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blackfemmecharacterdependency · 2 years

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BFCD Black Women in Horror/Monsters & More Masterlist

Black Women in Horror | Final Girls | Slayers | BFCD Monsters & More Masterlists

Izzy Bit |

Old Woman Josie Welcome to Nightvale | Olivia Two Sentence Horror Stories: Teeth

Queenie American Horror Story

Wilhamena Mettle OK Let’s Be Heroes |

Yvonne A Nightmare on Elm Street Series |

Zafrina Twilight | Zoe Head Count |

Children in Horror | BFCD Family Friendly Spooky Season |

*List will be updated throughout October*

#Black Women in Horror #Children in Horror #long post #BFCD Spooky Season #October #BFCD Masterlist #BFCD Black Women in Horror Masterlist #black female characters #monster girls #slayers

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steelcladbutterfly · 1 year

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Yandere Headless Horseman: Haunted

This comes from my latest Halloween works. It’s my getting back into the groove stuff basically. I’ll probably post the other nine sometime during the next few days if I have time.

Prompts: Haunted, Forest

The headless horseman is a mythical figure that has been seen in folklore since the Middle Ages. Popular examples include the dullahan from Ireland, the Green Knight from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and the headless horseman from the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, which will be the one this story is based on. The dullahan and the Green Knight both carry their heads around, though the knight is able to attach his back to his neck. The headless horseman is most commonly seen carrying a flaming jack o lantern in place of his actual head, the original story heavily implies it is someone disguised as the myth, while other adaptations make it more likely that it is a ghost rather than an actual human in disguise.

To be honest, this is inspired by the horror movie Smile a little bit. MINOR SPOILERS FOR SMILE The idea that whoever sees the victim die is the next victim is an interesting idea.

A Tv playing reruns of Whose Line Is It Anyway? suddenly began a breaking news story. The mostly quiet room turned even quieter as everyone focused their attention to the reporter now on screen.

“We are sorry to interrupt your broadcast, but a truly horrible incident occurred just this morning, and for public safety we have elected to inform the general public as quickly as possible.”

They shuffled their papers slightly, looking queasy and scared as they began.

“Amanda Halls, the leader of the town council, has been found dead in her home. We will not show pictures at the moment as it is graphic and brutal, but she was found headless. Her head nearby had been split into pieces by a tremendous force. This first came to attention when Cassidy Rath received a frantic phone call from Amanda. We have received permission to play it back from Mrs. Rath, so we will take a moment to describe what happened before it is played to you. At approximately 6:08 am, Mrs. Rath picked up the phone to hear Ms. Halls begging for help as she reportedly ran through the halls of her home being chased by what she described as a demonic horse with a headless rider taunting her from a flaming pumpkin. Mrs. Rath stated she could hear it all and seemed to begin running out of her house still on call, begging Ms. Halls to stay on the line and keep running. She first called to her husband to phone for help to Ms. Halls’s abode. At this point, crashing sounds could be heard and both woman exclaimed at the sound of what Mrs. Rath asserts is the sound of a horse whinnying. The call ends on Ms. Halls side with a scream and what sounds like something being slashed at before the call drops. Her phone was found beside her body in pieces. We will now play the audio for those of you still listening in.”

What followed was more or less note for note what the reporter described, however the sounds of a horse or someone other than the two woman is noticeably absent. Only the sounds of items being shattered and broken enters into audible range. After it ends, the reporter appears once more to finish the broadcast.

“Mrs. Rath is absolutely certain she heard the same noises Ms. Halls had before her death, but the phone call has no such audio to anyone but her. Authorities are uncertain on the true cause, but what is known for certain is that Amanda Halls is dead. More information will hopefully be uncovered soon. Until then, make sure to stay safe.”

The broadcast ended and the reruns continued before it was shut off as well, leaving the horrified faces of those in the small bookstore to be reflected back, distorted and darkened upon the silent screen.

~~~~~

Your hand shook as you placed the remote down. You stayed still, trying to get your breathing under control as the customers and book club filtered out, looking worried and scared as they did so. Soon, your store was almost empty, leaving only you and Dorthy, the woman who ran the town book club that took place in your store. You jumped as she gently laid her hand over yours.

“Oh, (Y/n), you should head home soon too and check on, what’s his name, Dakota? Make sure he’s fine and let him know you are too. I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”

You squeezed your eyes shut for a few moments before trying a shaky smile as you slid out from behind the counter, following Dorthy out the door and locking the door. You would worry about any mess or anything tomorrow.

“Yeah, I should probably check in with him. Knowing Dakota, I’m sure they’re worried out of their mind. In fact, I’ll probably get a call from him soon.”

As if on cue, your phone rang, displaying Dakota’s name. You smiled weakly at Dorthy as you trotted off to answer them, hearing only the last thing she shouted after you before you turned the corner.

“Tell him that I said hello! I’m sure he’ll remember me!”

You chuckled under your breath, waving a hand her way absently as you finally answered the phone.

“Hey Dakota. I’m heading home now. I saw the broadcast and, well, it didn’t feel right to continue with no customers since everyone left almost immediately after.”

His sigh rang through the line, slightly tinny and exasperated as they no doubt messed up the hairstyle they had put together that morning.

“I don’t doubt it. I’m actually at the scene right now, otherwise I would have come to pick you up. Make sure to go straight home! And lock all the doors and windows! I know we’re on the second floor, but I don’t want you taking any chances. I don’t know what I would do with myself if you got hurt.”

You smiled slightly. Dakota always worried over you, made only worse by his job and constantly seeing the darker side of humanity. The apartment came into view and you quickly typed in the code and headed into the lobby.

“Yeah, I know. I’m just gonna check the mail real quick then I’ll head upstairs. Love you!”

You hung up before he could protest and tried to put the broadcast out of your mind as you collected the mail and headed up the stairs. Hopefully, this would be the end of the incident and life could continue on after they caught whoever was doing all this. With that hope in mind, you aimed to continue life as normal until this was all over.

~~~~~

Dakota returned late at night, face dark and concerned. You hurried over, unsure what to do to cheer them up as they collapsed onto the sofa. Before you could do anything however, he finally spoke in a hushed tone.

“I’m sure this will be on the news soon, but Cassidy Rath was found dead in the same way as Amanda Halls. This time, it was in a supermarket. One minute she was fine, the next she’s screaming and running as shelves fall over, the next she’s fallen herself and her head has wound up crushed before anyone could do a thing.”

You flinched, not expecting something like this to emerge. As you locked eyes with Dakota, it seemed clear to both of you something was going on that may not be able to be stopped.

“…Was there anyone who saw or heard something different?”

Dakota winced at your hesitant question, staring towards the ground for a moment.

“Yes. Dorthy Langland, the book club leader, the one that goes to your bookstore for meetings. She said there was a man on a horse chasing Cassidy through the aisles. Apparently he didn’t have a head and seemed to be covered in fire.”

He chuckled darkly at that, shaking his head and closing his eyes as his shoulders slumped. They were obviously exhausted and if the first two deaths were in anyway reliable as tells, it was only going to get worse from here.

“I tried to have her called into protective custody, or at least have a detail on her, but apparently there is not enough precedent to do so. Honestly, I think the rest of them just have a sick want to see what’ll happen next, the bastards.”

Dakota’s teeth began to grind and his back tensed in anger. You laid a hand across his back and he slowly relaxed. You tugged them up and towards the bedroom.

“Look, if you can’t right now, try again tomorrow, first thing. For now, it seems like there’s nothing you can do, so let’s just try to get some rest, alright?”

They sighed and squeezed your hands gently before nodding and allowing you to pull them along. Two deaths in less than a day and Dakota was already stressed. The only hope you held onto was that Dorthy would be able to survive without troubles, not realizing it was already too late.

~~~~~

Across town, screams rang out as Dorthy was lifted into the air, before something separated her head from the rest of her body. She had called the book club to meet in the park since they had forgotten to pick up the new book for the week from her earlier in the day. Most were reluctant, but still showed up, only to have it interrupted when something spooked Dorthy and two other members of the club. What followed was chaos ending in Dorthy’s body slumping to the ground. Her head soon followed before it was crushed under the foot of something massive like the two victims before her.

Then, whatever was there seemed to fade, leaving a shaken group to answer those that approached the disturbance. Most of them dispersed when allowed to, heading home and looking constantly over their shoulder. However, instead of one witness that saw something more than just air, there were two.

~~~~~

You heard cursing as Dakota raced out the door. You yawned emerging from the bedroom and pulling out something easy for breakfast before turning on the news, at which point you quickly found out why Dakota had raced out so fast as it talked of both Cassidy and Dorthy’s deaths, now showing photos of all three deaths, if cropped and censored to cut out the worst of the gore, as well as the two witnesses claiming to have seen what the previous victims had before.

Jerry Walters and Chrissy Forger were both members of the book club and you couldn’t help but fret over your thoughts about the rest of the group if three members had now been targeted. But, once again, you knew that worrying over it would not help and tried to busy yourself with chores you had half started the day before.

Time flew, and soon it was just after noon, at which point you discovered Dakota had left his lunch at home in his haste to get to work, as he often did. Knowing the awful options around there otherwise, you tried to ignore your fear and made your way out to catch a bus to the precinct, a familiar route from the number of times you had done this before.

Upon arriving, you found it mostly empty, just the receptionist and a few officers looking over paperwork, the rest you assumed were at the sites of the murders. The receptionist recognized you instantly as you walked over to check in.

“Should I just leave this here or can I give this straight to Dakota?”

You were unsure where he was, but the receptionist waved you on.

“He’s questioning the witnesses at the moment, but it’s been hours and I’m sure they would all appreciate a quick break. If nothing else, you can drag Dakota away so the rest of the officers can discuss a protection detail or protective custody for the two of them.”

You nodded, waving slightly at the officers in the corner as you headed to the room pointed out to you. Knocking lightly on the door, the quiet murmurs within went quiet and Dakota called for you to enter. Their eyes widened briefly when they saw you, but he quickly noticed the bag in your hands. You waved slightly to Jerry and Chrissy. Jerry waved back hesitantly, while Chrissy just nodded.

“I’m just here to drop this off, but they want your input on whether to give them a detail or keep them in protective custody. But, I guess that’s for you to decide, so I’ll be heading home now.”

Dakota nodded and kissed you on the cheek, waving you off, before turning to the two at the table.

“I’ll be right back, I’ll leave the door open, so just shout if you need any help.”

With that, he swept out, walking through a phantom solid and present only to the two at the table. They shivered as a voice filled their ears before the figure vanished once more.

“It seems I have found my goal. My revenge is almost complete, but let’s not rush it, shall we? I shall be back after I have some time with my beloved. But be warned, one word of this to anyone here and you both will be dead.”

~~~~~

The ride home was quiet, with only a few others on the bus by the time you reached your stop. Despite that, you felt at ease as if Dakota had come back with you. Instead, unbeknownst to you, it was the creature that was causing all this beside you, trying desperately to hold your hand, hug you, or even just touch you.

Despite what it had said about not rushing things, if anyone could see it now, they would see how much desperation was present in the murderer’s form.

You continued past your apartment to pick up a few items from the corner store, especially since the supermarket was likely still an active crime scene. The phantom continued to follow, unseen fire flickering wildly the longer you continued to chat with the cashier, oblivious to their presence. It calmed only once you were alone once more in the so called safety of home.

~~~~~

And so it stayed for two weeks, during which time the figure grew hateful of anything that ruined the time spent alone with (Y/n). They both found out, through Dakota, that Jerry and Chrissy were to be held for two weeks, and if nothing happened, then they would be released with a twenty four seven detail to keep them safe.

“Considering how fast the first three victims went, and the fact that holding them is more distracting for the higher ups, they set the limit at two weeks. I had to push for the details after that, otherwise they would just be released with no protection. It’s so irritating!”

Dakota grumbled, falling back with his head coming to rest in (Y/n)’s lap as they giggled at him before combing their hands through his hair. The angered figure swiping at Dakota from their position nearly wrapped around (Y/n) went unnoticed by both.

“Hey, at least you got it. So, just another week and then hopefully the detail will keep them both safe. Both of them were always so polite at my store whenever they stopped by for the meetings. I hope they will be alright.”

Dakota looked up at the despondent look on their face. He sighed, lifting himself up and turning around slightly to wrap their hands gently around the sides of (Y/n)’s face. They sealed their fate as he sweetly kissed them in front of the suddenly still creature shadowing their lives.

“I promise, I will do everything in my power to keep them and you safe from whatever is causing all this. So, make sure to stay as safe as possible and I will try to do the same.”

He leaned in to kiss (Y/n) once more, and then one more time before they fell back onto the bed, covering them with most of his body. The creature stood there and took it all in, white hot rage coursing through him at what took place before him. The only thing holding him back was the plan that found a place to root itself within his mind as he swiped furiously at Dakota, gently stroked (Y/n)’s cheek, and stood up to leave, still unnoticed by the couple. A smile widened as flames roared to life. They stepped out of the apartment and were almost instantly on ground level, atop a massive horse that took off at the flick of its reins. As it sped through the streets, unnoticed by all it passed, the dark promise that slipped into the air hung for only a moment as a spine chilling laugh followed after, causing a shiver to go down the spines of those in the area.

“Enjoy divinity while you can, Dakota. For in a week you will be left with nothing, as you deserve.”

~~~~~

The day had finally arrived. Dakota parted ways with (Y/n) as they headed to their bookstore, while he got into his car and headed into work. Jerry and Chrissy had been silent and shaky the first few days, but slowly relaxed as nothing seemed to happen. He hoped it would stay this way and that the protection details helped keep them safe.

Most of the day was filled with paperwork and filling out shifts for the officers on the details, but finally, as the four officers assigned to the first shift headed towards the houses of the two, Dakota arrived at the holding room to bring them both home. However, upon opening the door, what greeted their eyes was a bloody mess from a headless Jerry and Chrissy following suit as a sword swung and slid through her neck like butter, a spray of blood following that splattered around the room and across Dakota’s uniform. Finally, he saw what monster was causing all this as the horse reared up before bringing its hooves down upon the detached heads. A voice seemed to resonate from no where and everywhere at the same time as a gloved hand pointed directly at Dakota.

“Run if you want, but I will track you down and kill you the same as all the others. You will be my final bloody sacrifice to the tragedy your ancestors caused long ago. And then I shall finally reunite with my beloved (Y/n).”

Dakota bolted, somehow avoiding being seen as he rushed to the car and started it up, the only thing on their��mind being the possibility of getting far enough from town with (Y/n) that the beast could not follow them any further.

They should be closing the store soon, so with their first destination in mind, they sped off, refusing to give up and let the monster win, not when there was still a chance to escape and survive this horrible series of events.

~~~~~

The sound of screeching tires reached your ears as you locked up the store. You didn’t pay it any mind until a very familiar car was barreling down the road and pulling to a screeching stop right beside you. You could only blink in confusion as Dakota, with blood covering part of his uniform, got out of the car and started tugging you towards it. You balked, unsure what to make of this situation.

“Wait, wait, wait! Slow down, Dakota. What is going on? Why are you covered in blood? Aren’t you still supposed to be at work?”

“There’s no time (Y/n)! They were all right, the killer is a headless horseman! And now he’s after me and you. We need to get out of town now before he starts coming after us.”

Dakota used your confusion to finally pull you up to the side, gently shove you in, and buckle you firmly into place. They came around to the other side and he buckled in himself. They started up the car once more before peeling off down the road once more. Dakota was frantic and obviously scared, but if what they said and saw was true, then there was no doubt why. Still, you felt this was a little extreme and voiced your thoughts as the paved road became shadowed by the tall trees of the forest and the sign wishing you happy travels from the town flashed by.

“I refuse to take this lying down. I’ve been after this monster without knowing what it truly is. And if what he said is true, then I certainly don’t want him to get his claws into you, as well. All of these deaths and incidents have happened in town, so I’m just hoping beyond hope that if we get far enough from town we may be able to escape.”

You furrowed your brows as Dakota sped up, driving recklessly on such a narrow sighted road, but before you could say anything, the sudden sound of thunderous hoofbeats filled the air and a menacing cackle broke through the otherwise silent forest.

“Run, run all you like! But you haven’t escaped me yet Dakota!”

Dakota flinched as you turned to look through the back windshield.

“Don’t tell me you can hear him (Y/n)?”

Your eyes widened as you spotted the towering horse racing ever closer to the car and the large figure perched steadily atop it, clad in a dark coat, with black boots and leather gloves encasing the hands. A long sword sheath could be seen at the waist of the figure, and blood could be seen splattered lightly on the tan riding pants encasing the legs of the figure. But, most notably, there was a flaming jack o lantern held firmly under one arm as the other was occupied with urging the horse onward. As soon as you laid eyes on the pumpkin, it felt like the eyes locked onto your form and the grin carved into it seemed to widen as your breath stuttered at the sight. You fell back into the seat.

“I can. And I can see him too. I’m pretty sure he saw me as well.”

As if to prove your point, the voice rang into the air once more as Dakota tried to keep up the speed as the road began to wind.

“Lovely (Y/n), can you finally see me? It’s been centuries and my soul called out but yours never answered. But now you see and soon you will know. Stay where you are and I shall have you once more, as it should be.”

Confusion and fear filled you as Dakota slammed on the gas, pushing the car to its limits in an attempt to stay ahead of the beastly form steadily approaching. However, there was no time for anymore conversation as Dakota tried to take a quick glance behind and wound up spinning off the road. As the car slammed into a tree and the airbags quickly deployed, the clopping sound of hooves was ear deafening before fading slightly from earshot as it wound up rocketing past the crash. An angered scream trailed off as you slowly came back from the sudden pain throughout your body. Your side of the car had impacted the tree, leaving you to rely on Dakota to quickly pull you out. You cried out in pain, but Dakota continued to tug you out and brushed off as much glass as he could from the shattered window before lifting you into his arms and staggering into the forest.

They had been injured as well, but the adrenaline coursing through their body enabled them to make it far enough into the trees to stay out of view when the monstrous horse and rider stomped towards the wreckage. His angered shouts pulled you from your near black out as the car shrieked in protest as it was torn and smashed in a fit of rage. Dakota carefully set you back on your feet, taking your hand and running further off into the forest as the threats and sounds of metal faded further behind your retreating backs.

“I’ll find you! I’ll find you and I will tear your head from your neck with my bare hands Dakota! You can’t run from me forever, I will find you and I will kill you! There is nothing you or anyone else can do about it!”

You sniffled, stumbling slightly as tears filled your vision, but Dakota tugged you onwards. A sudden steep drop stopped your frantic run in its tracks. A rushing river, filled with rapids and sharp rocks was all that awaited you below your feet. The pause to consider which way to go gave you enough time to hear the now menacing sound of stomping hooves growing closer once more. You took the lead now, racing off towards what looked like a building towards the right. Dakota panicked but quickly caught on and took the lead once more as they heard what you did. The building turned out to be a covered bridge, stretching from one side of the ravine to the other. Dakota raced onwards, tugging you along, focused only on getting to possible safety, as you looked over your shoulder as the horse burst through the woods, creating its own trail through the forest and onto the path you were on now, closing the distance in mere seconds.

Your scream filled the air as you squeezed your eyes shut, expecting to get trampled. Instead, a firm arm looped around your middle, tearing you away from Dakota’s grasp and up, up, up into the air before you found yourself held firmly to the horseman. A scream left your lips once more as you saw Dakota get trampled instead, bringing him down just before the bridge.

The horse trotted around their downed form before coming to a stop at the urging of the rider. You squirmed, trying to get out of the iron like grip he had on you, stopping only as his other arm was raised to bring the flaming pumpkin up to eye level. A whimper escaped your lips as the eyes seemed to take in everything they saw before a voice seemed to emerge from both the pumpkin and the stump where his head should have been to begin with.

“(Y/n). You have not changed at all, still as lovely as the day I saw you last, the day they took everything that mattered from me. They called you a witch, screaming for your head just as they had for mine. But you did not come back like I did, a wretched beast living only for death and destruction. No, you have come back perfect and whole. And I shall never let you leave again. I will never let you be taken again. I shall never let you die again. I will keep you safe once more, my love. Now, stay put while I deal with the last of this trash.”

His hand placed the pumpkin over the stump on his neck, fire roaring from the top as the pumpkin took the place of his missing head. Before you could truly react, his arm uncoiled from your waist as he hopped down. Then, you found yourself suddenly tied down to the saddle, with rope pulled from a saddle bag, stuck until he decided to unravel the knots suddenly binding your body to the horse. You still tried as he approached Dakota, but could do nothing as one large hand grabbed their hair and yanked them up as the other wrapped around his neck and began to squeeze.

“Now, I believe I did promise I would tear your head from your neck with my bare hands and I always keep my promises. Hold still, this will only be worse if you struggle.”

You should have looked away or struggled harder or done something, anything to prevent this horror from playing out. But the adrenaline had run out, fear had overwhelmed you, and the pain from the crash was no longer dulled by a race through the trees, so you watched every second of the horrible feat of strength, heard every agonizing cry and tear of flesh from Dakota, and could smell the fresh blood fill the air as it sprayed from the now dead body of your lover. Dakota’s head was dropped from bloody, gloved hands. You sobbed as it rolled slightly to reveal the fear still engraved on the face.

The horseman approached the saddle, tugging the ropes from your form and pulling your limp form up to lean back against his firm chest, hands leaving bloody smears everywhere they touched. You couldn’t even bring yourself to struggle as he flicked the reins and the horse started moving once more. It stepped over the remains, one heavy hoof falling on the head and caving it in with a loud crunch before beginning to pick up speed once more, racing along the side of the cliff. With the jack o lantern still firmly on top of the neck, it left him a free hand to hold your form close as his voice filtered into your ears above the thundering of the running horse.

“I was a little worried there darling. A little farther and I wouldn’t have been able to get either of you. But, it matters no more, Dakota is dead and you are safe in my arms. As you should have been from the start.”

Tears continued to trickle down your face as the horse pulled away from the river, heading further and further into the darkening forest, taking both its rider and captive away from help, leaving only a wrecked car and a brutally dismantled body to be found behind them.

~~~~~

In a somber studio, another news report was being broadcast, this time with more horror than ever before.

“In other news, the murders that have plagued our town find no solace with the fact that the fourth and fifth victims; Jerry Walters and Chrissy Forger, have been discovered dead just before their release from protective custody. The lead on the case, Dakota Koche, was supposed to see them off but when they did not return, and the bodies were found, a search had been initiated, with Dakota and their lover; (Y/n) seeming to have vanished from town.”

Censored images of the two bloody bodies are shown, followed by pictures of the next two possible victims appearing on screen. This is quickly followed by more grave news.

“Authorities soon discovered a wrecked car off the road through the forest and matched the plates to Dakota. They followed a small trail to the side to discover their body, in much the same condition as all the other victims at a covered bridge leading further into the forest, the only difference seemed to be that his head had been brutally ripped off rather than cut off. However, (Y/n) has still not been found, leading us to believe they may have gotten away for the time being. The forest shall be searched to try to find them, whatever condition they may be in. Remember, any information you may have on the victims or the mysterious killer will be helpful, send in any evidence as soon as possible.”

The broadcast ended with a scrolling list of the victims and the information gathered so far, while the image of the missing person remained smiling to the viewers.

#yandere #yandere monster #headless horseman #yandere x reader #yandere mythology #Folk tales #still no idea what exactly to put in the tags #Murder #there is murder in here

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blackberries-and-arsenic · 1 year

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[CW: suicide]

My most chilling moment on Tumblr was scrolling through my feed, reaching the blog of an old friend who I followed across several social media platforms, and seeing this stark message: “If this posts, I’m gone.” She was gone.

I have since learned that the timing was not coincidence. It was immediately after the 2016 election. The outcome made her decide, finally, that no one cared about people like her, and made her fear that her healthcare, which she needed to live a pain-free life, would be taken away. It was more than that, of course. I won’t make it political, even though I just did. It’s never just one thing, but sometimes it’s one thing that sums up and underscores all the rest, that triggers the thought, “no one cares if I stay or go.” She went. And after that, this place felt like a haunted wood. There were cold spots in the corners. Every cute cartoon, every insight, every attempt at joy, felt like dancing on her grave. I wasn’t in such a great place myself.

So I left. I went quiet. I kept my distance. I left in little pieces, the way you do: one day you forget to check, and the next you realize you don’t need to check anymore. That urge burns out of you, and you move on to other distractions.

Even screenshots on other platforms held the chill of the morning I scrolled down and found out she was gone. This place was just the Place Where She Had Been.

I miss her probably more than I should. I still go back to that page and look up the last letter, where she told us that she was gone. She wanted someone to keep up with her life’s work, and to look after her cats.

Anyway, that’s where I’ve been, and that’s why I left. I didn’t want to be here anymore. It all got a little too real after she was gone. Any attempt after that felt hollow. Going through the motions. Despite my morbid inclinations, I don’t have the right shoes for dancing in graveyards.

Dammit, I cared if you stayed or went. But you didn’t ask me. By the time I knew, you were already gone.

I wonder if anyone took care of the cats.

#cw: suicide #cw: death

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bllsbailey · 21 days

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Why Aren't Dems Talking About RFK Jr's Dirtiest Not-So-Secret?

Even on the Kennedy Scale, Robert F. Kennedy Jr's sexual dalliances are legendary — as in the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, the Legend of Legend of Hell House, or the Legend of Chupacabra. It's all awful and somebody ends up dead.

Kennedy's father, Bobby, and uncles, Jack and Ted, were also notorious lechers.

Cruel comparisons were drawn — sometimes by Democrats — between Bill Clinton's conquests like Paula Jones and Marylin Monroe. Monroe was rumored to have been passed around between JFK and RFK, perhaps contributing to her untimely death by a barbiturate overdose in 1962.

RFK is believed to have had affairs with multiple women including, if the rumors are true, Lee Remick and Kim Novak. "Bobby Kennedy came from a family where marital infidelity was not necessarily a virtue, and wasn’t practiced a whole lot," Larry Tye, author of "Bobby Kennedy: The Making of A Liberal Icon," told People magazine in 2016.

And that's the Kennedy Tye described as being "probably the most puritanical and probably the most sanctimonious of Joe Kennedy’s boys."

Sheesh.

The dark joke, oft-told about Ted Kennedy was that he was called the "Lion of the Senate" because "he mates and kills at will." If I had to guess, based on his lifelong love of Mary Jo Kopechne jokes — no, I'm not kidding — Ted probably told that "Lion of the Senate" joke himself on occasion.

On the off chance you've forgotten, Kopechne was the woman Kennedy left to die in the water at Chappaquiddick in 1969. Sure, the "incident" might have forever ruined his presidential ambitions, but at least he got a few laughs out of it over the years.

I'm not a big fan of the Kennedys, as you might have already guessed.

If his dad Robert Sr. was what passed for puritanical and sanctimonious in the Kennedy clan, Robert Jr. apparently has no such compunctions hindering his dating life — but I'd forgotten until just today how deadly Junior's joie de vivre can be.

But some prankster remembered it all too well. It seems that Kennedy's election website is lacking (or perhaps was lacking — maybe the vulnerability is shut down by now) certain safeguards against any old person making up any old fake event and sticking it on the calendar for all to see.

Trending on PJ Media Videos

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mariacallous · 1 year

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Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, conceived by Vladimir Putin as a lightning-speed “special military operation,” has entered its second year without any remaining sense of clear military or political objectives. Nor is there any plausible account of how any gains from the invasion could possibly offset Russia’s losses from the war. For Meduza’s Ideas editor Maxim Trudolyubov, this absence of stated rational goals is not accidental. Putin’s reasons for prolonging the war, he writes, have less to do with foreign policy than with the Russian president’s need to buttress his autocratic power at home. The less successful he is in his “military operation,” the more likely it is that Putin will continue embroiling Russia in routinized warfare, in order to postpone the defeat that might signal the beginning of the end for Putin’s seemingly limitless presidency. It is for the sake of keeping the domestic threats at bay that Putin is now trying to reorganize Russian society around perpetual warfare.

It has become a habitual gesture for Vladimir Putin to divest himself of responsibility. One of his oft-repeated phrases, “we didn’t start this war, but it is our job to end it,” might have sounded less out of place if spoken by Volodymyr Zelensky. In fact, it did come from Zelensky’s 2019 inaugural speech, in which the newly-elected Ukrainian president said precisely this, referring the Russian-occupied Donbas. Putin has coopted Zelensky’s maxim without so much as crediting the source. Coming from Putin, though, the phrase rings hollow and false, not just because he did, in fact, “start this war,” but also because he is utterly incapable of ending it.

This incapacity is rooted in the political system Putin himself has created, part of which is the disorganized, unwieldy, and uncontrollably violent military that doesn’t stop at crimes against civilians. No leader can conduct a war marked by atrocities like those that shocked the world when the Russian army retreated from the Kyiv region, without forfeiting his chances of shaping the conditions for peace. As a leader, Putin cannot extricate himself from this war without facing the gravest accusations and possibly even threats to his life. As a result, his only way out of warfare is to crush the adversary, if he can. But given how big an ‘if’ this is, his best option is to perpetuate the war, since any conditional peace would probably mean Putin’s removal from power, followed by severe repercussions.

How dictators wage wars

The British historian E. H. Carr (1892–1982) thought that foreign policy is haunted by the specter of war the way domestic politics is haunted by the specter of revolution. Hein Goemans, a political scientist at the University of Rochester, developed Carr’s thought a step further: in his book Leaders and International Conflict (2011), co-authored with Giacomo Chiozza, Goemans argues that international conflicts develop precisely when leaders grow anxious about the transfer of power and try to preempt domestic revolutions by externalizing the political tensions.

This human anxiety about the loss of power is understandable, but it plays out differently in different types of regimes. A leader who can expect peaceful and orderly succession when the next election comes, or else when the term limit in office is reached, will act differently from a head of state who lives in fear of a violent coup. Their differences will most come to the fore in how these leaders will confront the dilemma of either continuing a war or making a peace deal. In his book War and Punishment (2000), Hein Goemans compiled and analyzed comprehensive data on the past two centuries of armed conflict, isolating three main types of leader behaviors with respect to the War–Peace dilemma. Goemans distinguishes three kinds of leaders: democratic leaders, dictators, and moderately repressive autocrats. (At the time of writing his book, he placed Putin in the latter category.)

A dictator threatened with removal by a coup or an insurrection is often convinced that going to war might improve his position. Being able to choose the time and place to start a conflict, as well as its character, gives him a sense of control, together with the hope of buttressing his power and neutralizing dangerous internal competitors. It must be said, too, that their fears about internal risks are well-grounded. While only seven percent of democratically elected leaders face adverse consequences for their actions in office within a year of leaving, that risk is 41 percent for authoritarian leaders, write Goemans and his co-author Alexandre Debs in their 2010 paper, “Regime Type, the Fate of Leaders, and War.”

Democracies and war

A democratically elected leader has a fair chance of contented retirement spent writing memoirs, even after a military defeat. It isn’t unheard of for a leader to be re-elected after an unsuccessful military campaign. (Take the recent case of Armenia’s prime minister, Nikol Pashinyan, re-elected after the 2020 war in Nagorno-Karabakh.) Conversely, a victorious war does not guarantee victory in a democratic election. Winston Churchill’s electoral defeat right after the Second World War is, perhaps, a textbook example of this reversal. Turkish Prime Minister Bülent Ecevit’s political defeat after Turkey’s successful incursion into Cyprus in the 1970s is another example of this pattern.

U.S. President George H. W. Bush is a particularly interesting case in this regard. His presidency was marked by America’s illegitimate, UN-condemned, but nevertheless successful invasion of Panama in 1989–1990. A year later, Bush, Sr., became the leader of an international UN-backed coalition in the Gulf War, a victorious war for the U.S. (in which even the crumbling Soviet Union fought on its side). Later, he saw the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union itself. From an American point of view, this was yet another triumph.

In Russia, with its cult of victories (a cult actively plugged by Putin himself), a leader who had triumphed not once, but three times would surely have risen to the status of a great historic figure. This didn’t happen to Bush in the U.S. Instead, the electorate, unimpressed by his economic policy, refused to bring him back for another term, electing instead an obscure governor of Arkansas who’d promised to improve the economy.

The bottomline is that democratic leaders are perfectly capable of embroiling themselves in military exploits. This isn’t what separates them from dictators and authoritarian heads of state. But an authoritarian regime is much more likely to use a war abroad to unleash repressions at home. Above all, dictators and autocrats are far more likely to perpetuate a war in their life-or-death struggle to remain in power.

War as the new normal

A regime that refuses to acknowledge its own mistakes (or worse, its crimes), insisting that everything is going according to the plan, will predictably come to a point when it has to present its crimes and errors as inevitable: It was fate. It befell the nation, and now everyone must deal with it. Difficult times happen.

Putin’s recent addresses, including his Federal Assembly speech last month, uniformly present the war as a new kind of normal. There’s nothing new, of course, in his being shy of calling things their own names. There’s no martial law, just graduated approximations; no mobilization except “partial”; nor is there any admission of the state of emergency into which the country is so obviously plunged. Unlike Zelensky, Putin has nothing to say about the aims of the war. He proposes no vision of a future victory, either. The war is presented as a “difficult situation” that formed somehow, maybe on its own, but more likely as a result of someone’s adversarial conniving. This “difficult situation” has no clear-cut beginning, nor a foreseeable end.

But interminable “difficulties” have their upside. In the picture that Putin is painting for the Russian public, the war becomes a link between the state and society. It has no cost at all to the public itself. No one has to pay for it, and the losses are carefully kept out of sight. Putin wants Russians to believe that society only stands to gain from the invasion, which leads to the creation of new jobs, gainful employment, social mobility, and ultimately stability. War means regular vacation time: you go to “work” in the combat zone, you take a break, you go back, all in an orderly, respectable fashion. If anyone dies or comes back disabled, the state has special care in store. It’ll all be paid for, and the new recruits, who will replace those already killed, should be well-funded from the start.

War is also profitable. The Kremlin is encouraging Russians to seize the economic opportunities created by the sanctions and by the mass exodus of foreign companies from the Russian market. Business must, in turn, subsidize the state’s militarization. What Putin doesn’t say is that, over time, corporations and individuals alike will have to increase payments to support the state’s military ambitions. If there’s one thing that years of diminishing real incomes have taught Russia’s president, it’s that hardly anyone will notice if the whole population at once gets poorer. (Those who don’t get poorer — the very rich Russians — hardly ever come into contact with everyday people.)

Putin’s main domestic allies are not, in fact, members of the military or the security apparatus. His vital collaborators are the civilian technocrats in charge of the social and economic spheres.

What could stop Putin?

The prospect of an inglorious finale makes autocratic rulers perpetuate wars at any cost, even if they realize that their original aggressive plans have failed. This is what happened to Kaiser Wilhelm II in 1914, when, four months into the First World War, Germany’s Schlieffen Plan for the speedy invasion of France fell through. That fall, the cabinet concluded that Germany had no chances of victory, and none would be achieved. But they continued the war, for four more years, on the grounds that ending it would also end the German monarchy. Putin’s regime has painted itself into a similar kind of corner. Russia’s “Schlieffen Plan” for Ukraine crumbled in March 2022, but (just like the German leadership of a century ago), Russia’s political elites committed themselves to the war, in spite of its futility.

Hein Goemans looks at war as a process of exploration and learning. The things that countries may spend decades concealing from one another become plainly visible in battle. How well-armed and well-equipped are the armies, the troops’ morale and readiness for combat, the competence of those in command, the responsiveness of international partners and allies: all of this comes to light during an actual armed conflict.

If war were to be simply a rational matter, then after a few months of collecting this information, the sides could take stock of what they learned about one another — and possibly cut their losses, the way investors do. Yet clearly, the pragmatism of warfare does not fully account for the decisions made by the politicians who start wars.

Losing a war doesn’t have to cost a dictator his life or his place in power. Saddam Hussein lost the Gulf War and remained in power for over a decade, but only because he had his main opponents killed. Leaders who are not so sure about their repressive apparatus and its reliability, may prolong their wars, because a drawn-out military conflict keeps them in power, but peace might very well become their death sentence.

With the help of Russia’s government technocrats, Putin is trying to erect a new state organized around perpetual war, in which society has no other anchors but warfare and Putin himself as a leader. Desensitizing society to casualties is the first step towards the kind of routinized warfare that Putin dreams of. How deeply he manages to lead society into this new state depends on how much time he is permitted to remain in office.

If Putin acts as if deeply uncertain about his personal safety in case of defeat, this may well be grounded in what he has learned about his own security apparatus while at war with Ukraine. Having proven themselves ineffective, Russia’s military elites have also shown themselves to be unpredictable. This discovery may very well be a lesson that Putin has taken to heart.

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rikuphobic · 3 years

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VOTE FOR BITCH2021 IN THE @haunted-hollow-elections!!

#haunted hollow elections #vote bitch2021!

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420-ghost-anon · 3 years

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#ghostie's hauntings #haunted hollow elections

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feralfens · 3 years

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technoblade says vote blaze2021

@420technoblazeit

(dududu)

#haunted hollow elections #haunted hollow elections propoganda #mcyt #if any of the actual ccs see this no you fuckin dont <3 #blaze2021

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borealhauntings · 3 years

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vote for vine2021! we've got games on our phones :)

#haunted hollow elections #vine2021 #draw your weapons

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minotaurmutual · 3 years

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disco elysium 🤝 cloudpunk: the heart of the city is talking to you. she knows you. she loves you. she has seen you become and end. the world is you and you are made of the world. save her.

disco elysium 🤝 night in the woods: there is a hole at the centre of everything. your dreams guide you towards it. the world is the negation of the nothingness swallowing it up. the unraveling of reality is imminent. nonetheless, you are here.

disco elysium 🤝 kentucky route zero: you are the ghost haunting the halls of unfulfilled dreams and broken promises, wandering the wasteland of lost hope incarnate. it haunts you right back.

disco elysium 🤝 hollow knight: our false gods have failed us and we live in the ruin of their unholy regency. did we elect them because we thought they could save us? from ourselves or from the loneliness?

#anyway disco unites all my favourite games #and is therefore the one true game #disco elysium #cloudpunk #night in the woods #kentucky route zero #hollow knight #op

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spectral-musette · 3 years

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She touched his face, fingertips light along his temple, nails delicately scraping through the short beard on his cheeks, lingering on the cleft in his chin before resting on his mouth.

“I thought…” she began, but then choked on a soft sob as the tears began to run down her cheeks.

“I thought you would be angry,” he said instead, nuzzling his cheek against her hand and then kissing the palm.

“I am furious,” she assured him, tenderly. “I am incandescent with rage.” Her lips were against his, her breath uneven in his mouth.

Directly following the Deception arc (Clone Wars Season 4 episodes 15-18), Obi-Wan asks for Satine's forgiveness for letting her believe he was dead.

Just over 2000 words, M in AO3-style rating, probably part of a longer work if I can ever finish it and think of a title.

. . . . . . . . . .

Obi-Wan had not protested very much when Padme offered him the use of her family’s lakeside retreat in the aftermath of the attempted abduction of the Chancellor on Naboo. He had, however, expected a slightly more modest structure than the sprawling villa he’d found upon his arrival. Despite the droids on staff, the place seemed empty, hollow, as though it still echoed with the voices and laughter of a happy family. So fresh from his undercover work, he wasn’t sure isolation was the best remedy for his rumpled spirits after the ordeal, but arrangements had been made, and he supposed he could make the best of it for a few days.

In some ways, he was eager to leave Naboo. The memory of Qui-Gon’s death still cut like a keen-edged blade here. But perhaps that meant he should stay, to meditate on his old grief.

Painful as that prospect was, at least it sounded more surmountable than returning to a Temple that had been mourning him.

He’d have to, eventually. Anakin’s (justified) expression of betrayal and Ahsoka’s wounded demeanor still stung, and he didn’t look forward to repeating these painful scenes with other dear friends, with Luminara, or with Quinlan. But until the GAR red tape was untangled (at least a few days), he was still officially dead, and granted all the freedom of a wandering ghost.

He felt a little like the ghost of his old self after a quick swim as he climbed out of the lake onto the patio by the house. He sat heavily on the flagstones, still warm from the sun even as the stars were coming out. The constellations of Naboo seemed startlingly familiar considering the few times he’d seen them. The span of nearly 15 years felt short tonight. Perhaps it was the mere stubble of hair on his skull, shorter even than a padawan’s. Perhaps it was the ache of his old Master’s absence. He tried to ground himself in the present; as he toweled off his wet limbs, the ugly burn scars from his duel with Count Dooku shone pale in the moonlight, and his face still hurt from the dreadful biotech that had transformed him into the Mandalorian marksman.

It was always Mandalorians, wasn’t it? Proof that the Force possessed a sense of dramatic irony that the brethren of the woman to whom he’d lost his heart seemed to continually haunt him.

The guilt of it weighed like a stone on his chest. The mission had dragged on far too long for Satine not to have heard news of his apparent death. He had hoped it might all be resolved before… Well, it had been an unlikely hope, anyway. Padme almost certainly told her immediately.

There hadn’t been anything for it. To ask for permission to tell Satine the truth before the charade would’ve been tantamount to confessing his feelings for her. Had there only been the censure of the Council involved it might’ve been one thing, but any careless word to the Chancellor’s staff could’ve proven disastrous for Satine and the gossamer-fine line she walked to keep peace and authority on Mandalore. He’d been keeping her safe even as he wounded her.

Just like the old days, pulling her out of harm's way, or shielding her with his body.

Only this wasn’t an accidentally scraped knee or bruised arm. Perhaps it was vain of him to assume, but he knew how deeply she cared for him, how intense her feelings ran…

He’d tried composing a message to her so many times. Even still in the guise of Rako Hardeen, when he caught a moment’s rest, he’d gone over it in his mind, lulling himself into an uneasy sleep as he tried to find the words to ask her forgiveness.

In the end, a forthright Forgive me, was the best he could muster, hastily sent to her private channel as soon as he’d gotten access to a comm unit at the conclusion of the charade. If you’ll listen, I’ll try to explain, but nothing will excuse what I’ve put you through. Know that I am so very sorry.

She hadn’t replied. He checked the comm unit again as he pulled his undertunic over his head, the rough linen soaking up the last of the lake water on his back, seeing only his own message, stark and insufficient.

He didn’t blame her, truly.

He’d slept since sending it, through the afternoon, reveling a little in the luxury of resting when he felt tired, regardless of the local daytime cycles. And he dreamed in disjointed flashes, mostly of her… her grief, her melancholy, her ire… of the glint of tears on her dark gold eyelashes, the quaver of anger in her beloved voice.

He wasn’t sure if he ought to just sleep again, now that night was here. Weary as he was, he felt he could sleep for days.

He heard the door from the house to the patio open. He didn’t look immediately, as it seemed likely to be one of Padme’s droid caretakers, there to ask if he required food or clean linens. But there was no whirring of servos, and the footsteps on the flagstones sounded too soft. He caught a whiff of an achingly familiar floral scent just as he turned.

She must’ve been too much in his thoughts already, his mind too clouded with guilt and regret and weariness to clearly sense her presence.

But Satine stood, silhouetted by the dim illumination of the house, resplendent in the scarlet gown she’d worn the night they’d met in secret on Coruscant, though her hair was loose about her shoulders, pale and shimmering in the moonlight. For a moment she was utterly still, then she merely raised a hand to her mouth, stifling a soft gasp.

He scrambled to his feet, keenly aware that this was not the state in which he wished to appear before his lady. His trousers were still sopping, his undertunic open to the navel, and his hair had barely grown in longer than the stubble on his jaw. But her eyes were only on his, and shining with tears. She took a few steps towards him, then swayed a little. He lunged to catch her around the waist; the last thing she needed on top of all the rest of the suffering he’d caused her was bruised knees. She twined her arms around his neck, and his knees gave a slow surrender too, such that the pair of them sank to the flagstones, wrapped in each other’s arms.

She touched his face, fingertips light along his temple, nails delicately scraping through the short beard on his cheeks, lingering on the cleft in his chin before resting on his mouth.

“I thought…” she began, but then choked on a soft sob as the tears began to run down her cheeks.

“I thought you would be angry,” he said instead, nuzzling his cheek against her hand and then kissing the palm.

“I am furious,” she assured him, tenderly. “I am incandescent with rage.” Her lips were against his, her breath uneven in his mouth.

He tasted it in her kiss, a fleeting note of bitterness and sorrow amid the heady sweetness of her relief and joy, the fire of her desire.

“I am so very sorry,” he repeated, abject.

“Oh, I hope so,” she replied, breathless.

As usual, Satine had the last word, as neither of them could speak for some time after that.

. . . . . . . . . .

She lay on her side, half propped up on her elbow, her head against the pillow and her hair spread across it in a tangle of pale spun gold. The bedclothes were pooled around her waist, and he deeply felt the intimacy and vulnerability they shared in that moment. He thought this image of her would be vivid in his mind for the rest of his days, however long that might be: the pale morning light on her bare skin, her flushed cheeks, the glint of unshed tears in her eyes, the soft swell of her breasts with her sharp, uneven breaths as she tried not to cry again.

Finished with his abridged account of the awful ordeal, he reached out to run the backs of his fingers along her arm.

“Say something,” he begged.

She sat up a little more, her hair falling across her face as she wrapped her arms around herself and turned away from him.

“It might be… easier to accept, if you’d done it for the sake of someone … worthy of all this pain. To protect Anakin or Ahsoka or Padme or…”

“Satine, I can’t decline a mission to protect the Chancellor simply because I dislike the man.”

“It isn’t a matter of dislike. There’s something… so… wicked about him. Manipulative and scheming. Don’t say it’s because he tried to put troops on Mandalore, and don’t you dare say it’s because he’s a politician.” She turned back to him, her gaze challenging.

“No,” he agreed prudently. “I won’t say that. I don’t disagree with you. He’s been a mentor to Anakin and to Padme for as long as I’ve known him, but I can’t help thinking it’s always been somehow for his own benefit. He steered Padme to get himself elected in the first place, and his grip on the office has been white-knuckled since. I can’t very well blame him for the war, but despite his lipservice towards peaceful resolution, the GAR keeps swelling its ranks.”

“I’ll blame him. Unfortunately, there’s no evidence to confirm it aside from my gut feeling.”

He placed a hand on her waist, his thumb tracing around her navel. “I’ve learned to trust your gut feelings. But dislike him, distrust him or not, my duty is to the Republic.”

He started to pull his arm back, but she gripped it by the elbow. He slid his hand to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

“What of your duty to me?” Her voice was quiet, but not without a note of beskar.

“Is it duty?” he asked. “I thought it was love.”

“Perhaps it’s very Mandalorian of me,” she said, “that we hold our most sacred duties to be to those we love.”

“Satine, I cannot put my devotion to you above the will of the Council or the good of the Republic. Not while I serve the Jedi Order.”

He almost expected her to pull away in anger or distress, but she shifted closer, pressing her face against his shoulder. “I know that. I’ve always known that. But it hasn’t hurt like this before.”

“Not since I left?” he suggested, burying his face in her hair and holding her tightly.

“No. Not even then. It wasn’t losing you, it was letting you go. This was… like I had died too.”

The guilt of it made his stomach turn. “I am so sorry, Satine. If there had been time to find another way… to spare you this…”

“The worst of it is that you knew how it would hurt me,” she accused. “And you still did it.”

“I knew,” he confirmed, regretful. “The Chancellor insisted on knowing everyone who was privy to the plan, and I had no time to even find the opportunity to disobey. I thought… the risk of revealing that you should be told…”

She let out a breath, hot against his skin.

“I think I’d have much rather run that risk than think you were dead.”

“If I’d had time to think it through, perhaps I’d have decided differently. But everything was snap decisions, and my instinct was to protect you.”

“And I can’t even be angry at you for that.”

“Of course you can be angry,” he soothed.

“Oh, what good does it do?” she demanded, lifting her head, fair brow furrowed. “Just wasting time quarreling when we have so little time together anyway.”

“Then you forgive me?” he asked humbly, kissing her forehead.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, stroking his cheek. “I know that I still want you, though.”

“Then I am yours,” he promised, kissing her fingertips.

“At least it’s not an offense that’s very likely to be repeated,” she reflected, shaking her head a little.

“Not very,” he agreed.

“I feel like I ought to extract some promise… some penance. But I expect you’ve punished yourself enough.”

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back. “The thing itself was terrible too. Not that I’m suggesting that what I went through can compare to-”

“Hush, darling,” she scolded. “It can be terrible on its own.”

“Sometimes I thought my death might end up not being a lie after all,” he said softly.

“Do you want to tell me?” she asked, her fingertips light across his brow.

He shook his head. No, he didn’t want to see how it would pain her, to think of him in danger, forced to behave as an utter villain. “Not now. Not more than I already have.”

She kissed him then, deep and ardent. “Then forget, for a while,” she said, breathless, her lips still brushing his. “Let me forget again. Make me forget.”

She hitched her leg around him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as he shifted onto her, into the blissful oblivion where she was the center of the universe and the Force sang in resonance with their love.

#Obi Wan/Satine #obitine #Star Wars fic #Clone Wars fic #I wrote a thing #long post #Obi Wan Kenobi #Satine Kryze #guys I am so bad at titles #I have been trying to write something about this for ages

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anon-e-miss · 2 years

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At Waiting‘s End - Recovery

“I am not damaged,” Prowl said as Jazz tried to help him up after the bitlet had drunk his fill. “I gave emergence ten stellar-cycles ago, I have long recovered.”

“Sorry,” Jazz replied, though he did not feel especially chastised. Prowl had liked being fussed over after crashes or injuries at any point in his Autobot tenure.

“Originator…” Prowl looked to Camshaft.

“Go,” his originator ordered. “Take my grand creation to safe harbor. I will follow when the work here is done.”

The flood had ebbed some by the time Jazz stepped back into the tunnel with Prowl. Down where he had seen mechanisms working to stop the leak, he saw the same mechanisms using a bilge pump. It was novel to him. He had seen survivors of mass slaughter before, had seen their hollow and haunted optics. These mechanisms organized and collected, working diligently against the continued threats to their survival. Jazz thought Prowl’s stalwart nature may not be entirely so unique to him. They did not talk as the ascended the tunnel. Though Jazz had so many questions, all surrounding the bitlet in Prowl’s arms, he kept them to himself for now.

It was eerie and quite as they stepped out into the crater. The acid rain had stopped for now. Prowl rolled his doorwings as he looked around, holding his bitlet close to his chassis. Jazz heard the little bitty cooing and he long to get a closer look, and just a touch but he did not dare. Seeing the way Prowl’s plating flared, ever so slightly out, he knew Prowl was nervous. Hound responded to Jazz’s comm with a ping, giving him the location of the mobile camp Optimus was setting up, Jazz placed a servo on the small of Prowl’s back and guided out of what had once been the brilliant core of his city-state. So still and quite were the ruins, when they crested the steep bowl of the crater, the near silent whimper Jazz heard may as well have been a scream.

“Stay here,” Jazz ordered. “I hear somethin’.”

“Jazz,” Prowl called after him, but Jazz was already moving.

He listened intently as he explored the wreckage of what he thought had been an agricultural village; Jazz could still make out the remains of fields. It was a sniffle, just a sniffle that narrowed his search grid. Jazz. The first thing he saw was a dead youngling, lying face down in the debris with a blaster wound in the back. They had known the Seekers had been picking off survivors but seeing a poor mechling lying dead… beyond the mechling, only steps away was another. It was horrifying. These were not even just civilian adults but mechlings, just mechlings. Jazz listened intently and heard another sniffle. He followed the quiet noise to a pile of debris. There was a long piece of sheeting, probably the side of an old barn and pulled it away.

“No! No! Please no!” The mechling cried as he covered his helm with his arms.

“Y’re okay, bitlet,” Jazz cooed. “‘M an Autobot, ‘m here to rescue ya.”

“No, no, no, no,” the mechling cried. “They said that. They said that.”

“Jazz,” Prowl called to him. “Step back.”

“Prowl,” Jazz sighed, seeing the former SIC standing a few steps away. He must have been drawn over by the sparkling’s cries. “I told ya to stay.”

“And I elected not to,” Prowl replied. “Now step back. In this area, he has probably never met a foreign-frame that was not trying to kill him.”

“A’ight,” Jazz said, he stepped back with his servos raised as Prowl stepped up. He watched, with rapt attention, as Prowl revved his engine in a sweet little purr and crooned and the mechling.

“Come out of there, Sweetspark,” he said. “This is not place for you.”

“You… you… you’re Praxian,” the mechling whimpered.

“I am,” Prowl said. “Come out now, come with me. Jazz is a friend, I swear on my spark.”

“Are you sure?” The mechling squeaked.

“I am very sure, Darling,” Prowl crooned. “He is the progenitor of my bitlet. He would not do anything to put us in harm’s way.”

“Okay,” the little mech shivered as he stood up from his hiding place. He looked only at Prowl, straight up at his face. Jazz thought he had already peaked out and seen the death all around him. They could have been his kin, or they could have been his friends, or they could have been mechlings that had just somehow survived the bombings, just to be shot as they fled the Seekers.

“What is your designation?” Prowl asked.

“Bluestreak.”

“I am Prowl. My bitlet is Smokescreen. You and we are safe with Jazz.”

“Can I pick ya up?” Jazz asked. “Ya must be tired ‘n I don’t want ya hurtin’ yerself steppin’ on anythin’.”

“Okay.”

“Are ya cold?” Jazz asked.

“A little,” Bluestreak shivered. “I got rained on.”

“When we get ya back home, you’ll have a nice long bath,” Jazz promised. “In the meantime, lemme put a warming blanket ‘round ya.”

It was not just to keep him warm. Jazz cover Bluestreak’s helm and as the mechling rest it on his shoulder, Jazz tugged the blanket up to cover his face. He did not need to see any more than he had. Arms full of traumatized sparkling, Jazz could not hold Prowl’s arm or guide him at all, but he supposed there had never really been a need to. Prowl was nibble as he stepped around and over debris. He dipped his doorwings to each murdered mechanism they based. Primus, Jazz cursed, cursed the god and himself. The Autobots had been so close, so close but too far to stop this carnage. It seemed to him there had been considerably more survivors in the outskirts, in the farming country, than there had been in the city-state’s core. They had still died, because the Autobots had not been able to break through the Decepticon lines fast enough to save them.

“I don’t believe it,” Ratchet gasped. “Prowl?”

“He was the sniper takin’ out those flyin’ petrorats,” Jazz explained. “There are over 10,000 survivors waitin’ for evac in the catacombs. Prowl’ll coordinate wit his ori, designated Camshaft, to see ‘em all transported out safe.”

“I am fine, Ratchet,” Prowl groused as the medic’s scanners fell on him. “Focus on the mechling.”

“It’s good to see you in one piece, Prowl,” the Prime’s deep voice boomed and Jazz watched Prowl straighten, ever the perfect solder. “I’m sorry for all you lost.”

“We had lost before the bombs fell,” Prowl replied. “Me and mine have been hiding in the catacombs, all those Nightstalker wished to cleanse. I am sorry we did not rescue more while we could.”

“There was floodin’ in the tunnels,” Jazz said. “Looks like got a good pump system sorted but don’t know how long it can all hold. I’d like to see’em out quick.”

“We’ll see it done,” Optimus said. “Escort Prowl and the survivors we’ve gathered so far. The Autobots will remain in Praxus until every survivor is life flighted. No one will be left behind.”

#anon-e-miss writes #anon fic ask #anon asks ficlet #tf prowl #tf jazz #tf camshaft #tf bluestreak #bitty smokey #at waiting's end #valveplug #maccadams

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the-ipre · 3 years

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skywalker men and the divine right of kings

[id: five quotes from Shakespeare’s Richard II paired with images from Star Wars. The first quote reads “I live with bread like you, feel want,/Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,/How can you say to me I am a king?” The next picture shows Anakin, with the caption “(Padme) ‘To be angry is to be human.’ (Anakin) ‘I’m a Jedi. I know I’m better than this.’” The second quote reads “[Duchess of Gloucester] Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?/Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?/Edward’s seven sons, whereof thyself art one,/Were as seven vials of his sacred blood,/Or seven fair branches springing from one root” above a gif of Luke saying “The Force is strong in my family.” The third quote reads “Not all the water in the rough rude sea/Can wash the balm from an anointed king./The breath of worldly men cannot depose/The deputy elected by the Lord” above a gif of Luke saying “I am a Jedi...like my father before me.” The fourth quote reads “All murdered. For within the hollow crown/That rounds the mortal temples of a king/Keeps Death his court, and there the antic sits”, followed by a picture of Kylo Ren sitting before the burnt Darth Vader mask. The fifth quote reads “For heaven’s sake let us sit upon the ground/And tell sad stories of the death of kings:/How some have been deposed, some slain in war,/Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed” above a gif of Luke standing in front of his father’s funeral pyre. /end id]

#star wars #luke skywalker #anakin skywalker #darth vader #shakespeare #richard ii #the jedi are the divine right of kings change my mind-

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nicoforlifetrue · 3 years

Text

He doesn't stay in the world for long, at first jumping from these worlds of left-behind not-yet watchers. Then, finally, he reaches out and draws out a world of his own, hiding it in magic so thoroughly it's overkill.

Then he builds.

He builds and he builds, from cityscapes to cottage towns, ignoring the phantom hands and feathers on his back.

He learns and he plays, crafting structures ..and at times turning over his shoulder to ask if they're proud, to find no one.

Just empty space.

Endless, flat, empty space with no movement other than his creations.

He's alone.

And so instead he spends his time building and flying, once even revisiting his almost forgotten engineering skills to maybe just manufacture a friend, hell even a chat bot would work… And then realizing maybe they should have stayed forgotten— as, for a few weeks, he spent hours frantically fixing the code of a robot he had locked in his closet after it had deleted the laws of robotics out of its own files. Sure a fully functioning AI was groundbreaking and all, but it being convinced it was literally a demon that wanted to seemingly kill him and/or work him to death was one weird bug to come out of the whole thing.

He elected to not tell it that he was incapable of dying. Last thing it needed was even more reason to make him build more rustic houses.

He then of course didn't learn his lesson and made a second one, someone to entertain his first when he just didn't have the energy to.

Npg, he named the first one, Robo he named the second.

They lived to annoy each other and make his life a nightmare. Because unfortunately now that there were two of them, they now had someone on the outside to edit their code.

Robo seemed set on turning Npg’s builds into a completely different style when the other turned its back, which led to Grian having to reattach Robo’s arm and yet again re-code Npg out of a rage loop that Grian couldn't figure out how to just remove without a complete and total system failure.

His only real confusion is why they stopped targeting him in their fits of rage.

And why they went into the closet when they had a virus, that was weird too. Learned habits maybe? He did tend to lock them in there when he was fixing the homicidal tendencies, and it is where he kept a mass majority of his more fine tuned engineering instruments. So maybe the learning AI had put the closet as the bug fixing space, and then also learned that it was faster to be repaired when in that area? Grian did tend to notice something was wrong faster now that they had picked up the habit. It seemed a bit too advanced considering the simple learning program he had installed, but then again it had also learned how to delete something grian had hard wired into its code so, at this rate, anything was possible.

He still can't believe he had managed to code it considering most of his knowledge was self taught. Not that he'd claim to have done much, Npg and Robo had made most of the more impressive edits to their own code.

He learned his lesson and stopped at Robo, deciding to focus on his current bots instead of stress over making new ones. The bots had enough issues where it didn't matter either way. Not to mention Robo seemed to be developing a praise seeking personality, as well as a jealousy streak. He couldn't be sure any new bots would survive it. Also considering he's pretty sure the only reason Robo isn't trying to get rid of Npg is because of how Grian would scold both of them when they hurt the other. It seemed like his scolding triggered a “bad” tick in the code, thankfully, so they should learn out of harming things soon.

He hopes.

He quietly thanks whatever higher power is controlling the two’s code that even touching the rewards and punishments system causes a complete system failure. A thing he learned when Robo had tried to get rid of said bad tick and Grian had found it face down on its build.

…He also spent a lot of time thinking— thinking about what happened, what he doesn't like, what he adores, often about himself.

And he finds things he didn't quite like.

He notes first how the ‘they’ he so adored growing up has dropped from his inner monologue, the pronoun a bit spoiled by the connection to them, although there still a cherry sweetness to the letters when he thinks of them— a flash of straw blond hair and a hidden smile— but with some good news he feels pleased when running over third person phrases; he finds himself using words like person instead of boy, or partner instead of boyfriend, or child instead of son, the only exception being the same as before with brother instead of sibling.

A discovery he made when one time his mentor was feeling particularly talkative and had murmured plans for children, about how Grian would be a great sibling.

He always loved how all it took was “brother” from him and the immediate shift in his mentor's words.

But his pronouns had changed, not much else.

With this revelation he trailed after it, noted with no small pleasure that they did not change who he was— he was still a demiboy, that hadn't changed, and he found no small joy in thinking it never would, the image of him telling his mentor and the soft wings that had pulled him just a bit closer lighting up in his mind as he thought of it; their silent “ok” when they couldn't bring themselves to whisper the word.

Then he chases after what he hates now, things to tiptoe around.

He finds the end revolting; not enough to never go, but enough to avoid, blacks and purples send shivers up his spine and he finds cloaks quite pleasant to burn, whittling himself a staff fills him with confidence instead of disdain, and with a couple testing jabs he finds the weapon a comfort instead of a nuisance.

He finds quite quickly that his diet has changed.

Outside of their realm he finds himself growing hungry, and thus discovers the variety of things he can no longer consume, which just so happens to be near everything; meats are off the table, too many fruits give him a stomach ache, bread is kind of okay but too much and he gets a headache— the only thing he doesn't have much problems with seems to be seeds which, oddly enough, keep him feeling fairly full.

He ends up finding himself mixing together meal bags, comprised mostly of seed with the max amount of other things before he gets sick. As far as he can tell he hasn't been malnourished, at least according to the bots and how he himself feels, so he calls it good and moves on to other issues.

Like the loneliness, how it surrounded him, made haunting whispers echo at the edge of his hearing, gunshots now mixed with snapping wings.

He was alone, painfully alone. Other than his two homicidal robot sons who he loves dearly yet still, they don't make much for conversation. Or much anything to socialize with. They were… hollow, unable to chase away his thoughts for more than a few seconds at most.

He wanted people— real honest people… But he was alone.

But things change.

#watcher phil #watcher grian #npg #npc grian #robot grian #2/10 #the finch fanfic #grian

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