US Bureau of Labor Statistics. The math might be way off bc I wasn't very careful lmao. If you have more than one job across more than one industry, pick the one that makes up the majority of your income.

A handful of familiar sub-industries that make up a portion of a larger industry but are less than 8 million people are listed in the "Other" category so that the much larger sub-industry can have its own line.

For example, healthcare belongs to "healthcare and public services," which is around 22M and includes childcare and social support services. Because direct healthcare delivery makes up such an enormous portion, I separated it out. The rest is fewer than 5M and thus does not get its own line, so they're included in "Other." (Insurance specifically is included in finance.)

More things included in "other":

Construction

Mining, quarrying, and oil and gas extraction

Utilities

Real-estate

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Tom Slater

Published: Mar 27, 2025

Male privilege. Toxic masculinity. Smash the patriarchy. A thousand dumb slogans have shaped our debate about the respective lot of men and women for the past decade or more. But this past week, the agreed-upon narrative – that essentially nothing has changed since Victoria was on the throne; that women remain as stifled and disenfranchised as ever, while men continue to lord it over them – has begun to collide with reality.

While we were all arguing over Adolescence and Andrew Tate, a report compiled by the Centre for Social Justice (CSJ) has quietly laid waste to the prevailing orthodoxy. Lost Boys: State of the Nation makes brutally clear that a lot of young British men have very little privilege to check. Males lag behind females at every stage of education, from nursery to university – in higher education, women now outnumber men by three to two. That gender pay gap you’ve heard so much about? It’s now been reversed among the young, with women out-earning men. Young men are much more likely to be unemployed, too. To those who have been paying attention, none of this will come as a surprise. But rarely has it been spelled out in such compendious, stark and irrefutable detail.

Of course, a big part of the picture here is the history-making strides made by women in education and the workforce. If, as victim-feminists have so often told us, young women still have the deck stacked so mercilessly against them, young women certainly haven’t got the memo. But these emerging gaps aren’t just about historical wrongs being righted – a new equilibrium being reached. Going by the report, this shift has at least as much to do with men falling backwards as it does women pushing ahead. Since the pandemic, for one thing, the number of men aged 16 to 24 not in education, employment or training has increased by 40 per cent, compared with seven per cent for women.

The chattering classes have long struggled to compute such facts. It upsets the hierarchy of victimhood. It grates against the notion that men are only ever the oppressors, the beneficiaries of ‘structural sexism’. To talk about the challenges faced by young men and boys will often see you smeared as anti-women, or some crybaby men’s rights activist – desperate to insist that men are the real victims, thwarted by the girls. Wokeness, it seems, is a zero-sum game. You couldn’t possibly care about, say, the barriers to re-entering the workforce women experience after having children and the barriers many young men face to finding gainful employment at all.

This has always struck me as bizarre. Not least because many of the struggles many young men face today have little to do with their sex and everything to do with their social class. Indeed, when we talk about the issues confronting men and boys, we’re usually talking about working-class men and boys. Just as it is ridiculous to pretend that women in boardrooms and women in call centres share identical challenges and interests, so it is also ridiculous to suggest that the prospects of an unemployed 21-year-old lad, yet to break out from his council-estate boxroom, is intimately connected with those of a Russell Group Hooray Henry, slogging away at grad-scheme applications.

While young women are pulling ahead of young men even among university graduates, the so-called lost boys are really to be found among the poor and working class. Over recent decades, radical shifts in society and the economy have corroded many of the old certainties working-class men once relied upon. Manufacturing, agriculture and construction – industries that used to provide secure, decently paid jobs to young men who weren’t destined for, or couldn’t afford to go to, university – have withered on the vine. In 1970, the CSJ notes, these sectors collectively made up more than 40 per cent of UK GDP. By 2023, this stood at just 16 per cent. Fatherlessness has also exploded among lower-income groups. ‘One of the most stark inequalities in Britain’, Fraser Nelson notes, ‘is the unequal distribution of fathers: 95 per cent there for those at the top, 60 per cent absent for those at the bottom.’ And while this can be tragic for boys and girls alike, it is particularly perilous for boys growing up in neighbourhoods where trouble isn’t hard to come by. Indeed, a full three-quarters of children in custody report having an absent father.

Just as class explains many of these problems, it also explains the blindness to them. While the media and politics have become more superficially ‘diverse’ in recent years, working-class ‘representation’ – if we must use the r-word – has actually gone in the other direction. And so, those charged with discussing and addressing the issues confronting working-class people are more detached from them than in decades past, when a less thoroughly bourgeois Labour Party brought manual workers into parliament and local newspapers, long since disappeared, offered a trade to bright kids who lacked the connections and expensive educations that have now become all but obligatory in mediaworld.

This ‘crisis’ among men and boys, then, is another symptom of the neglect of the working classes. Of the indifference to the decay of blue-collar communities, and the industries that once sustained them. Of the total capture of almost every institution, even those explicitly founded to represent workers’ interests (I’m looking at you, Labour), by the metropolitan middle classes. As class politics has given way to identity politics, the lives of ordinary men – and women – have become ever more inscrutable to those in positions of power and influence. There’s a lesson in this, perhaps, for the few who might be lured by the mirror-image victimhood of the ‘manosphere’. Identitarianism – whether of the left-wing or right-wing variety – is forever a deadend.

--

At the Centre for Social Justice, we have always asked: what is really going on in our homes and communities, and where can we make a difference? We listen to those working on the frontline - the teachers, youth workers, charities, and parents who see, day in and day out, the struggles playing out in the lives of young people. And in recent years, they’ve been telling us the same thing: something is going on with our boys.

Lost Boys is our attempt to find out what that is.

What we have uncovered is stark. Boys are struggling in education, more likely to take their own lives, less likely to get into stable work, and far more likely to be caught up in crime. The numbers don’t lie - something has shifted, and we cannot ignore it any longer. It’s not just about Andrew Tate or online influencers; they are the symptoms, not the cause. The deeper truth is that too many boys are growing up without the guidance, discipline, and purpose they need to thrive.

But let me be clear - this is not a message of despair. Boys and young men have enormous potential. They always have, and they always will. We must stop seeing masculinity as a problem to be solved and start seeing it as a strength to be nurtured. Strength, resilience, responsibility - these are not traits to be suppressed but harnessed for good.

This report, Lost Boys, is not just an exploration of the challenges young men face but the beginning of a journey to offer a hopeful, positive vision for masculinity in Britain. We need strong fathers, mentors, and role models. We need a culture that values the unique contributions of men and supports boys to grow into good, responsible adults.

This is just the first step, but it’s an important one. It sets the scene for the next stage of our work where we will begin to offer solutions to the challenges outlined below.

We must be willing to listen, to act, and to restore hope for the next generation. Because when boys thrive, our whole society benefits.

==

The left - my left - used to be about workers and the lower class. Now they're about elites with the right identity markers, and large tech and media corporations which endorse the same view.

[telesodalite]

Random thought, but like, thinking about how the previous possible life/career style differences between Fulcrum and the rest of the Scavengers kinda makes his situation a reverse "my fair lady".

...my fair loser??

Anyways, he lived through the peak of the Decepticon empire in what could be considered a very comfortable, albeit busy, position in the greater military workforce. (Assuming the cons didn't really do a civilian kinda thing, since that seems very unlikely)

By wartime life standards, Fulcrum had to be fairly well off. Especially to achieve the position of managing a whole planet. Not super impressive by the broader Decepticon standard yeah, he's no warlord or conqueror, just the douchebag who looked at your beautiful organic planet, said "ew", and promptly started turning it into a mini-cybertron. But compared to the average soldier? He's got it made.

A master of communication skills via whatever the Decepticon equivalent of corporate speak is. A perfect kiss ass to higher ups. Just firing off e-mails, filing reports, overseeing work sites, giving presentations, just an unassuming, boring, passive, busy guy, etc etc.

And then that's all gone. Poof. That comfortable consistent life out the window in one fell swoop. And he's thrown to the dogs, the dogs being the his own surviving workforce and his commanders, and then the guards of styx, and then the other k-cons, until finally the djd and the scavs.

It's like, bear with me here, it's like someone's comfortable little show poodle having gotten kicked out of the house and left to the streets in the middle of a storm, only to eventually end up matted and bone-thin in whatever the W.A.P equivalent of a rescue home is. But despite the grime and constant trembling, its still someone's pampered little dog at heart, its just now it bites and eats garbage. And it's incredibly amusing in the form of giant robots.

He had a life some Decepticon soldiers could probably only dream of. No threat of death around every corner. A head of command who cared about the wellbeing of his contingent. Food on the table and an actual berth to sleep on every night. So on so forth.

And then he goes through what's gotta be hell to him, really to any mech. And maybe that's a bit of a wake up call that things are about to be very different.

So you've got a guy like him, amidst a group like the scavs. It's like, 'Joined the military because they couldn't afford college vs A business major.' Or something, idk. But it's fascinating.

He's just there, on clemency, looking like death on two legs, and still somehow emitting unassuming guy, with "I know what I'm doing👍" vibes that the others pick up on and rely on when Krok's unconscious.

And it's like, from there he probably falls back on his team manager mindset towards the group once the whole "nervous new guy" thing wears off.

And surely it's to the confusion, if not mildly hackles raising annoyance of Krok, ya know, the designated officer, who is a micro manager, who fought tooth and nail to get his rank and position across trenches and blood baths before life threw him the opposite curve ball, landing him with a warworld job instead of another battlefield after the worst day of his life.

But how does unassuming passive guy respond to fellow authority after some time being a loser amidst losers? With nary a care. He'll just micro manage Krok right back.

Krok's dramatics, quote, "When I want your opinion, Fulcrum, I'll kill myself", surely aren't all that different from dealing with the heads of construction crew's disagreeing with the adjustments he made to their schedules.

And if anything, Fulcrum isn't bothered or intimidated or whatever because he knows him, he knows Krok. More so than he ever knew his own crew's pre-B'lahr. And they all see through each others bullshit. So it's a casual micro management war, because who's really in charge? Nobody. But also Krok, but mostly Fulcrum, until there's the threat of getting shot, then it's Krok again.

I'm losing the point of this ramble. But like, I think the point is that they made Fulcrum worse. They made him worse and that's great. They built him a spine and he promptly bossed them around with it.

He went from vaguely model citizen, (by Decepticon standards), to wanted dead or alive in multiple sectors of the galaxy.

Like, sure he's riddled with anxiety and a fear of dying, but he's also full of some kind of audacity they somehow fueled to their own occasional detriment. And I think it's hilarious.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Lincoln Project

* * * *

VP Harris challenges Trump on immigration

September 19, 2024

Robert B. Hubbell

On Wednesday, VP Kamala Harris spoke at the Congressional Hispanic Caucus Institute’s 47th Annual Leadership Conference in Washington, D.C. Harris took on Trump's nightmarish threat to deport millions of immigrants if he is elected.

Harris said,

While we fight to move our nation forward to a brighter future, Donald Trump and his extremist allies will keep trying to pull us backward. We all remember what they did to tear families apart, and now they have pledged to carry out the largest deportation, a mass deportation, in American history. Imagine what that would look like and what that would be? How’s that going to happen? Massive raids? Massive detention camps? What are they talking about?

Harris’s speech is here: Harris delivers remarks at Congressional Hispanic Caucus Institute leadership event.

As VP Harris said, it is a dangerous fantasy to believe that Trump could deport ten million immigrants. An operation of that scale is beyond the resources of the federal and state governments combined. Although the effort would not succeed, it would lead to economic chaos as the labor pool is jolted by the sudden disappearance of workers who fill entry level service jobs, harvest America’s crops, provide home care for the elderly, and provide significant portions of the workforce in construction, hospitality, and manufacturing industries.

If you don’t have time to watch Harris’s entire speech, I recommend viewing the segment in which she frames reproductive rights as one of the freedoms guaranteed to Americans. She also notes that 40% of Latina women live in states with Trump abortion bans: Harris addresses impact of Trump abortion bans on Latina women.

VP Harris’s comments on abortion and reproductive freedom are powerful and moving. She continues to be an effective, focused campaigner who is sticking to the Democratic messaging of “freedom” and “an opportunity economy.”

As a reminder, Kamala Harris’s Opportunity Economy focuses on making the lives of middle-class Americans better. Her proposals include a $6,000 tax credit for families with newborns, expansion of the child tax credit, expansion of the earned income credit, a $50,000 deduction for new business owners, making rent affordable, incentivizing the construction of 3 million starter homes (as opposed to McMansions), subsidizing $25,000 of the down payment for first time homeowners, and reducing the cost of prescription drugs. See Issues - Kamala Harris for President: Official Campaign Website.

The Federal Reserve cuts interest rates by 0.5%

The Biden-Harris administration significantly reduced inflation levels while sustaining robust growth in the US GDP. As a result, the Federal Reserve announced today that it was cutting the prime interest rate by 0.5% and suggested that additional cuts would be forth coming. See Federal Reserve Board - Federal Reserve issues FOMC statement.

Even Trump admitted that “it was a big cut,” although he suggested the timing was political. In truth, the cut was overdue. The Fed waited too long to reduce rates. See Common Dreams, Fed 'Waited Too Long' But Finally Cut Interest Rates. As noted in the Common Dreams article,

Center for Economic and Policy Research senior economist Dean Baker also welcomed that the Fed is changing course, saying: "This is a belated recognition that the battle against inflation has been won. Contrary to the predictions of almost all economists, including those at the Fed, this victory was won without a major uptick in unemployment."

Kamala Harris and Joe Biden achieved the nearly impossible—avoiding a recession while taming inflation. They deserve great credit for doing so—and voters are starting to realize that fact. See Harris closes gap with Trump on the economy, new Pennsylvania poll shows | Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

Per the Post-Gazette,

Pennsylvania voters no longer prefer former President Donald Trump over Vice President Kamala Harris on the economy in a poll that shows the Democratic presidential nominee all but erasing the deficit on which candidate can best handle the top issue for voters this fall. In a Quinnipiac University poll of likely Pennsylvania voters released Wednesday, Trump’s advantage over Ms. Harris was just 50% to 48%, a two-point advantage well within the survey’s margin of error of plus or minus 2.7 percentage points.

Harris continues to do everything just right. While there is no guarantee of success, we should be gratified that we have a candidate who is running such a terrific campaign!

Trump's effort to cram voter suppression bill through Congress fails

Trump ordered Speaker Mike Johnson to make a futile attempt to pass a continuing resolution for the budget that included the GOP voter-suppression bill that would require proof of citizenship to register as a voter. (Note that our nation has survived for 235 years without requiring proof of citizenship to register to vote.) The bill was doomed to fail—and Mike Johnson knew it. But Trump ordered him to jump and Johnson’s only question was, “How high, sir?”

See Roll Call, Johnson's stopgap funding package goes down to defeat.

To be clear, Trump wants to force the US into a financial crisis for political advantage. He said on Truth Social,

If Republicans don’t get the SAVE Act, and every ounce of it, they should not agree to a Continuing Resolution in any way, shape, or form.

But extremists in the GOP caucus know that Mike Johnson will cave. Per Marjorie Taylor Greene, “Johnson is leading a fake fight that he has no intention of actually fighting.”

Americans deserve better than a House GOP caucus willing to hold the budget hostage for Donald Trump.

Trump's desperation is showing

Trump is promising tax cuts like a man who can smell defeat. On Wednesday, he promised New Yorkers that he would remove caps on federal deductions for state and local taxes (SALT). Trump's position is absurd because he proposed and obtained the SALT caps as a way of punishing taxpayers in New York, New Jersey, and California (among other states). Now that he senses that he might lose, he is telling voters in those states that he will remove the caps he instituted.

Members of Congress immediately trashed the idea. Although capping the SALT deduction was unfair to taxpayers in states that fund their operations and pay into the federal coffers, reversing the policy would add $1.2 trillion dollars to the deficit. See HuffPost, Donald Trump’s Latest Tax Pander Flops In Congress.

Trump's flip-flop is a sign of his willingness to promise anything to anyone to be re-elected. Trump's desperation is a more reliable sign of the state of the race than the polls!

Wall Street Journal debunks JD Vance immigrant / cat story

The Wall Street Journal published an article on Wednesday that reported (a) the city manager of Springfield told JD Vance that there was no evidence to support the cat-eating immigrant story before JD Vance doubled-down on the false claim on social media, and (b) the woman who filed a police report claiming her cat had been taken by Haitians later found her cat hiding in the basement of her house.

See Wall Street Journal, How the Trump Campaign Ran With Rumors About Pet-Eating Migrants—After Being Told They Weren’t True (This article is accessible to all.)

Per the WSJ,

[Vance] asked point-blank, ‘Are the rumors true of pets being taken and eaten?’” recalled [Springfield City Manager] Heck. “I told him no. There was no verifiable evidence or reports to show this was true. I told them these claims were baseless.” By then, Vance had already posted about the rumors to his 1.9 million followers on X. Yet he kept the post up, and repeated an even more insistent version of the claim the next morning.

The WSJ article takes a deep dive into the situation in Springfield and is well worth your time to read the entire article. The WSJ reporters lay out in detail how Vance and Trump are exploiting an immigrant population that is helping Springfield to grow and prosper after decades of decline:

The local economy boomed. Business owners said they were grateful to have workers eager to work long shifts and do what it took to meet production goals. New subdivisions sprung up in the cornfields outside town. New restaurants opened. The Haitian flag flew at City Hall.

Growth came with growing pains. The number of non-native English speakers in the public schools quadrupled to more than 1,000 children. The local clinic and hospital were overwhelmed with people fleeing a country where healthcare had been scant. Traffic increased, as did frustration with drivers more accustomed with the chaotic streets of Port-au-Prince than the orderly grid of Springfield.

One thing is clear: Vance and Trump know the rumors have no basis in fact but continue to promote them—thereby hurting the people of Springfield. Trump claims he will visit Springfield—over the objections of the mayor and the Governor of Ohio (both Trump-supporting Republicans!). The fact that Republicans in Ohio understand the cynical dishonesty of Trump's propaganda is a good sign

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

[rjzimmerman]

From The Revelator:

Editor’s note: This op-ed was written by a group of current and former employees of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, who have asked to remain anonymous due to concerns about retaliation. It was originally published by Environmental Health News and is republished with permission.

The Trump administration is making accusations of fraud, waste, and abuse associated with federal environmental justice programs under the Inflation Reduction Act as justification for firing federal workers and defunding critical environmental programs. But the real waste, fraud, and abuse would be to strip away these funds from the American people.

As current and former employees at the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency who developed and implemented the agency’s environmental justice funding and grant programs, we want to offer our first-hand insights about the efficiency and importance of this work. This is not about defending our paychecks. This is about protecting the health of our communities.

IRA funding is often described as a “once-in-a-generation investment,” putting billions of dollars toward improving the lives of American families in red, blue, and purple states. Working with communities, we’ve been placing these resources directly into their hands, supporting people to better protect the air we breathe, the water we drink, and the land where we live, learn, work, play, and grow — including key protections from natural disasters.

As civil servants, we took an oath to protect and invest in the American public. We are committed to providing effective programs and being responsible stewards of taxpayer dollars, and there are many policies in place to ensure our accountability. But despite our careful planning and oversight, the new administration is halting programs Americans depend on for their health and wellbeing.

We should work together to demand that the Trump administration restore this critical funding back to the people.

The Risks of Losing a Once-in-a-Generation Investment

The Bush administration introduced environmental equity (and justice) programming to the EPA in the 1990s. EPA staff working on environmental justice programs partnered with communities to meet their needs and used rigorous systems to track funds and results.

The Trump administration recently paused many of these environmental justice programs that fund community-led projects like air, water, and soil testing; training and workforce development; construction or cleanup projects; gardens and tree planting; and preparing and responding to natural disasters. Other examples of the EPA’s environmental justice programs include providing safe shelters during and after hurricanes, land cleanups to reduce communities’ exposure to harmful pollutants, and providing water filters to protect residents from lead in drinking water.

This administration has halted funds, claiming “the objectives of the awards are no longer consistent with EPA funding priorities.” In reality, these funds were approved by Congress, and these grants remain in alignment with the agency’s mission to protect human health and the environment. Even though there are court orders to unfreeze billions of dollars in federal grants, the Trump administration continues to withhold this critical money from the people who need it most.

We cannot stand by and allow this to happen. We need to hold this administration accountable to serving the American people, applying the same mandates that we have held our federal workforce and grant recipients to: follow the law, follow the science, and be transparent.

Terminating the EPA’s Environmental Justice Programs Is Hurting Our Communities and the Economy

Some grant recipients who have lost access to EPA funding had already been working for more than a year on projects that must now be paused. Many recipients have hired local employees and made commitments in their communities.

Now that funds are being pulled back, these organizations have had to lay off staff, pause local contracts with private companies and small businesses, and shut down community-driven projects. These attacks will impact the integrity of programs funded by our hard-earned tax dollars and take money away from communities across the country.

By withholding promised funding and terminating existing contracts, the Trump administration is exposing the EPA to increased risks of litigation. Relationships that were built through years of meaningful engagement between communities and the federal government are being jeopardized. Organizations, institutions, and companies will likely shy away from future federal grant or contracting opportunities because no one wants to work with someone who doesn’t pay their bills and backs out on their promises.

It is a waste of taxpayer dollars for the U.S. Government to cancel its agreements with grantees and contractors. It is fraud for the U.S. Government to delay payments for services already received. And it is an abuse of power for the Trump administration to block the IRA laws that were mandated by Congress.

How to Take Action to Restore Funding to the American People

It can feel impossible to keep up with the news right now, but this story touches all of us. We should pay attention to what’s going on in our communities and find ways to stay engaged, like attending town halls to hear about the local impacts of federal policies and making your voice heard.

If you are interested in advocating for the return of federal funding to the American people, we urge you to:

Advocate for funding to be restored in your community. Take part in local town hall and other events in your area to advocate for federal funding to be returned to the people. Make your voice heard and claim your right to clean water, clean air, and a safe environment.

Learn how the EPA’s environmental justice programs are investing in your state, city, or community. View this environmental justice grants map to see where IRA dollars and funding from the EPA’s environmental justice programs were invested.

Learn how federal cuts are impacting your communities. Stay tuned to view a Federal Cuts Tracker Map (we’ll add a link here when it’s live) to read and share stories about how federal cuts are currently impacting your communities.

Share on social media. Share our story or similar news stories on social media with #federalfundingfreeze, #federalcuts, or #truthtopower.

[predvestnik]

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤSTUDY    :    Аякс Кир́иллович Во́лков

tagged by :    @viaetor !! <3 tagging :  @ccaptain @visionheld (Kaveh or Diluc) @snowtombedstar @csial @melodicbreeze @verdantluxury (Lumine) and it's also up for stealing

—    basics.

▸  is your muse tall    /    short    /    average ? Tall, around 6'2

▸       are they okay with their height ? He doesn't care much for it outside of making his siblings happy by letting them dangle off his arms or climb his back now and then.

▸      what’s their hair like ? Silky, almost thick strands with subtle waves. He has random paler strands that are growing in quantity by the minute but so far are well hidden among the naturally sunset-colored ones. He is the one trimming it now and then.

▸     do they spend a  lot of time on their hair     /    grooming ? Not at all, washing and combing are essentially the extent of his routine with it. It isn't unkempt by any means, but it also doesn't demand much attention.

▸      does your muse care about their appearance   /   what others think ? No, if it's about how he looks but a hard yes for anything else. He may not go after it, but he's a big fan of praises, of having his feats acknowledged and respected. It sends him over the moon. Inversely, criticism will seldom earn a serious response from him, even if he does reflect back on them to fish for anything constructive he can use to hone himself.

—    preferences.

▸      indoors    or    outdoors ?     outdoors. ▸      rain    or    sunshine ?  sunshine. ▸      forest    or    beach ?      beach. ▸      precious    metals    or    gems ?      metals. ▸      flowers    or    perfumes ?     flowers. ▸      personality    or    appearance ?      personality. ▸      being    alone    or    being    in    a    crowd ?     being alone. ▸      order    or    anarchy ?   order. ▸      painful    truths    or    white    lies ?     painful truths. ▸      science    or    magic ?     magic. ▸      peace    or    conflict ?    peace. ▸      night    or    day ?     night. ▸      dusk    or    dawn ?   dusk. ▸      warmth    or    cold ?     cold. ▸      many   acquaintances    or    a    few    close    friends ?   few close friends. ▸      reading    or    playing    a    game ?      playing a game.

—    questionnaire.

▸      what are some of your muse’s bad habits ? As a hyper vigilant individual, he doesn't sleep. He no longer needs it in the same way a regular human does ever since inheriting the Foul Legacy (+everything that came from his connection to Skirk and the Foul) and acquiring his status as a neohuman. That, paired with him always anticipating conflict, makes sleeping an undesirable routine. Still, his stress levels could take a dive if he napped more often. He also prefers to do everything on his own, seldom taking any of the companies under his hierarchy with him, which has, in turn, caused some of them to be shared among other leaders for logistics reasons and shrunk his squad to the point that he mostly borrows workforce (so far, only from Pantalone) when he needs it in other nations.

▸      has your muse lost anyone close to them ? how has it affected them ? Close, not yet and hopefully he won't, but he's lost many comrades throughout his history with the Fatui and, although it's set with him that those who join it are certain of their fate, it still aches very deep inside how it was not a destiny some of them really wished.

▸      what are some fond memories your muse has ? Most of them involve his family. The evenings spent with his father and older siblings by a campfire, listening to tales of great adventurers under the aurora; getting his first fishing rod and the one experience with it that landed him face first into the freezing waters while trying to catch a particularly stubborn and rowdy fish; Teucer's birth and how he nagged his mother constantly to watch him sleep in his crib; Tonia's tight hug when he came back home after his conscription into the Fatui.

▸     is it easy for your muse to kill ? Yes, he will kill if he must. He will try anything else if he can spare innocent lives, but if all else fails, he will still go for it.

▸      what’s it like when your muse breaks down ? Sadness makes him nearly catatonic, unable to speak, unwilling to move. He will withdraw where he can't be reached and let it run its course. The worst of it is how it makes him feel powerless and naked of everything he's worked hard for, his shoulders may shake but he can't seem to bring himself to cry, and then comes the numbness. If someone he's, like, really close to wants to go after him anyway and tries to offer comfort, he will likely decline it at first but become a crumpled creature if they somehow manage to get him in their arms.

▸      is your muse capable of trusting someone with their life ? Yes but the roster of people he trusts with that is so small that it's almost a no, also because he's unhealthily confident that he won't ever need to and if he does, it's because he's willing to make the sacrifice anyway.

▸      what’s your muse like when they’re in love ? Doting, attentive and attuned to his partner's likes and dislikes. Childe is giving in many senses: material, emotional and physical. He will do nearly everything in his power to make them feel seen and wanted despite his non negotiable periods of absence — expect letters, shipments, and couriers knocking on their door to check up on them and deliver special gifts. He is not one to easily fall in love, but becomes a whole entire fool once he does. He's naturally protective, too, but not blindly.

He isn't exactly insecure, but he's resigned to the fact that, maybe, the arrangements of a relationship with him aren't ideal for a partner that looks for or expects him to be around for long or all the time, so he may lack tact, sound detached from it, when addressing this one aspect of being in a relationship with him, which might make others think he doesn't miss them or care to be together. This goes to how he is very open about the possibility of dying out there as well, oops.

[riverjester]

In the aftermath of battle, of the village’s uprising against Gato, of Haku’s sacrifice and Zabuza’s mad last stand, of the first snowfall he had ever seen, Naruto’s mind was buzzing incessantly.

They spent another week in the Land of the Waves. While the bridge was built. While Kakashi and Sasuke recovered from their injuries enough to be able to travel. Sasuke had remained completely bedridden for two days following the battle. During the next six his ability to talk and walk increased in steady increments, but the rural doctor that had patched him up ordered him not to move too much, or else risk straining himself and setting back his healing. Naruto knew this mostly because Sakura told him.

Despite his efforts to bury them, they kept resurfacing: the sensation of Sasuke’s breath petering out on his lap, the sight of him standing up to wave at them and show that he was still alive, only to crumble like a badly constructed toothpick tower right afterward. He avoided searing into his retinas the image of this Sasuke too — weak, nearly voiceless, careful with his movements so as not to set his puncture wounds bleeding through the bandages — by barely seeing him. He spent all day running around, his small army of clones doubling the village’s workforce: carrying materials, running errands, doing small menial tasks. He left Tazuna’s house in the morning before Sasuke got up and returned after he had gone to sleep for the night, slipping in and out of his futon, next to Sasuke’s, with as little of a fuss as he was able, ignoring how he noticed that Sasuke wasn’t actually asleep every time. The construction of the bridge carried on far more swiftly than it could ever have before.

Sakura would come out at noon to whack him upside-down on the head and remind him to eat his lunch before he wore himself out. It would be a hassle if they ended up having to drag his sorry chakra-exhausted body back to Konoha, she said. She would stay for a few hours to help out if it was needed, or to seat by Naruto’s side as he took a break, breathing in the salty ocean air that was so different from Konoha’s. Afterwards, she would return to Sasuke’s bedside, an anxiousness to her eye, like she had to make sure that nobody had died while she wasn’t looking.

Naruto had wondered, after their first fight with Zabuza, when Kakashi needed crutches to get by day after day, but it didn’t fully sink how long it took — normal — people to heal until he felt Sasuke’s striking absence while Naruto saw this cursed C-rank to its conclusion. The thought flitted back and forth like an annoying fly: his unmarred skin, the heat that he had started feeling eating him from the inside at times, the itch of a wound closing itself up in minutes. He felt nauseous if his mind lingered too long on the reason behind it. Like he had been carved out of the embrace of normalcy and was being dangled helplessly in the air while he kept trying to walk among, alongside people.

So he strained his muscles and his chakra to the degree that Kakashi would allow instead of following that train of thought.

He didn’t think about how he had broken out of Haku’s ice-mirror prison. He didn’t think about what had happened before that. He didn’t talk to Sasuke because he didn’t know what to say, how to look at him. It worked well, it wasn’t difficult to keep the distance, since Sasuke always turned to look at the window or the wall if Naruto happened to enter any room that he was in.

Once, towards the end of the week, when Sasuke was well enough to move about, to walk without his knees trembling after a few minutes, he came out with Sakura and Kakashi for lunch. The four of them had eaten it sitting by the docks, away from the dust of the construction site. If it had been any other day, Naruto would have been talking everyone’s ears off, Sakura would either laugh or groan in annoyance and shove him whenever he said something particularly stupid, Sasuke’s eyebrow would twitch, and he would act uninterested, but he would occasionally make a comment with his dry-pan humour, or he would genuinely engage in the conversation if the topic interested him enough.

It wasn’t any other day, however. Sakura talked, a nervous undercurrent to her voice that betrayed how rattled she felt within the weird atmosphere, and Naruto answered in between shoveling rice into his mouth as fast as possible. Sasuke, surprisingly, hadn’t sat too far away from them, but he averted his gaze, uncharacteristically picking at his food. Kakashi observed them over his book.

Before Naruto could finish his bento box in record time, a clone skidded to a halt before them. “Boss, a couple of us fell and popped and we need more hands, everybody else is busy.”

“Ah, alright, hold on.”

As he put down his chopsticks and made the handsign to create two more clones, Sakura interceded, “You didn’t notice your clones disappearing?”

The three clones ran off. Naruto scratched his cheek. “There’s, like, twenty of them, I don’t really keep track.”

“Twenty?” Sakura squawked, like she hadn’t seen them running around every day. Maybe she hadn’t counted them, it wasn’t like anyone but Naruto could tell them apart. “All morning?”

He would have answered with a confident fox-grin that twenty clones were nothing, he could do a much more awesome number, but suddenly, Naruto noticed that Sasuke was staring at him for the first time in six days — frowning, baffled. Their eyes met for a second, and then they looked elsewhere.

“Yeah, just about,” he answered Sakura, weirdly subdued for himself — he knew, he noticed himself out of balance.

Snapping his book closed, Kakashi was suddenly by his side. “Are you pacing yourself?”

“I’m fine, I don’t feel tired at all.”

Kakashi hummed. “Even so. Cut it back to ten.”

Naruto groaned a protest. “Sensei. But this way it goes so much faster and we can go back to Konoha sooner! Doesn’t this count as training, also?”

“Don’t overexert yourself, idiot,” came Sasuke’s raspy voice from across their group.

He startled and his eyes fixed upon Sasuke’s face, who had gone back to eating his food, although his shoulders were tense, his movements mechanical. It was the first time Naruto had heard him talk since he had passed out from Haku’s senbon. His throat was mostly healed, but his voice still had a croaky, breathy quality to it very unlike his smooth baritone. Naruto disliked it. He disliked even more not knowing how to respond, when interacting with Sasuke usually wasn’t a thing he ever gave a second thought to before doing. His eyes skittered away and he rubbed the back of his neck, to assuage the need to do something with his hands.

The discomfort was palpable. Kakashi tried to cut through it, “Sasuke’s right, Naruto. If you want to practice while doing this, concentrate on a more precise use of chakra with your clones, not on creating more.”

Naruto finished his food, and with a hurried, “Alright, sensei,” he was off towards the bridge.

Sakura was weirded-out by their walking on eggshells around each other like this, Kakashi’s eye crinkled with something that Naruto could only describe as faraway constipation. Naruto simply couldn’t help the awkwardness. Sasuke would have preferred breaking his knee than be the one to break the tension.

So Naruto kept busy for the entire week, until the bridge was finished and everyone was healthy enough to walk all the way to Konoha. He spent his entire time running, and the night before they were to set out on the trek back home, perhaps because the end to the hecticness lulled him into his first deep sleep in eight days, the events of the battle against Haku and Zabuza finally caught up to him in his dreams.

When he woke up, he didn’t remember much of it. A maelstrom of movement, blood, ice, flesh, needles. A pain so sudden yet so profound that it could only burst forth as undiluted rage, chakra that felt like acid dissolving him from the inside out, a cocoon of unfathomable power spurring him to kill kill kill. He clawed his way through the violence, after-images of Haku’s angelic face after ripping his throat out with his teeth blurring into an undefined landscape of flames, debris, and corpses strewn about — vague memories that weren’t his own. And in the middle of it, a fallen teammate that would never rise again despite the monster that lived in Naruto’s veins going on a rampage for him.

He sprung up from his futon with a scream trapped in his throat and his eyes wet. He looked down at his hands, uncomprehending when he didn’t see his nails elongated into bloodied claws. And then his heart lurched with urgency and he turned to look at Sasuke, to check that his chest still rose and fell and the bandages around his neck remained white.

He found Sasuke already looking at him, propped up on his elbow, a hand reaching out, and his eye-brows furrowed. Naruto blinked his tears away and Sasuke’s hand went back to his futon, his expression neutral again, like a mirage dissipating.

They stared at each other in the darkness, and as Naruto’s heart calmed down and his brain processed that Sasuke was alive in the waking world, embarrassment overcame him. He was not completely certain of what his face was doing, but he guessed that he must have looked really stupid: cheeks wet, panting slack-jawed while he looked at Sasuke like he was drinking in the face of god.

He turned away and rubbed his tear-tracks away with his sleeves, muttering, “Sorry.” Saliva lingered in his throat as he struggled to swallow. “I, uhm…” he trailed off.

The quiet between them that he had previously been thankful for felt suffocating then. He considered murmuring a good-night and laying down again, but it didn’t feel right.

Finally, Sasuke spoke, whisper-soft like neither of them ever were, “Nightmare, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm.”

Naruto threw a look at the other two futons on the other side of the room. Sakura seemed to be soundly asleep. Kakashi might not have been, the bastard, but he hadn’t risen either. “Did I wake you?”

“You were gasping and moving,” Sasuke answered. His voice was mostly back to normal, although it was hard to tell when he whispered. “But you do that every night. Would it kill you to be quiet for once?”

Naruto acknowledged the jab for what it was — a lame, clumsy attempt at returning to normalcy — but he was feeling too raw to fall into their old routines. He just cringed.

At the lack of a whiny rebuttal from him, he sensed a growing air of discomfort from Sasuke, even without looking at him. There was a quiet rustle as Sasuke lied on his back fully again.

In the manga that he had read and the movies that he had watched, this would be the part where he was asked if he wanted to talk about his bad dream. He couldn’t picture Sasuke doing it, and Sasuke didn’t do it, so he guessed that his impression of his character was fairly accurate.

Well.

Except for the part when Sasuke almost died for Naruto the previous week. That was not something that he would have ever seen coming. Teammates were supposed to watch each other’s backs, but Naruto struggled to understand that Sasuke would go to such an extreme for him. He had asked then, why me? why someone like me? someone who hadn’t been worth anything to anyone before a month ago?, and Sasuke had answered then too, but it hadn’t been a very good answer.

The blankets were rough in his tight fists. Naruto shrunk into his shoulders as he asked, “Why did you do it?”

Sasuke replied after a beat, “I told you already.” He didn’t pretend not to know what Naruto was talking about. He probably suspected what the nightmare had been about, too. “I…” he began. Paused. Naruto looked at him; Sasuke was frowning up at the ceiling. “I just saw the senbon coming for you, and I… had to move.”

He spoke slowly, even haltingly. An echo of Sasuke’s last words before he lost consciousness came to him. That he had sworn not to die before he killed his brother — and yet he had forsaken that oath with a last plea for Naruto not to die too. Even if he had done it on impulse, it had to mean something. Maybe Sasuke was realizing that too.

Naruto thought of Iruka taking a giant shuriken to the back to protect him. He wondered if that was what having people truly meant. A choice that one makes before one realises its truth burrowing deep into one's reflexes. Blood and pain and sacrifice for those that he would call his own. Haku had said something like that.

Perhaps it was the night, the undefined lines of Sasuke’s figure in the blue-dark of this borrowed room kilometres away from Konoha, their third teammate and their sensei oblivious to them, that made it feel like he could voice the next question.

“Would you take it back?”

His fists trembled slightly in his lap, but his gaze didn’t stray from Sasuke’s face. He hadn’t realized how much he anticipated the answer until he had sought it. Sasuke looked at him, his eyes so black when they had been so red while he laid his head on Naruto’s hands and knees, and then he turned his face away.

Perhaps it was the night for him too, the unreality of this dream of a moment away from the daylight, that allowed him to say, “No.”

Something heavy grew in Naruto’s chest. He didn’t know how to name that emotion. He only knew that — if there was a world in which Sasuke died from an attack that he could have taken in his stead, that wasn’t a world where Naruto would want to keep living. Even if that was the only world where he became Hokage.

He moved to kneel facing Sasuke.

“Then,” he started, a forceful whisper that was too loud for the hour, but Naruto was too loud always, “I won’t die if you don’t.”

Sasuke turned his head back towards him with a jerk, eyes widened ever so slightly. “You…”

“And you won’t die if I don’t,” Naruto finished.

Sasuke blinked at him, at his posture in an uncommonly good seiza, shoulders straight, hands on his knees. Gazed into his eyes, that Naruto made sure didn’t waver.

“And if one of us does die?”

“We won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“We won’t, I won’t allow it.”

Sasuke huffed and looked away. One corner of his mouth twitched up nevertheless. “Usuratonkachi. That’s not the way of the shinobi.”

“I’m Uzumaki Naruto,” he announced, and Sasuke rolled his eyes and shushed him. “And I’ll forge my own way.”

The way Sasuke looked at him then was annoyed, but he was also smiling slightly. Almost — and Naruto couldn’t believe that the thought crossed his mind — fond. “You’re such a moron,” he muttered, even though Naruto was being completely serious.

For the first time in a week, Naruto began to feel the hot prickle of frustration that Sasuke always arose in him. But before he could complain, his teammate continued, “There may be forces that neither of us can beat, though.”

No traces of humour left. Sasuke’s eyes somehow gleamed in the dark. His mouth was a soft blurry line, set firmly. Naruto suddenly felt very unequal looking down at him. Sasuke must have felt the same, because he sat up, the blankets pooling on his lap, the white of the bandages on his arms stark with the moonlight coming in from the window.

“You really can’t control who lives or dies,” he said, somber, a knowing weight. “But,” he added, “if I die, you live.”

Part of Naruto wanted to argue back that he would beat any impossible odds. A larger, wiser part knew that it wasn’t an argument that he wanted to start with a Sasuke who looked at him like he did then.

“Then if I die, you live,” he promised as well.

That night, they made a pledge to each other. The next morning, Sasuke ditched the dressings on his wounds, no longer necessary. He and Sakura made fun of the name that Tazuna had given the bridge, much to Naruto’s chagrin, who had barely even been able to gloat about it. Team 7 made offerings to Haku and Zabuza’s nameless burial and then started the journey back to Konoha. Naruto and Sakura bickering, Sasuke ignoring them, Kakashi reading his cheap erotica. The sun shined. Naruto looked at Sasuke, and sometimes Sasuke would look at him back. They didn’t talk about it ever again, but the memory of that night stayed.

[specialagentartemis]

@needlesandnilbogs Alternate answer I was considering giving:

This is the title that could go with the Murderbot Diaries concept I probably won't actually write but rotate in my mind occasionally. I call it "Trojan War AU" in my head but really it is like Ultimate Bad End. The Corporation Rim has had it with this little freehold continuing to pop up in various places making a mess of things with their media, academic, and legal advocacy for things like "construct rights" and "planetary colony independence" and "welcoming escaping contract-slaves" and "corporations having to abide by laws," and are considering Preservation's rising prominence in these things to be a threat to their business models and general capacity to control their people, so they band together and muster a thousand spaceships and bomb Preservation to shit to Send A Message. Possibly including a false surrender which is Illegal but what do they care, who's going to hold them to account. It's sad it's tragic Indah is Hector and dies just as heroically and some of the Preservationers can escape and regroup on the continent that's mostly uninhabited and still in the process of terraforming and harder to track down people there. The CR has blown the station out of the sky, reduced the primary city to rubble, and Made Their Point. Mensah, her family, Pin-Lee, and Bharadwaj manage to escape to the continent; lots of other Preservationers including MB's other humans were caught in the post-war roundup of the main city which the CR went. Hey. Free workforce. Dividing them up and shipping them off to mines and factories and such because what do you do with a conquered population just sitting there for you to not have to even pretend to pay. (And then ofc Murderbot has to go track them down and rescue them because it couldn't do much on its own against a whole invading force besides try to get its humans to safety, and even though the war is over like hell is it gonna let the CR forces prevent it from doing that job.)

I sometimes think about this when I'm in a Tragedy Mood but it's probably not something I'm gonna write. 

[pinksssideblog]

i had super misogynistic parents. they expected me to cook, clean, and care while my brothers weren't expected to do anything. i was always treated lesser than and was always fighting with my mom because she would get upset over her husband not contributing, but instead of taking it up with him, she questioned why i didn't do it like it was my responsibility. i remember arguing with her and asking her why she treated me like that and she would just respond "you're a girl, you need to get real" and my dad would always justify his abusive and misogynistic treatment of me as him "raising a proper woman"

the reason i bring this up is because today i was waiting in the grocery line and the mom in front of me saw her friend and she told her friend that her sons were in soccer practice and her daughter was helping her shop and then they were going to go home to cook and clean because it was good practice for her future.

this genuienly shocked me so much.

ever since ive entered the void, misogny has not existed. none of my friends are misogynistic, no one in my workplace is misogynistic, and none of the other people are misogynistic either. yk how people talk about women being undermined in the workforce. literally does not exist in my office. ofcourse i hear about all the misogynistic social media influencers but ive always just disregarded that as nonsense and misogyny has just not existed in my life for a while now that it literally shocked me to face it again. it felt like hearing someone say the Earth was flat, it was like "who even thinks that and what is wrong with this person?"

the reason i share this is because, unfortunately, many of you do face misogyny to this day. i promise you, this isn't a "set" social construct. my mom always used to say "no man will want a woman who can't cook and clean, it is literally the job of the wife to do these things" i promise to you, this is a lie. in fact my neighbors a few apartments down are an older couple and the husband does all the cooking. every relationship ive interacted with is equal.

i really want to assure you that a world without misogyny does exist and it is attainable. do not fall for its stupid brainwashing. juat make sure to check yourself of any internalized misogyny and know that you are God.

[owlbear33]

like I know Mech pilots and general mecha-nonsense is the hornyness du jour (it seems like a new mech ttrpg or wargame is released every five minutes)

but mechs have never really been my thing, more of a spaceship girl

where's the love for getting Karen S'jet'd, subsumed into the core of a gargantuan machine, your senses expanding, able to see for millions of miles, armed with titanic cannons, constructing within you fleets of warships, responsible for the thousands of lives crawling within you and crewing your fleet

cared for by a teeming workforce of engineers

[fatehbaz]

Vidal [...] emphasizes the close relationship that existed between the Louisiana settlement [at New Orleans] and the Caribbean island [Haiti, the colony of Saint-Domingue] during the former’s French colonial period (1718-69). It has become a bit of a popular adage to describe New Orleans as the northernmost port of the Caribbean, but Vidal’s Caribbean New Orleans: Empire, Race, and the Making of a Slave Society demonstrates the substance behind these claims. [...] New Orleans is the missing link, a late-forming city that largely inherited its founding ideas, practices, peoples, plants, and laws from its longer-established imperial neighbors [France, Spain, Britain, and what would become the United States]. It thus offers the ideal case study in which to consider how colonies around the Americas developed in conversation with one another [...].

Vidal convincingly argues that New Orleans was a “slave society,” or a settlement in which racialized slavery informed every part of everyday life from its inception, whose physical construction was done alongside the “construction of racial categories” (p. 1).

This is an important shift within Louisiana historiography, which has long stood by [...] [the] argument that early New Orleans offered the semi-unique example of a “slave society” devolving into a “society with slaves.” Abandoned by the French following the spectacular failure of the Compagnie des Indes, the standard story goes, New Orleans became an isolated backwater until the 1770s, struggling to survive and permitting, out of sheer need, less disciplined contact between residents of European, Indigenous, and African birth and descent. [But] Vidal, in contrast, shows that, while Louisiana struggled to create a full-fledged plantation economy during the French era, this did not prevent its capital from organizing itself along the highly stratified lines of the Caribbean islands.

---

Furthermore, she argues, because New Orleans did not see many new residents after 1731, free or enslaved, and because it was a smaller settlement, white inhabitants were able to build upon these ideas in a relatively stable environment - focusing much of their energies on surveilling, containing, and disciplining the enslaved and free persons of color (p. 26). [...]

Vidal especially points to the 1729 Natchez attack and ensuing Natchez Wars [against Indigenous peoples] as pivotal moments in the militarization of white New Orleanians [...].

Subsequently, a scrupulous supervision of racial boundaries became the norm for the rest of the French era and fostered “a sense of community among white urbanites” (p. 141). Chapter 3 takes readers to the streets, levees, and other public spaces of New Orleans, where whites sought to sculpt the privileges of “whiteness” against both residents of African birth and descent as well as one another. Elite men and their wives scuffled over the best seating at church in an effort to recreate France’s ancien régime culture; socially lower [...] nonslaveholders, meanwhile, carefully guarded their weaker claims at mastery through street violence [...]. Beginning with a careful reading of census categories, Vidal traces how distinctions between European settlers [...] were increasingly replaced with those centered exclusively on race by 1763. [...] [Vidal then] follows the ways in which the demographically diverse workforce of the early colony made up of white indentured servants, convicts, and soldiers in addition to enslaved Africans - gave way to associations of difficult and degrading labor limitedly with the enslaved. [...]

---

French Louisiana inherited racial categories from the Caribbean but adjusted them to fit local needs, experiencing “not so much a loosening, but a more complex transformation” of its racial regime, largely through violence (p. 371).

Vidal documents how the Superior Council utilized targeted prosecutions and punishments to increasingly “imprint terror and instill obedience” on the enslaved (p. 390). [...] [The book] thus details a society in which racial hierarchies were asserted and supported through both top-down and bottom-up policies and practices, as “no social institution or relationship was left untouched by race” (p. 504).

To this end, Vidal speaks to important conversations by historians of enslaved women in the British Caribbean, including Jennifer Morgan and Marissa Fuentes. These authors have used a similarly wide range of sources [...] [and] archives to underscore the invasive nature of colonial racism. [...] [I]n part [...] Vidal’s [chapters work] to decouple lower Louisiana history from the fur traders of New France [Ontario, Quebec, and the watershed of the Mississippi River] and to reattach it to the planters of Saint-Domingue [in Haiti and the Caribbean]. [...] Combing through administrative papers, censuses, laws, parish registers, correspondence, and judicial records from both sides of the Atlantic, readers will get a sense that there is little Cécile Vidal has not seen or considered. [...] Her book [...] hopefully will convince an even wider audience [...] [to engage with] comparative, cis-Atlantic, and transatlantic studies of imperialism, race, and slavery.

---

All text above by: Kristin C. Lee. "Review of Vidal, Cécile, Caribbean New Orleans: Empire, Race, and the Making of a Slave Society". H-Atlantic, H-Net Reviews. January 2022. URL at: h-net dot org/reviews/showrev.php?id=56913 [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]