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phoenixyfriend · 3 years

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Rex and Anakin Raise a Family: Part Two

Part One

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Anakin takes the news with... not grace, really, but an odd sort of resignation.

"Room to fix things," he mutters to himself, eyes set unseeing on Luke's tiny form.

Twins are often born smaller than single births, Rex remembers hearing somewhere. He hopes that's the only reason these two are so small. Leia feels absolutely minuscule in his arms.

He wishes he could ask Kix.

"Do you want to find Jango?"

Rex lifts his head to find Anakin staring at him with an earnest kind of depression. It's strange, and sad, and not helping with the question. "What?"

"You... you grew up with a lot of family," Anakin mutters, eyes cutting away to the side. "Fett would be a kid right now, yeah? He's... young. And you don't have the family that you used to have, but--"

"I'm not going to go out and find Fett to adopt him," Rex says firmly. "He was a genetic donor and once or twice a teacher. I have no interest in forming any bonds there."

He hesitates, but that was--Anakin was trying. Not succeeding, but trying. "Thank you for asking. It's... maybe if my childhood had been a little different, I'd have wanted that. But I don't, here."

Anakin winces. "Right."

Rex watches his general bounce a newborn, and thinks this is my life now.

There is no GAR to fight for, no brothers to save, no Empire to fight against. They'd thought there would be, but there isn't, not yet. They could find and warn the Jedi, but none of them would know Anakin. Nobody is going to look at Rex and see a clone. He's older than Fett, now.

"We're staying here," Rex decides. Anakin looks up from Luke's little face. "I'll figure out how to get us some Republic Idents. We'll get the twins registered. This planet is safe and out of the way, and we can figure something out for the money. You're a good mechanic, that's honest work, and I'm... I don't know. We've got a ship, so I can maybe do what Fett did and take bounty work. We'll figure something out."

"I can't ask you to stay with me."

"You're not asking," Rex says firmly. "I'm telling you. You don't get to push me away, sir. We're all the other has left, and you're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Okay," Anakin says. "If that's what you want."

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They don't have a whole lot of money personally, but this was Padme's ship. She'd been rich, and prone enough to danger to know the worth of hiding money where she could. They may not have more than a few weapons on here, but they have money.

For now.

Rex knows his general is itching to go to Tatooine, sees the man muttering and twitching about it, needing to do something, and that the something has to do with Tatooine.

"Can it wait?" Rex asks.

Anakin stares at him, uncomprehending.

"Your kids are only a week old," Rex tries to explain. "They need you right now. Is this something that can wait a few months, where I can watch them while you take a week or two to handle what you need to do?"

Anakin takes Leia from Rex, and doesn't bring it up again.

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Rex goes with Anakin, when they visit the nurse. He catches gossip about the two of them, but people don't go out of their way to approach. Mostly, people are just repeating the 'died in childbirth' cover that he gave before, telling each other who the strangers are, and why they shouldn't try to get involved.

The nurse asks only enough questions to get a medical baseline established for the twins. Anakin doesn't volunteer much, and when the Twi'lek woman asks if they'd like her to set up medical files for either of them, Rex has to immediately decline.

He has no idea what his blood is going to turn up. Genetic fuckery and something to deal with the advanced aging, maybe. He's not sure he wants to know, but either way, it's probably not going to be something this small clinic can handle.

"I'll have to set one up if you want to take the lactation aid," she tells Anakin.

"Yeah, okay."

She takes blood. Almost everything is mostly normal, except.

"Your midichlo--"

"I know."

"Are you--"

"Jedi aren't allowed to marry."

She doesn't dig further, just glances at how Anakin's holding Luke, and nods.

"It doesn't seem like there are any complicating factors. I can write up a prescription right now and you should be able to get it filled same-day. There will be a list of instructions and side-effects on flimsi when you pick it up, but I'd like to go over it in person first. Do you want Mr. Torrent to stay here with you as we do that, or to wait in the hall?"

"Up to him."

"I'll stay," Rex promises.

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Three pills a day, one with every meal. Tissue stimulation by massaging the pectoral area, and allowing the twins to suckle even before there's anything to actually drink. Expect soreness and increased appetite, don't drink caffeine or take any form of stimulant while nursing. Here's a list of possible side-effects, the best way to handle the minor ones, and which ones to contact a medical professional about.

All very normal.

Anakin's rarely ever done anything with less than his whole heart, and Rex isn't surprised to know that Anakin is this dedicated a parent as well. He's... he was proud to serve his general, but he thinks there's something just as fulfilling as being by his side here and now. There's something better about helping raise the little ones that would never be found on a battlefield.

"Do you want them to call you Uncle Rex?" Anakin asks during a feeding. "Or... ba'vodu? Or do you want to just..."

"Just what?"

"...we're going to be co-parenting," Anakin says, not meeting his eyes. "And every time I try to suggest you go and find something for yourself, something that doesn't revolve around me, a person you were literally tube-grown for, you say you don't want to leave. So if you're going to be sticking around, really staying for years and years... we could tell them to call you buir. If you want."

"Oh."

Oh.

It's a lot. It's something Rex has maybe fantasized about before, getting to be a parent instead of just a soldier, but he'd also resigned himself to the fact that it wasn't really an option. Even now, he'd just expected to be a friend of the father, maybe an honorary uncle if he was lucky, or--

"Are you sure?" Rex asks, before he can start to hope. "I don't--I don't want to take Padme's place."

"You're not," Anakin says, fierce as anything. "You won't--nobody can ever take her place, but there are people with five parents, or none, and I'm not going to--I don't want to--"

Anakin squeezes his eyes shut and breathes harshly for a few moments. Leia fusses, like she's seconds away from crying, and Rex watches as his general holds the child in his arms closer to his chest, visibly focusing on calming down in a way he rarely, if ever, had during the war.

"It's okay, Papa just got a little upset, it's fine, we're calm, I'm sorry I got sad, honey, I'm sorry you had to feel that," Anakin whispers under his breath as he bounces the baby.

(Raising Force-Sensitive children was never going to be easy anyway.)

"You're sure about this?" Rex asks again.

"You want to be involved in their lives," Anakin mutters. "So... yeah, you should get to be their dad in name, too. And if you use Mando'a, it'll be easier for them to have different names for us."

"People are going to think we're together."

Anakin shrugs. "People think a lot of things."

Rex wants this. He wants to imagine the twins toddling up to him, grins on their faces, calling him buir and meaning it. He wants to have what he saw at the Lawquane's, where a lack of blood connection and a half-sliced age hadn't stopped those children from claiming Cut as their father. He's only thirteen, technically, but he wants to have a family, even if it's as broken as what they've found here.

"I'd be honored, sir," Rex says. "I... thank you. I can't tell you how much this means to me."

"You don't have to," Anakin mutters, refusing to meet his eyes. "I can feel it."

Right.

"They already love you," Anakin continues, as if his goal today is to just smash Rex's decorum to pieces. "Part of that is just baby stuff, I think; they don't exactly know more than us yet, but you're around them all the time and are primary caregiver whenever I'm not... not okay. So they love you, so much, and I just... I'm not going to ignore that when you already love them too. So you should get to be their dad. If you want."

He does want.

"I'd like that," he says, and knows that he hasn't bothered shielding in days, so Anakin knows just how sincere that is.

Anakin hesitates, visibly so, and then stands and crosses the room to join Rex on the couch, each of them holding a twin.

A head rests lightly on Rex's shoulder. He lets it.

"There are rites," Anakin says quietly. "On Tatooine, for the slaves lost to the desert. People that died in search of their freedoms, where there's no body to bury but you still need to mourn."

Rex knows this. He says, "the clones had mourning traditions for the brothers who died in explosions or behind enemy lines, the ones we couldn't retrieve."

Anakin knows this as well. He nods.

They sit together, quietly, as calm as they can be for the too-perceptive children in their arms, and they know they need to mourn properly.

Rex can only hold his jagged edges in place for so long.

#Rexwalker #anakin skywalker #captain rex #star wars #the clone wars #time travel #Skywalker twins #male lactation #but otherwise rated T for teen #grief #depression #parenting #phoenix posts #Rex and Anakin Raise a Family #and yes this IS eventual rexwalker but right now it's just... a whole lot of grief #they'll get there eventually

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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peachyyykid · 3 years

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Deceivers Ch. 4 - Flit

Word Count: 3748

Chapter 3 - Noble

Chapter 5 - Pirates

One week had passed since the world noble Charlos bought you at the auction house. After the branding, the guards had put you into skimpy lace underwear that barely covered your nipples and ass. You had felt slight relieve when they brought out a piece of fabric to put around your waist, but it was completely see-through and therefore, useless. The exploding collar was still in its place and Charlos added a leash to it.

You would walk behind him with another woman next to you, whom you weren't allowed to speak to. He pulled you through the streets and alleys of Sabaody, the eyes of the people in town made you uncomfortable, their gazes lingering on your exposed body.

It was so utterly embarrassing and degrading. From time to time, you would feel tugs in your chest, but you managed not to cry. Tears meant him kicking or punching you in front of all these people, and that somehow embarrassed you more than being half naked.

Some looked at you with pity, some shady men enjoyed your private parts almost spilling out, but most people just looked away. You were walking with a world noble after all, and they probably didn't want to die. He was usually riding on the back of another slave, and although you were in the same predicament as him, your heart hurt every time he trembled under Charlos' weight. But how could you help him if you couldn't even help yourself?

Every time you spoke without being asked, he gave you a hard back handed slap and if he felt particularly angry, he kicked you until you fell to the ground. The first few days this hadn't stopped you from annoying him on purpose, but the bruises piled up and soon you felt a stinging sensation in your ribs while breathing. The branding on your back healed quite well, although whenever you saw it in a mirror you cringed. They called it "the hoof of the flying dragon", which would be a beautiful name if it didn't have such a horrid back story.

Death, either yours or his, became an option you considered every time "Saint" Charlos groped your ass or fondled with your breasts. The thoughts you had about him grew more and more violent each day. You just wanted to hurt him.

The worst day so far was today. He wanted to eat dinner at a very fancy restaurant, and you stood next to him while he ate, making disgusting smacking and slurping sounds and laughing about "peasants" with his father and sister, who you despised as soon as you met them.

"Dear son", Rosward whistled, "you must give wife 14 the infertility shot as soon as we are home. It would be a shame if our blood were tainted with an improper heir due to your activities."

Your eyes widened as he mentioned infertility shots and the "activities", but you didn't dare to speak. Actually, thinking about it, it didn't really surprise you that much. He gave you the name wife 14, and he most definitely doesn't just display his wives somewhere just to look at them. His intentions were clear as glass.

"It will be so much fun, wife 14! I will get good use out of you", Charlos cheered while grabbing a handful of your exposed ass, making you flinch. You just wanted to smash his head into the plate of food.

"I know a good doctor, brother. If she wears out, he can stitch her back up, my friend said his mistresses were just like new", Shalria giggled behind her hand and Charlos formed his mouth into an o-shape. The fact that they spoke so freely about these things as a family, while normal families talked about their kids' school days or something, made you shiver in fear of what he was ready to do in private.

Her mentioning stitching you up sounded so nonchalant, while this practice was nothing else than disgusting. Some of your medicine books mentioned it, but it was a really old tradition that was actually forbidden by the world government. And here were the world nobles, completely ignoring rules that applied to everyone else (and for a good reason that was).

Jeany was right and all your life, you had blindly believed all these great and noble things you learned about the government and the world nobles.

How could I have been this stupid..., you thought and lowered your head. Small tears were forming in the corners of your eyes, and you blinked them away before anyone could see them.

If you had told your past self about the life, you had now you would have laughed. It was kind of ridiculous. Suddenly, something dawned you: You definitely had to flee, but time was running out. As soon as Charlos took you to Mary Geoise it was over, there was no way to get away from there. Your escape had to happen on Sabaody, basically the sooner the better.

Carefully, you eyed your surroundings in the restaurant. It was a fancy place, white furniture and walls with floor length windows. All the waiters were dressed in suits and had impeccable posture, carrying shiny silver plates with dish covers.

According to their status, the world nobles were seated on an open landing above the other guests. A flight of stairs led to the ground floor, with the kitchen on the left. Waiters scurried in and out of the room, trying their best to satisfy the demanding customers.

The world noble's table was the only one on the landing. It looked very expensive, clad in a white satin tablecloth reaching the floor. They sat on comfy chairs that matched the table.

Charlos' disgusting smacking and slurping never left your ears and it was becoming unbearable. Neither him, nor his father and sister were paying you any attention while they indulged on their food. You would expect table manners from someone like them, but they just looked like hungry pigs.

You frowned and carefully glanced at Charlos' other wife next to you. When she looked back, you motioned towards the stairs with your eyes. She widened her eyes in shock and shook her head, telling you to stop having crazy ideas.

If you were honest to yourself, you didn't even know what your plan was. You went through some ideas in your head.

Plan A was running, nothing else. But you ditched that plan quickly, they would just catch you or make your collar explode. Plan B was better, attacking them to get a chance to get rid of the collar. But how? The guards in the auction house said even attempting to remove it would trigger the explosion. Both of these possibilities weren't perfect, but you didn't have a plan C either.

However, fate decided to play in your favour.

A young waiter was coming up the stairs with another plate for the nobles, which was filled up to the brim with food. He visibly struggled balancing the silver platter and just before he reached the safety of the table, the plate wobbled dangerously, and he lost concentration. With wide eyes you watched as the plate tipped over in his hands, comically slow. The waiter tried to catch it, but he only made it worse. Mid-air, he hauled the plate towards Charlos and his family instead of catching it and the dish landed on their faces with a splattering sound.

The whole situation seemed like a theatre play. Before you could even think twice about it, you used the confusion around you to roughly yank at the leash that was connected to Charlos' chair, resulting in it tipping over with him on it. With a loud thud, his body hit the ground. Shalria and Roswald shrieked, trying to wipe the food away from their faces. Charlos tried to get up, but he just rolled around on his back like a fat bug.

"Shalria!", he yelled from the floor, "get the remote!"

This was your cue. You made a beeline for the stairs, carefully not to trip over the poor waiter. You pulled him up by the collar.

"You need to run, they'll kill you", you said and then looked back at the other enslaved woman, who was still standing there motionless. She shook her head and didn't budge, and you knew that she was too scared to run. It was her decision though, you couldn't help her if she didn't want it.

The leash was rustling behind you as you hurried down the stairs. If Charlos got a hold of the remote to make your collar explode it would be over for you, but it would still be better than being tortured and raped in Mary Geoise until they disposed of you.

Since the nobles were still screaming their heads of, you figured that they still hadn't found it.

At the end of the stairs, you quickly jumped into the kitchen, past some waiters who wanted to attend the scene on the landing.

"Ok, what do I do now", you panted, running around the room hurriedly. While scanning the counters and appliances with your eyes, they fell on a big pot of cooking oil.

With no hesitation, you grabbed the pot and poured the oil over your head and the explosive collar. If you tried hard enough, you could squeeze your head through it with the help of the greasy liquid.

"Hot!", you swore when the oil hit your skin, but luckily it wasn't hot enough to burn you.

You sat on the floor, rubbing the oil over your head and neck. Suddenly, the collar started beeping and you put two and two together. It was only a matter of time until the collar would explode. Breathing heavily and stretching your neck as far as possible, you pulled on it with slippery hands.

"Please... please. Come. Off!", you cried and with one last pull, the collar slipped over your head, landing on the floor next to you. You felt a sharp pain in your ears from the collar going past them, but you had to ignore that for now.

Your breathing picked up when the collar started beeping faster and you kicked it mindlessly, to get it as far away from you as possible. You managed to kick it a good meter farther and the collar exploded with a loud noise. The impact pushed you to your back and your ears were ringing.

A sharp pain travelling from your foot up to your hip pulled you back into reality. The explosion had been too close after all, and you saw your leg bleeding.

"Oh my god", you panted, and tears were threatening to blur your vision. Reading about such things in books was way different than seeing yourself being actually hurt, and the pain was numbing your head.

I don't have time for this, you thought and pulled your leg up carefully, wiping the tears away. You had another look around the kitchen and found some towels and a roasted piece of meat with some string around it.

Somehow, you heaved yourself up, finding support on the counters. The string around the meat easily came off and the paper towels weren't far either.

"Ok, I know what to do. I learned this", you said while wrapping the towels around your injured leg. You hissed when the material touched the wound, but it couldn't be helped. You tried your best tying the string around it and when it felt like it could last a while, you started limping towards a door at the end of the kitchen that you assumed would lead outside.

It was only a matter of time until the nobles came after you, so you approached the door as fast as possible. Luckily, it wasn't locked, and you peered through the frame. You were right, it did lead outside and even better, you couldn't see anybody. When the door fell back, you could hear aggravated screaming outside the kitchen door.

"What am I paying you stupid bodyguards for! If you don't find that slut, I will feed your guts to the dogs!" That was Charlos, who had apparently called his bodyguards inside the restaurant for a little help.

You couldn't afford to think about the consequences of your escape if they found you, so instead you picked up your pace. Your leg hurt like hell, but you would have to deal with it later. Your primary goal was to survive.

When another wave of adrenaline hit you, you started running in the direction that would lead you the farthest away from the restaurant. Charlos and his guard dogs would surely find you in no time if you hesitated, although it was getting dark outside.

"Shit", you exclaimed when you saw where you had ended up after a good minute of running. It was the shore, and there was no way to run any further. Sabaody was made of several small islands, but there wasn't a bridge or anything that would lead you to the next island. If you ran along the shore, they would spot you instantly.

Anxiously, you looked around. The only thing you spotted was a ships mast behind a tree. No matter who this ship belonged to, it was your only hope. The furious voice of Charlos rang in your ears and you made your way towards the ship.

It seemed like there was no one aboard and when you were close enough, you wanted to shout out to them, but you decided against it when Charlos' voice came closer. There was no ladder on the ship, so you had to think quickly.

The adrenaline made the pain in your leg more bearable, and you managed to jump high enough to grab the gunwale. You lost the hold as soon as you wanted to haul yourself on deck, since your hands were still slippery from the oil. You tried to hold onto the hull, but to no avail. With a loud splashing sound, you landed in the ice-cold water.

"Shi-", you hissed and cursed Charlos' clothing choice for you. The coldness was all around your body and you were afraid that you'd freeze to death, although the sea water soothed your injured leg.

"Guards!", bellowed Charlos' nasal voice and your heartbeat picked up instantly.

They found me!

You pressed your body under water and as close to the bottom of the hull as possible. If they couldn't see you, they would maybe retreat. Your heart beat so fast that you thought it was impossible to overhear from where they stood. But instead of checking the water, the men jumped on the ship.

"Search that ship and then come back immediately!", Charlos ordered, and you prayed that they wouldn't sink it when they were done. It was your only hiding spot.

Shalria's shrill voice came from the distance. "Brother! Brother come back quick, wife 10 tried to escape but we managed to stop her!"

Charlos tsked angrily, turned on his heel and his guards left the ship. They slowly went back to the restaurant, and he muttered inaudible things under his breath, sounding very upset.

Wife 10 tried to escape... that poor woman, why didn't she come with me!

The other woman's fate was settled. It was surely over for her, and you felt guilty that you didn't take her with you, by force if necessary. But it was too late. It was a miracle that you managed to escape, and luck had really been on your side tonight.

By now, the sea water had washed away the oil, and you started another attempt at climbing up the hull, digging your fingers into the bumpy wood as hard as possible. Maybe you could treat your wounds on the ship and find something to eat, in the best case some new clothes. This was probably a ship belonging to some merchants or something. If you explained your situation to them, they'd surely understand.

It was a particularly dark night, so you did neither see that the bow was actually a dinosaur skull, nor the pirate flag swaying proudly in the breeze. A white skull with fiery red hair and goggles glanced down on you and watched you as you intruded the ship.

You didn't make it far because a wave of fatigue washed over you, so you decided to sit down first. Immediately you regretted that decision because it took away the adrenaline and you now felt the pain in your entire body. Your leg, your ears and your hands were the worst. You shivered in your wet, skimpy clothes and hugged your body tightly to gain some warmth.

For the first time since the start of your escape, you felt empty and lost. You had thought that it would become better, that being away from the world nobles would make your situation more hopeful, but nothing changed. You had nowhere to go. Your parents were still dead, everyone at home was dead. You didn't know where your brother was and no way of finding out. You had never been told where exactly Deku-sama lived and walking around on Sabaody wasn't an option either.

For now, you could only sit around on this ship. You wanted to stand up, to at least find a blanket and some food, but at the same time you wanted to sit in the freezing cold to numb the pain. Finally, you were able to cry. It was relieving to at least feel some kind of emotion.

Violent sobs racked your body and the planks below you turned dark with tears. At last, you could let it all out. You curled up into a ball on the wooden planks. It must have been pitiful to look at, and you wished for someone to pull you into their arms, rocking you back and forth to comfort you. You craved the gentle embrace of your mother or even just your father patting your back. Something, just some kind of physical comfort. But you would never feel that kind of tender care again because everyone was gone.

After what felt like hours of crying, your tears had dried and only occasionally you let out a quiet whimper. You didn't know if the physical or the emotional pain was worse. The makeshift bandage on your leg was merely a piece of cloth now, but at least the bleeding had stopped. You looked at the throbbing limb and tried to concentrate on something other than the obvious pain.

It was useless. The crying and the pain took a toll on your body, and you slowly slipped into a rough sleep, feeling as numb as never before.

You woke up startled, scurrying around on the deck because of one of many nightmares that you had since you were abducted. You blinked rapidly, trying to make out your surroundings. It was dawn already and you could finally see what kind of ship you climbed onto. It was quite colourful, a black mast and sail, a green galley, red quarters, and a giant yellow skull in the front. A very odd merchant ship.

A giant yellow skull in the front? A black sail... there's a skull with flames on said sail..., you thought, looking up.

"Holy shit, not again!", you exclaimed while letting your eyes roam the ship. Again, you had somehow ended up on a fucking pirate ship. A brutal looking one at that. It was a lot larger than the ship of that dirty captain and looked more special. There was no doubt that it belonged to a ruthless pirate crew.

Loud chattering and hoarse laughter shifted your attention towards the shore. Carefully, you peeked over the railing. You saw a group of men in the distance, making their way towards the ship. With wide eyes you watched them banter with each other, but soon your eyes fell on the tall man walking in the middle, who didn't engage in the playful antics of the others.

He just smirked, carrying a bottle of alcohol in his right hand, his left hand stuffed in his trouser pockets leisurely. He wore a dark, heavy looking fur coat with golden spikes and a thin leather bandolier around his chest, holding a dagger and a small gun.

You looked at the sail above you, then back at his face. No doubt, it was his jolly roger up there. The fiery red hair and the goggles on his forehead were definitely his trademark. You studied his appearance a little more, even though you were scared to your bones.

His height was impressive. He was the tallest among the crew and the fur coat didn't hide his bare chest, his muscular torso clearly visible. His amber eyes, no, his whole face was intimidating. It took you a few seconds to realise that he didn't have eyebrows, but it didn't look ridiculous. He had red lips, kind of matching his hair.

You found yourself staring at him a little too long, not really knowing why. Something just drew you to him. His face and demeanour screamed danger, but he somehow fascinated you with his confident stance and his fierce eyes. His presence was overwhelming, although not in a bad way. He was different from the other men you had met in your life.

You should have escaped the ship while you still had time, but you had lost yourself in the man's eyes. When you came back to your senses, the group had nearly reached the ship, and you hurried to the other side of the deck to jump into the water. Finding a hideout on Sabaody to look for an innocent soul to help you or the marines seemed a better option than staying on yet another pirate ship, even with the world nobles at your heels.

You wanted to run but your leg didn't really allow it. With a few last limps, you barely reached the opposite railing. A whooshing sound behind you made you halt and turn around. The huge shadow of the man in the fur coat blocked the rising sun as he jumped onto the deck. Frozen in shock, you missed the last chance of escaping into the water.

With doe eyes, you watched him as he landed in front of you, inspecting your sitting frame with a frown.

"Who the fuck are you and why are you on my fucking ship?"

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thanksjro · 4 years

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Robots in Disguise (2012), #1-22- A Recap, For Reference Purposes

Before we begin with “Dark Cybertron”, a lightning round style recap on the 22 issues that took place in the sister series to MTMTE, Robots in Disguise; just so we know what’s up with all the folks who didn’t hitch a ride on the Lost Light.

Here’s the Story So Far, since it’s been a minute.

Now for the nitty gritty.

Cybertron is a literal hellscape, as established in The Death of Optimus Prime, the very flora of the planet trying to murder anything that comes within a few miles of the surface. This has caused a massive economic slump in the tourist trap towns, who surely will not survive without the summertime revenue. Truly, life is cruel and not worth living.

Bumblebee narrates, as we show off all the weirdoes who live on Cybertron now. Bumblebee tries to greet a new batch of arrivals, as Metalhawk actively attempts to make him look like Satan incarnate, because all the NAILs have gone full ACAB at this point.

A robot who looks like he’s wearing a beanie commits vandalism and is then subjected to violence via Decepti-cop.

This is more or less the flavor for RID as a whole. You have been warned.

Prowl breaks someone’s hand just because he can. Blurr is made to arrest someone for disturbing the peace, even though he’s, like, basically the only guy on the Autobots who isn’t a cop. Bumblebee doesn’t believe in democracy.

Ratbat is the leader of the Decepticons, even though Soundwave is right friggin’ there. We establish that the military state is in full swing. Prowl commits a microaggression against a Senator. Ratbat gets pissy about his guys going out to beat people up, not because it violates his moral sensibilities, but because it benefits the Autobots.

Probably that you’re killing people by remote control, in as horrified a tone as he could manage, because that’s FUCKING EVIL. Seems pretty straightforward to me.

Prowl says to cancel the memorial for the Lost Light, because he thinks the Decepticons are up to something. Which they are.

Everyone hates the Autobots. Like, everyone.

Ironhide runs away from a murderous hedge and smashes into a wall. Prowl has a talk with a mysterious individual about his feelings during a romantic sunset.

Metalhawk releases hat guy from prison. He and Bumblebee have a little chat, during which he tries to gaslight the little guy. Bumblebee explodes Horri-Bull’s head in front of at least 30 people.

Except he actually didn’t, because the chips don’t actually work. T’was a ruse! Starscream enters the narrative. Ratbat used to be an actual person and not just a bat. Sideswipe wants to shoot someone. Bumblebee tasers a man unprovoked; guess he’s picked up a little paranoia from that time he got shot.

Starscream calls Prowl ugly, then spills the beans on Ratbat’s plan to kill Bumblebee at the memorial, solely because he thinks Ratbat is an idiot. Needlenose and Skywarp beat up a NAIL to work through their emotions.

Bumblebee shows a snuff film to hundreds of people at the memorial. Skywarp tries to frame a NAIL for murder, but Prowl says nuts to that idea, through the power of dramatic irony.

Long Haul tells a fib. Bumblebee and Metalhawk agree to work together. Ratbat gets turned into chunky salsa by Arcee, who will use the excuse of self-defense if questioned. Starscream pulls some fucking bullshit and third-wheels the agreement between Bumblebee and Metalhawk.

Ratbat’s death is played off as a suicide. Blurr is still a cop. Starscream is helpful. There’s a guy who looks like a frog, and I don’t care for what his eyes are doing.

Frog guy explodes, because nature is a cruel mistress.

Wheeljack has a hell of a time trying to answer the phone in the middle of an economic debate. Prowl is paranoid. Starscream handles the housing crisis. Wheeljack visits the hospital and causes a scene. Another explosion happens, killing dozens, including this guy:

You will be missed, Tiddytron.

Wheeljack realizes that the moon is trying to kill everyone, so he shoots missiles at the problem. The Aerialbots fuck off into the wilderness.

The Decepticons get some perks now that Starscream’s a government employee. Starscream destroys the military state through the power of talking over people. Prowl and his cronies investigate a murder at the trash factory.

Bombshell is arrested for thought crime, and spills the beans on the I/D chips not working. Prowl has Dirge on a chain for some reason, and it ends up causing nothing but trouble. Blurr runs every red light in the city to make a citizen’s arrest, and gets his ass kicked by a bunch of construction workers. Prowl has a complex about Spike Witwicky.

Prowl fixes the I/D chip issue and things go poorly for the construction workers. Blurr gets upset about having his ass kicked by construction workers. Prowl is very paranoid, even as he has a borderline pinup panel devoted to his weird robot bellybutton and positively ridiculous cinched waist. I begin to worry about how much I’m learning about Andrew Griffith’s tastes.

The poetry shark shows up.

Arcee reveals a little bit about herself, and I shed a tear as I shake my fist in the general direction of England, cursing Simon Furman’s name.

Metalhawk brings Sky-Byte to a literal trashcan fire to meet his buddies, and they all rag on the Autobots for a while.

Ironhide goes joyriding and finds Sky-Byte Oh Yorick-ing a Sweep’s head. Turns out they have a history. Blurr reveals his dream to own a bar. Metalhawk brings up the fact that setting up a group of folks to have their heads explode if they step out of line is some dystopian bullshit.

Sky-Byte meets up with his old buddy Swindle, and gets the skinny on the bullshit that’s being pulled on this brand-new Cybertron. Everything goes to shit very quickly. Streetwise gets set on fire. Prowl needs to stop. Ironhide commits violence against the general populace, then advocates for the removal of the I/D chips.

Blurr opens a bar, and it’s dinosaur-friendly. Prowl commits property damage on a table, because he’s tablephobic. Ironhide reveals the future.

Shockwave sends an entire race of Big Birds to their frozen demise. Orion Friggin’ Pax comes back into the narrative, in the middle of his giant fuck-off-from-responsibility space adventure. Wheelie and Garnak are here, which is cool, I guess. Jhiaxus yells a bunch, and Orion decides to go to Big Bird planet.

It’s farkin’ cold in here.

Orion and Hardhead talk about Rodimus’ tumultuous relationship with death. Shockwave is the only person in the universe who understands quantum mechanics. Monstructor wakes up from his cryo-sleep. Wheelie and Garnak are grievously wounded, and the patch job seems less than medically sound, since we’ve just put a screw into Garnak’s orbital socket to hold his eye-patch in place. Orion walks into a trap, knowingly and willingly.

Wheeljack does some espionage, even though Mirage is right friggin’ there. Turmoil swings by Cybertron to say hello- the Decepticon, not the emotional state. Drift is outed as a war criminal- well, more so than originally thought. Turmoil has a time machine.

Sky-Byte and Jazz team up for slam poetry night. Blurr tells Metalhawk a story. Wheeljack’s espionage adventure goes poorly. Turmoil gets trapped in a hamster ball. Wheeljack and Metalhawk get trapped in a hamster ball.

The Dinobots and Ironhide go on a camping trip. Starscream craves democracy. Skylynx is a glorified taxi. Slag hasn’t changed his name yet, despite half of the people working for IDW being from the UK. Swoop breaks down IDW Phase Two to its bare essentials.

Prowl sits on someone’s desk, because he doesn’t respect tables. Slag’s face is on fire all the time, and it’s sort of distracting. Swindle bothers Shockwave. Ironhide is attacked by the Dinobots.

Bumblebee sits outside and has some Night Thoughts. Cybertron wants everyone to stick together, and God help you if you don’t. Bumblebee is beginning to develop a complex. Blurr is upset with himself. Ravage and the Reflectors go on an adventure. The time machine isn’t actually a time machine. The time machine disappears.

Ironhide finds the Aerialbots, who have been combinered by the horrors of new Cybertron. Everyone yells at Bumblebee.

We get a taste of Old World Cybertronian propaganda, where everyone talks in the third person, as is tradition. Starscream gets curvier every issue. Again, I begin to worry about how much I’m learning about Andrew Griffith’s tastes.

Blurr causes an explosion in the wilderness looking for Ironhide, much to Starscream’s delight. There is a Titan under the ground, and its very existence is making reality shit the bed. Tailgate’s lies in MTMTE are so extensive, red herrings have leaked into the sister series.

Nova Prime commissioned Monstructor, and Omega Supreme hated it so much he punched it in the face.

Starscream invites a bunch of friends over to see the Titan. Brainstorm is used as a scale for end-of-the-world scenarios. Starscream is revealed to be chosen by the gods.

The Reflectors visit a planet and shit gets weird very quickly. Wheelie is about to have a goddamned stress-induced aneurysm, not that Orion particularly cares. Time nonsense is established. Wheelie-speak becomes plot-relevant. Livio Ramondelli subjects me to his nightmares’ nightmares.

Starscream gets interviewed on national television. Starscream owns a hat that makes him look like a Gundam. Omega Supreme explodes. Metalhawk flip-flops between who he’s defending like a fish on the dock. Starscream yells at Shockwave for being an instigator. Prowl and Starscream make a deal.

Arcee stabs a cat in the throat. IDW settles the debate- at least for their own continuity- and says RIRFIB. Prowl takes a fireball to the face to convince people he’s on the up-and-up. Arcee is smarter than Starscream. This asshole shows back up.

Bumblebee really, really wants to kill Megatron, but politics demand he be taken in as a POW. The fellas construct a conspiracy theory. Starscream tries to lead his peers, but it goes poorly. Not a single medical professional of Cybertronian descent actually keeps track of their patients. Maccadam’s gets several light fixtures ruined by Arcee. Wheeljack gets called a tool. Prowl shows up in his hot new body, decked out with enough weaponry to annihilate a small country and a gun that’s as big as he is.

Starscream gives Megatron a piece of his mind. The Decepticons are rioting in the streets. Prowl shows Wheeljack his toys. Arcee plays her trump card. Bumblebee tries his hand at negotiation.

Bumblebee learns a valuable lesson about leadership. Politics are hell. Megatron is released from prison. Democracy finally gets its day. Megatron enters the Black Room with his whole ass hanging out. Pretty much every Decepticon you thought was dead isn’t actually dead.

Metalhawk gets a taste of how 24/7 news has ruined everything. Prowl is revealed to be the mastermind behind all the bullshit that’s been going on the last few months, and he’s been working with Megatron. Swindle gets run over by a train. Wheeljack’s head is turned into a memory by Prowl. The crazy-making signal out in the wilderness was made by Megatron. Megatron walks in in his hot new bod, carrying his old one like his new bride. And what a pretty bride it is.

We get a literal talking heads sequence explaining just how exactly Megatron survived the events of “Chaos” and why Combiners are the bees’ knees. Prowl isn’t Prowl, but actually being controlled by Bombshell.

Dang, wonder who could have caused that, CHROMEDOME.

Prowl is released from his mind-control, and immediately plays the blame game with Bumblebee. The Constructicons and Prowl have a thing going, and show it off, much to Bumblebee’s horror.

Circuit gets given Fixit’s dialogue for some reason, and I can’t tell if this was an issue on the art side or the script side. Devastator wrecks shop. Megatron laughs at Starscream for being a loser, then crushes Bumblebee’s head like a grape. Ironhide finally shows up to the party, and he brought a veggie platter.

Jazz tries to warn the medical staff about the Combiner coming their way, but no one ever listens to Jazz. Prowl has a crisis of self. Jazz breaks up the two-man act. Megatron let Bumblebee keep his cane, proving that even heartless monsters can respect the Disabilities Act.

Ironhide and the Dinobots save the day. Superion and Devestator get into a fistfight. Prowl reaffirms his complex over Spike Witwicky. Bumblebee says some halfway transphobic shit, and I shed a tear as I shake my fist in the general direction of England, cursing Simon Furman’s name. Arcee switches sides again and stabs Bombshell in the face. Prowl takes a nap. The tides turn.

Ironhide resists Frenzy’s sonic attack through the sheer power of gumption. Skywarp says fuck this and gets out of dodge. Devastator becomes a real boy.

Bumblebee WILL kill Megatron. Arcee makes it weird. Ironhide helps Prowl figure out his life. Bumblebee never learns. Metalhawk saves his BFF, and gets his arm shot off for his troubles. Starscream uses Metalhawk’s fuck-you-level long arm to kill a man.

Swindle carries a dude twice his size to safety with one of his arms off. Needlenose gets his just desserts. Devastator rips off his head to escape his crippling self-doubt. The Constructicons are having a hell of a day.

You said it, Hook.

Wheeljack saves the day from beyond the grave, that clever man. Metalhawk is killed by politics. Hat Guy tries to fight Bumblebee, and gets mad that he doesn’t remember his name. They’ve spoken to each other maybe once.

Metalhawk is made into a playing chip by Starscream, and also a speech writer from beyond the pale. Starscream tells everyone to get naked or fuck off, then takes off his top. All the Autobots and Decepticons who don’t want to get naked fuck off into the wilderness.

The Dark Cybertron “Prelude" issues kick in.

Shockwave and Dreadwing fly through the photorealistic sky to get to where the Titan is.

Listen here you little shit-

Shockwave shoots Dreadwing to test a theory, because ethics are for nerds.

Back when Shockwave was a hot guy with feelings, Jhiaxus was dealing with the Monstructor thing, then fucked off into space. Shockwave took the opportunity to be better than his teacher in every way, as is tradition. Proteus threw a whole-ass person across the room, because classism. Shockwave revealed himself to be a budding ecoterrorist. Shockwave joined a terrorist organization to further his own goals. Orion Pax tried to appeal to Shockwave’s softer side. Megatron killed the Senate. Shockwave replaced his shitty claws with a gun. Shockwave shot Dai Atlas in the legs and can’t explain why.

Dreadwing comes back to life, thanks to the power of Shockwave’s 14th ore.

Bumblebee has the Big Sad about Starscream being King of Iacon. Arcee doesn’t know what emotional turmoil feels like. Metalhawk’s lifeless body lays in the sun for several hours. Prowl is propositioned by the Constructicons. Arcee tells Prowl’s darkest secret, and it kills Bumblebee. Swoop is having a great time.

Arcee knows about Bumblebee being Hasbro’s golden boy. Prowl uses his manners, but only when no one can hear him. Arcee and the Constructicons get into a fight, with more flaming swords getting involved than you might expect. Slag offers to buy Arcee a drink.

Bumblebee gets a hot new body. Arcee gives herself a stick-and-poke tattoo. In a few hours, the sun will rise.

Pal, you are way ahead of schedule.

Shockwave makes a dramatic entrance.

Waspinator tells a story about the time he killed a servant of God and met death. Orion and pals visit Gorlam Prime. The Dead Universe comes into the narrative again. Wheelie has his arm blown off to keep from getting disintegrated, but he shrugs it off, because life is always awful for Wheelie.

Waspinator gets chased through the desert by Monstructor. Orion Pax acts like a dumbass. A Titan is revealed. Monstructor rides on the time-travel ship like it’s a horsey. Waspinator controls a Titan and makes it teleport. Orion plays fourth-dimensional chess, and reveals that his personal ship is named after his best friend.

Starscream talks to a corpse. Blurr tells Starscream to fuck off. A very good boy enters the narrative. The paparazzi ruin Starscream’s attempt to get underlings to do what he wants. A literal rat enters the narrative.

Starscream talks to Megatron, and I genuinely don’t have the words to explain what exactly is going on with that guy. Starscream takes a gander into the very good boy’s toolbox. The very good boy lays it on thick. Starscream destroys a man’s reputation.

Starscream breaks into Rattrap’s apartment. Rattrap becomes a government employee. Starscream talks to Wheeljack, who isn’t dead.

Soundwave has a flashback to when the Decepticons surrendered after the Chaos event, confirming that Ratbat was universally hated. Soundwave has robo-synesthesia. Shockwave is the perfect Cybertronian- Soudwave hates him for it.

Shockwave calls his teacher. Ravage judges Soundwave. The Decepticons reminisce on the time they resorted to cannibalism. Soundwave thinks mourning is for dumb babies and tells everyone to shut up because he’s big man on campus now.

Nobody deserves it more than you, babe.

The infighting begins, because no Decepticon has the ability to be halfway decent to each other, and they won’t learn that skill for a good while. Needlenose throws Blitzwing across a field and admits to having feelings. Soundwave is abandoned by the Decepticon forces.

Soundwave talks to himself in the Crystal City, then gets his ass kicked by Dreadwing.

In the past, Shockwave calls Bombshell a loser and outdoes him.

Soundwave kills Dreadwing. Shockwave hides in the shadows like a weirdo. Soundwave is done trusting Shockwave. Soundwave grabs Shockwave by the boob and yells at him. Soundwave is a hopeful guy.

In the past, Soundwave stole Ratbat’s brain and put it in a cassette, proving that space-Communism only works on paper.

Soundwave punches Shockwave in the head. Shockwave assumes Soundwave is alone, despite knowing he can contain many small men inside him.

Shockwave explodes a cat. Soundwave fires missiles at Shockwave and hits him in the tit. Shockwave would fuck Microsoft Excel if he could. Frenzy is just happy to be here- no, I didn’t mix them up, the colorist did.

Ravage is a grown-ass man. Soundwave’s synesthesia used to be a lot worse. Shockwave sends Soundwave and pals home. The Titan and Waspinator show up.

Soundwave has a face. Ravage and all the other cassettes are emotional support animals, who are also fully sapient.

Shockwave’s gonna fuck everything up.

And THAT, dear children, is the entirety of Robots in Disguise, up to issue #22. We’re all caught up and ready.

#transformers #rid #exrid #recap #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post

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marinaaniseed · 5 years

Text

Dark ‘n’ Stormy Pt. 7

3,866 words. If you read my earlier post, you’ll know this took a slight turn.

Summary: Thor & Y/N go out for dinner. It doesn’t go as planned. Some Asgardians are mean. Drunk Y/N gives them what for. There is NSFW smut at the end.

Contains swears, drinking, smut, self-esteem issues...the usual, really.

Thoughts, feedback, amusing insults...all are welcomed.

Everything was going well until you walked into the pub. One gentle hand held yours, keeping it warm, as you walked through New Asgard. You heard the pub before you saw it. Probably not the ideal place for conversation, but as long as there was dinner, and there was Thor, it would be fine.

Thor held open the heavy door, and a few people turned to glance at you before the whole place turned silent when they saw who was following you over the threshold. The barmaid kept pouring the pint, even though the tankard was overflowing. One man dropped his bottle, smashing it on the floor. Several people were gingerly dropping to one knee, seemingly unsure if this is what they should be doing.

Looking back at Thor, you could see the panic rising, watching him become overwhelmed by it all. It’d been a long time since he’d been around so many people, except on a battlefield. Even longer, really, since he’d been surrounded by Asgardians.

You were about to say something, to let him know that it was ok, that you could leave if he wanted when a man in an ebony tunic that matched his hair approached you.

“Your majesty,” he rumbled, bowing deeply. “It is an honour to have you with us in my humble establishment. Please, allow me to seat you.”

Thor really didn’t want to be there, with everyone staring at him, but he knew the trouble it would cause if he declined. He nodded his assent and the two of you followed the man to a booth at the back of the pub.

“Please, allow me to take your cloak, m’lady,” the man said, and you unfastened it, handing it over, before sliding across the vermilion leather. Thor joined you, albeit less easily, his stomach resting on top of the table.

“Let me get you some drinks,” the man said, hurrying off without asking you what you’d like.

You didn’t think you’d ever seen anyone look more uncomfortable than Thor did now. And although the other patrons had resumed their drinks and conversations, it was notably muted in comparison. That didn’t stop you from seeing the stares or overhearing snippets.

“-I’ve never seen him in here before…”

“Who is that woman he’s with?”

“What’s wrong with Asgardians? What does he even see in Midgardian women?”

“-used to be a really attractive man.”

“How did she get him?”

“-will help him lose the weight.”

“Thor?” you asked, taking his hand and rubbing your thumb over the back of it. “Do you want to go?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I don’t want to be here. It’s too much. All these people I’ve let down. But I don’t want to be rude.”

“It’s ok, we can have our drinks and then go,” you soothed.

The ebony-haired man returned with a tray laden with drinks. You hoped he was serving several tables, as they do in North America, but no. All of the drinks were carefully deposited on the table in front of the two of you. Thor must’ve looked as confused as you did, because the man bowed a little, before addressing him.

“Your majesty, I thought you might like to sample the beverages we’ve been creating here in New Asgard.”

“What-what are they?” Thor asked, realising that you wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry.

“These two are what the Midgardians call gin. They also have different kinds of beer that we have learned to make. We have a pale ale, witbier, imperial brown ale, imperial stout and saison. Aquavit. Cider And, of course, mead,” he said, smiling at you both. “We’ve been unable to produce wine so far, but we’re still working on it.”

“Th-thank you. How much is this?” Thor asked.

“Nothing, it is an honour to have you here, your majesty,” he said before excusing himself.

You could see Thor wince every time the man said “majesty”. It was hard seeing him like this, but you knew, too, that it must be quite jarring for the Asgardians to have seen their leader shun then, having brought them to this strange planet.

“Well,” you exhaled, grabbing the gin. “Let’s start with the strongest and work our way down.”

“Is that wise?”

“Probably not. But it’s like being in a chili eating contest. You start with the hottest one first and then your mouth will hurt so bad, you won’t notice the other ones.”

“That’s...an interesting approach,” Thor huffed, managing to laugh a little. “Tell me then, what is this gin?”

“Erm, well normally people drink it with a mixer - most commonly tonic - but from the looks of things, this is neat. It mainly tastes of juniper, not sure if you had those on Asgard? I’d say sip it. If it’s smooth, you can probably just sip the whole thing, like a good whisky. If it’s rough as arseholes, sink it and move on.”

“You certainly have a way with words,” Thor said, trying not to laugh, despite his continuing unease.

“Yeah, well. Some of us weren’t brought up in a royal court. Skål, as the Norwegians say,” you said, lifting your glass.

“We say that too,” he enthused, clinking his glass with yours.

The gin was...not good. Paint stripper gin is probably how you would’ve described it. The first sip caused you to splutter and cough, and Thor didn’t seem to be holding up much better.

“Yeah...that’s not great. But it’s also not a traditional Asgardian drink, is it?”

Thor shook his head.

“Right, let’s down this gut rot and get rid of it.”

Thor was certainly impressed by the way you grabbed the glass and chugged away at it, despite your grimace, until it was all gone. He followed suit and waited for you to tell him what was next.

Plates of bread, meats, fish, cheese and berries appeared at some point. You tried a little of each, but in all honesty, Thor ate the majority, which was fine by you. He enjoyed his food, took pleasure in it, you could see the hint of a smile each time he tasted something particularly good.

You felt a little bad for him, squeezed into the booth, his tummy rounded out in front of him onto the table. Only a little bad though, because you were enjoying the sight of it, so soft, so big, so round, right there in front of you. It took all your restraint not to slide your fingers between two of the buttons of his shirt to touch it, feeling it bloat as he drank and ate.

Around the time you started drinking the cider was when it really went wrong. It was one of those ciders where the sweetness belied its strength. The noise in the pub died down at just the wrong moment, so that your conversation with Thor was interrupted by a woman getting rowdy at the bar, staring over at your table and pointing.

“-just so pathetic, just look at him! Getting fat, drinking all the time, parading his Midgardian whore for all to see! We all know what those storms are about! Bet she’s only after him for his-”

The rest of her tirade was drowned out by Thor, roaring as he stood up, sending the remaining drinks flying. Without a word, he stormed out, leaving you soaked in beer, cheeks burning, with everyone staring at you.

You shouldn’t have said anything. Should’ve kept your dignity. But you were several drinks in on an almost empty stomach, and pretty much nothing was going to get you to hold your tongue. You stood up on the leather seat, so that everyone could see you, slowly clapping your hands.

“Amazing. Well done. Do you have any idea what you just did there? He finally feels well enough to be a part of your society and this is how you treat him?”

“He abandoned us! After-” the woman at the bar tried to continue.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snarled, glaring at her. “This is hard, for all of you, I get it. You’ve lost everything. But it’s not his fault. He did the best that he could and his best wasn’t good enough. He brought you here, I guess because he thought it was the best, the safest place that he could think of.

“The last few years have not been kind to any of us. But how the fuck do you think he feels? His mum, his dad, his brother. They’re all dead and there’s no way that could be undone. He found out he had a sister and then she tried to kill him, taking his eye in the process. You don’t have to like everything that he’s done but try to see it from his perspective.

“He got banished here...but who among you wouldn’t have tried to take revenge if someone ruined an event you’d looked forward to your whole life? When he brought Jane Foster to Asgard, do you think he feels good about the fact that the dark elves attacked and killed people? No! Of course, he doesn’t! His own mother was one of them. But if someone you cared about was sick, and you knew where they could get help, wouldn’t you do it?

“And after that, when he disappeared? He was trying to find the infinity stones. To stop Thanos. Yeah, it didn’t work, but he tried. Which is more than the rest of us can say. And again, when he went to forge Stormbreaker. There are some things in life that cannot be fixed with muscle or lightning or even sheer force of will. None of us could’ve done any better. I doubt any of us would’ve held up as well as he did for as long as he did. He thinks it’s his fault that half of us got dusted. But that’s all on Thanos.

“Who among us has not drowned their sorrows or eaten their feelings to try to forget what has happened? Hmm? He has been fighting for you, trying to protect you, for as long as he has been able to. What are five bad years in the grand scheme of a life that’s already lasted over 1,000 years? He needs you more than you need him now. He needs his people to show him love, compassion, understanding. Fight for him, and protect him, just like he has protected you.

“And, so what if he doesn’t look how he used to? That is not a good measure of who is and what he has done. Even though he couldn’t bring back his family, he still fought to bring back yours, losing his friends in the process. And this is the thanks he gets? You’re lucky he’s far kinder than I could ever be. You’re lucky he’s even here at all, trying to look after you, in his own way, even when he can’t look after himself.

“And me? I’m not a whore. I fuck because I enjoy it, not for money. I don’t know where this distrust, disdain, dislike for people like me comes from, but here’s the thing. You are on my planet now. You need to get used to us and accept us, or you can fuck right back off into space. I’ve lived on this planet a longer than you have, and let me tell you, yes, there are some terrible fucking people out there, but on the whole, we’re an alright bunch. But treating us like shit will not make your stay here any better.

“Now, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to work, and I’m here to help. And I will come here every lunchtime for as long as I live in New Asgard, and tell you about life on this planet, and help you to adjust if that will help. But I will not be the subject of rumour and jealous gossip, and I will not have you talk to him, or about him, like that, after everything he has sacrificed for the people of Asgard. Maybe, just maybe, the reason he likes Midgardian women is that we actually listen to him, instead of thinking of him as a piece of meat, a notch on your bedpost to say that you bedded the mighty Thor, instead of getting to know who he really is. You were the people who put him on a ridiculous pedestal, who made him out to be perfect, infallible, and he is the one who has to suffer.

“Right,” you announced, grabbing a glass and draining the dregs that weren’t covering you or the table. “My apologies to those of you who were polite, I’m sorry for interrupting your evening. To the rest of you, I hope you’re ashamed. I hope you think about what has happened here, and if he ever has the courage to venture out again, I hope you behave with a bit more decency.”

You slammed the glass, grabbed your bag and jumped down to the floor, and were almost at the door when a hand on your shoulder stopped you.

“What?” you hissed, whirling around.

“Your-your cloak, m’lady,” the ebony-haired man replied, offering the heavy garment to you.

“Oh right, yes. Thank you. And I’m sorry about that.”

“No, no it’s ok. It was...refreshing. I think people needed to hear that.”

***

With the cloak slung over your arm, you storm out into the dark night. You’ve no idea where Thor went, so you circle around to the right. He’s sat on the ground, back against the cold wall of the pub.

“Hey,” you said, announcing your presence before sitting down on your cloak next to him. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. She shouldn’t have said those things.”

“No...but she did have some points. I am pathetic and fat and I drink all the time. My father once told me that I was unworthy of these realms, unworthy of my title, unworthy...of the loved ones I have betrayed! And he was right!” Thor heaves, angry tears running down his face.

“That’s not true, Thor,” you said hugging him to your chest. “I’m sure he was angry when he said that but I don’t think he meant it. The ones who love us most say the things that hurt us the most because we value their opinion the most. I couldn’t do what you do, to keep trying, when everything you say or do or don’t is a public matter and open to the scrutiny and opinion of everyone.”

“I thought I wanted to be king, I thought I would be good…”

“And you are. Were. Whichever. I’m sure your father must’ve done things that the other Asgardians didn’t like,” you assured him.

“Ha, yeah. Just ask Brunnhilde.”

“Well, there you go. People often remember the past as being better than it was. Sometimes they need to be reminded that you have feelings too, and that you’re allowed to make mistakes.”

“Yeah, I, uh, heard you. In there. Telling people…” Thor admitted, a little embarrassed.

“Ah.”

“You were quite loud, I was impressed. I didn’t realise Midgardian women could be so loud. I thought it was just the men, like Stark.”

“I’m sorry for embarrassing you.”

“No, no, not at all. You’re just the latest in a long line of wonderful women who’ve defended me over the years. My mother, Sif, the Valkyrie...thank you for standing up for me. It means a lot that you, who have known me for such a short time, would be the one to defend me. That is what Asgard seems to have lost, a willingness to fight for what is right. But they have already fought so much, I don’t blame them.”

“It’s a sorry state of affairs if your only defender is an angry drunk woman,” you smiled, trying to make light of the situation.

“I’ve gone into battle with Brunnhilde, sometimes an angry drunk woman is what you need,” he laughed. “I’m sorry tonight didn’t go as planned.”

“That’s alright, my sweet bear. The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, gang aft agley.”

Thor knows you’ve said something profound, in a language similar, but different to your own. Anything more than that has him stumped, and his face shows it.

“That’s Rabbie Burns, he was a Scottish poet. It basically means that the best-laid plans often go wrong.”

“Oh right, I see. My brother liked poetry and books and things. I guess you could say I preferred more physical activities.”

“Oh, is that so?” you ask, arching an eyebrow at him. “How about we go home and do some physical activities? More gentle than this morning though, it was a struggle sitting in there,” you said, nodding your head back towards the pub.

Thor doesn’t need to be asked twice.

***

You arrived back at Thor’s, having collected your meagre belongings from the hut. He’d been surprised by how little you had, but you assured him that the majority of your stuff was in storage back home. The posy he’d picked for you had also made its way to the cabin.

“Do you think you’ll go back?” he’d asked and you’d responded with a shrug. He knew better than to press the issue.

You were glad to get back. After the initial rush of adrenaline, you realised how cold you were with the now sodden dress sticking to your legs.

“Thor, would you mind helping me out of this?” you requested as he gently put the backpack containing your belongings on the floor.

“Certainly.”

You could’ve done it yourself, but you just wanted Thor to be close to you, to feel like he was helping. To feel like he was valued.

“Why is it all wet?” he asked as he grabbed the hem of the dress to help pull it up and over.

“The dress or me?” you smirked.

“The-the dress…” You really were the worst, he’d decided. He couldn’t keep up that mouth of yours. Oh, that mouth of yours, and what it could do, what he wanted it to do...

“Well, when you left the pub, you sent the drinks flying, and I ended up wearing some of them,” you explained as he lifted the fabric over your head.

“I’m truly sorry, I can’t seem to do anything right,” he mumbled, folding the dress and placing it on top of the dresser.

“That’s not true, Thor.”

When he turned around, the sight of you took his breath away. Stood there in your lingerie and your boots, he felt himself grow erect in seconds.

“If I’d have known that was what you were wearing underneath, I wouldn’t have bothered to take you out,” he said, trying not to ogle you too much. The tiny scraps of fabric between him and the most sensitive parts of you were more arousing to him than seeing you naked. The bites and bruises mottling your skin should’ve made him feel embarrassed but it excited him even more. He’d left those marks, and you’d allowed him to do it. That was the powerful thing about it. You allowed him to do it. Because you enjoyed it, because wanted him to do it, because you wanted him.

Because you wanted him.

“See something you like?” you smirked again. He just nodded in response, his tongue too stupid to say what his mind wanted to express. “Let me show you something you do very right.” You stepped forward, grabbing him by the suspenders, pulling him towards you as you backed yourself up against the wall. Once he was pressing into you with his round stomach, you ran your fingers up into his hair, pulling him down to kiss you. You could feel his hardness digging into you.

What was left of your lipstick was firmly smeared around Thor’s mouth when he stepped back from you. After the disaster of the rest of the evening, you wanted it to have a happy ending, so you slid the suspenders off his shoulders and down his strong arms, before unbuttoning his shirt and jeans, freeing his stomach.

“Mmm,” you purred as you pressed hungry kisses to his skin, hands caressing all that you could grab. “I think we should get you out of this, don’t you?”

Thor removed his clothes and let you guide him to the bed. He saw the way you looked at his hard-on and hoped you could read his mind. He’d never experienced anything like it when you’d taken him in your mouth during the shower.

He silently thanked the Norns when you settled between his plush thighs and began licking his shaft, one hand caressing his inner thigh. When you began to suck him in earnest, working your way down slowly, until you had him fully inside you, his breath came in noisy rasps. Your forehead nodded into the downy underside of his tummy and he cursed the fact that he couldn’t see you over it.

“Stupid...fat...gut. Wish...I...could...watch...you,” he huffed.

You pulled off him and stood up, much to his dismay.

“C’mon, get up. Come over here,” you commanded and he obeyed you, unsure of what you had in mind, but trusting that he’d like it. You got him to stand near the mirror, side-on, before dropping to your knees.

“Look in the mirror, Thor.”

The sight alone nearly made him explode. He could see it all. Him, big and powerful, standing over you, as you slowly took him back inside your mouth. Breasts jiggling behind the black lace, the swell of your backside, tinted various shades of purple. He held his tummy, feeling the heft of it, almost admiring it, so that you could take him deeper. Playing with his balls and stroking the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, he watched you blink back tears as you took him deep, repeatedly, between your delicate red lips, never looking away from the mirror. That’s what really did it for him, the way you maintained eye contact with him in the mirror. It was the kind of thing that would’ve made even Fandral, for all of his womanising, blush.

He kept his word to Brunnhilde, and refrained from causing a storm, as he came in your mouth, hard. Generous as ever, you swallowed it all, licking him clean as you withdrew. Bending down, he scooped you into his arms, hugging you close as he carried you to bed.

“Darling, thank you. That was amazing,” he rasped, his breathing still ragged. It was all catching up with you and you could feel yourself drifting off as he held you against his plush chest underneath the duvet. You were in the dip in the middle, as seemed to be the norm.

“Thor?”

“Yes?”

“If I’m going to live here, can we get a new mattress, please?”

“Yes, yes of course.” And with that, you were out like a light. Thor cursed the fact that the light was still on but he didn’t have the heart to move and wake you, so he lay his head back on the pillow, content to let you use his chest as yours.

@morganhoran1671 @innerpaperexpertcloud

#thor #thicc thor #Thor Odinson #THOR SON OF ODIN #thor smut #The Avengers #endgame thor #avengers fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #fat thor #Dark 'n' Stormy #squishy Thor #Soft Thor #reader insert #Female reader #x reader #avengers x reader

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mythicallore · 5 years

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Bizzare Encounters with Imps

Throughout European legend and folklore can be found the pervasive presence of the tiny, evil little creatures commonly referred to as imps. The word comes from the Old English noun impa, meaning basically the young shoot of a tree or plant, and they are particularly prevalent in Germanic myths and legends. Although the creatures have countless descriptions and appear in numerous forms, there are some basic similarities. They are almost always portrayed as diminutive, small in stature, with ugly, rough features, and they are known as being mischievous, prankish, incorrigible, and uncontrollable. Many of the traditions depict them as rather evil and malicious, and indeed over the centuries they became more and more associated with the Devil and depicted as being demons and familiars of witches, warlocks, and even servants of Satan himself. While this must all sound like pure fantastic folklore very much in the vein of fairies, gnomes, and goblins, just as with those others there have been many purported sightings of what seem to be real imps, or at least something very much like these legends describes. These surprising reports involve some sort of gnome-like creatures with a decidedly demonic feel to them, and a malevolent air of menace surrounding them, and they come in from a variety of far-flung areas.

One such account comes to us from the site TrueGhostTales, from a witness named Joshua, who says that he had been just 12 years old at the time of his strange experience. It all started shortly after they had moved into a new home in Benicia, California, and although he had felt a bad energy emanating from the home from the very beginning, things would get truly bizarre when his mother one day heard a loud banging noise from the bathroom, even though no one else had been home at the time, and when she had gone to investigate she had found that everything from the counter and medicine cabinet had been thrown into a pile in the middle of the floor. This unexplained incident was followed shortly after by his terrified sister reporting that she had seen small glowing red eyes peering out from their darkened closet at night. The witness says that although he had not seen the red eyes himself, his sister had been so upset about it that he had believed her, and he would then in the coming days see for himself that indeed there was something very odd lurking in the home, which would become a regular visitor. He says of his first encounters with the thing:

My sister and I were ready to go to bed, my sister said she saw two red eyes inside the closet. I didn’t see them, but from how scared she was I believed her. We shared a room, and we had bunk-beds. My mom comforted her until she fell asleep. I slept short after. I awoke later that night from a small continuous noise coming from the foot of my bed (I had the top bunk). When I looked at my feet, I could see this dark, black figured shape jumping up and down at the foot of my bed. Every time that it jumped up, it would leer at me with these little red eyes. The eyes seemed to sink into his face until the red would just disappear. I couldn’t see much detail to his facial features, but I did realize that he was wearing a brim hat, like Charlie Chaplin. I started to scream, and within a couple of seconds my mom came in the room. But before she was able to turn the light on, I saw the little man (about three feet tall) hurry and run to the corner of the room and disappear into the darkness just before my mom turned on the light. This was not the first of many experiences we had. A few days later, I woke up in the middle of the night. I still had that experience fresh on my mind, so I very carefully peaked my head over the railing of my top bunk, and looked around the room. When I saw the little man! This time he was just being very still and quiet, and he was just standing at the foot of my sisters bed, watching her (Our bunks were in the shape of an L, so I could see the lower half of my sisters bed). He then noticed me and looked at me. I yelled, and again, just one second before my mom got into the room, he would again run to the corner of the room, and disappear into the shadow. Every time he would run to the corner, he would stop for half a second facing the wall, and disappear.

Joshua claims that he saw this strange little demonic man over the next few nights as well, finally working up the courage to tell his mother what was happening. Rather than laugh it all off as the ramblings of a child’s imagination, she seemed to think that something was genuinely terrifying them, although she never let on that she had seen it herself. It would not be until years later that she would tell of her own experience with the entity, of which the witness says:

So what she did next, she did not tell us, until years later when we were grown up. If she told us at that time, it would have made us even more frightened because we would have known that it was not our imaginations. She told us that she stayed up one night with all the lights off. She was sitting in a chair in her bedroom, looking down the hallway to the entry way to our bedroom. What she saw next startled her. She said that after about a half hour after she turned the lights out she saw a little man who came into the hallway from the bathroom. He started to walk into our room when he must have sensed something. My mom said he stopped, and slowly turned around and looked at her with those sunken in little red eyes. She said he then turned back around and went into our room. She hurried up, and ran into our room and turned on light on. But he had vanished. We lived in that house for about another year. We continued to have strange things happen. It didn’t let up until my mom and dad decided to move. Personally, I believe to this day, that the little man had to of been some sort of demon, not a human spirit. One thing that I never liked about it, was the fact that countless times, I would look around in the middle of the night, and every time he would be still, just watching us, either from the foot of my sisters bed, or he would be standing in the corners watching us. I never liked that, because you just never knew how long he could have been watching you as you slept.

A similar report comes from a witness on Your Ghost Stories, who had her own encounter in England with a very aggressive and genuinely evil little imp of some sort. She says that whatever it was had been quite bold, appearing in the middle of the day to harass her and her boyfriend, before becoming a constant presence that haunted and menaced them at all hours. The witness says of the ordeal :

I had a black shapeless entity peek at me from behind the TV one morning last May. It was black, and had tiny pinprick white eyes, extremely bright but the smile was ‘ear to ear’ and red… It rushed at me too, seemed to like chasing me at first, my boyfriend was in the house at the time, and this was during the day, while bright sunlight was streaming in through the window. I was terrified and actually climbed up my boyfriend (poor guy) to stop it touching my feet, which it seemed to find funny… When it was moving across the floor it would either be a solid black shape, half human height, or a spinning ‘moth’? Which would continually spiral towards the floor. I have no idea what it was, we tried burning sage around the house, it seemed to back off quite a lot but after that a smaller black thing (no face) would sometimes peer at my boyfriend when he was asleep, and wait on the stairs. Tried the sage, I also screamed at it to f*** off during the day while two people were there, (looked crazy ha-ha). It was actually very active during the morning/afternoon. After shouting at it for a very long time it did leave through the bathroom wall (temporarily). I actually got so desperate I smashed an ornament in its direction to try and frighten it. To be (mostly) rid of him, I had to keep standing up to it; it took a very long time, visualisations of white light enclosing the house, pushing it out… Was very hard mentally to move it at all, seemed very ‘heavy’. We think it moved to the next house, we are in a terrace and the attic has missing bricks in the wall to the adjoining house, I’m worried, but also extremely fascinated by it and wonder if it might return.

No word on if it ever did return or not, and it is a truly frightening and harrowing account, to say the least. From the same area of the world is a report of some sort of demonic imp at Crawfordsburn Country Park, in Ireland. The witness says she was out walking her dog, Missy, by the waterfall on an otherwise tranquil and calm evening. As they walked along the dog became very agitated for some unknown reason, and the witness explains:

Missy ran ahead and i walked quickly to catch up. I noticed she had stopped and had started growling so i started walking even quicker. As i got level with her i noticed what can only be explained as a gnome standing about 10 feet away from Missy. It was about 3 feet tall and at first i thought it was a child in fancy dress but then i noticed its teeth were pointed and a horrible brown colour and It had a bulbous nose and large, deep-set eyes. I got Missy on the lead and watched in amazement as the gnome began to laugh, this wasn’t a regular laugh but a deep cackle. I was terrified and frozen to the spot and watched as the gnome walked into some bushes by the waterfall and disappeared. I quickly ran off back to the car.

What was this thing? Was it some evil spirit or fairy? A demon? Something else? In some accounts it seems like these creatures are indeed very literal demons from Hell, true imps in every sense. One commenter on Exemplore explains of being haunted by tiny creatures that he believes are actual Biblical demons that can be fought off with the power of God. The witness says:

I see faces in figures in clouds, trees, bushes, on the grass and pretty much everywhere else I look. Until the Lord saved my life, these things had overtaken every aspect of my life, I had taken thousands of photos and videos of them, they would appear in my yard and trees as little gnomes, animal-like figures, full on demons, and all kinds of things that are freakier than anything I have ever seen in a horror movie. I’ve had dark clouds moving around my house and some insane visions that would take too long to type on here. My wife and son would see some of them, but not anywhere near the ballpark of what I see. No, I do not have schizophrenia or any other mental diseases. We tried every new age thing to rid our property of these beings, but it only got worse. One day I stayed home alone and prayed for hours trying to figure out why I was seeing these things. The Lord finally let me know in my soul that this was a product of all the sin I had allowed into my life and He was allowing me to see this in order to call me to Him. I was truly humbled and repented of my sins and I told Christ that I would rather die than to continue in a lifestyle that allowed this into my home and around my family. God saved me that day. I coughed out what I can only describe as evil energy out of my body 6-7 times. I was exhausted and felt truly forgiven and free for the first time in my life. The things is God still allows me to see things, they are just no longer in control of my life. I have learned many things from this, what feels like a curse, but I believe is a gift from God. I am now walking in the truth of God. No one could ever convince me that a battle of good vs. evil is not going on around us all the time. Most people just cannot see it.

Other unsettling reports seem to describe these things as a dark force that seems bent on luring children away to their dooms, and indeed in some folklore imps were known to do just this. One witness on Reddit weaves a rather unsettling tale of some sort of gnome that seems as if it was perhaps trying to trick his sister into wandering off with it. The witness says:

As a young child, my sister was visited by a spirit that appeared as a gnome-type creature (small, grey beard and pointed hat). He always appeared at dusk and tried to get her to follow him into the woods. My sister barely remembers the episodes, but I remember her telling me about them and even remember once keeping her from following him into the woods. My mom remembers once when we were swimming in a neighbor’s pool and she came to bring us home for dinner- after being home for about 5 minutes, my mom realized my sister was gone. Instinctively, she ran back to the swimming pool and found her in the pool, alone (she was 3 and could barely swim). We think this also has something to do with that entity, as she could not have walked that far in that amount of time by herself. Has anyone ever heard of an entity that tries to lure children away? At that time, we lived In an area of Western MA known for paranormal activity and there was a well known case of demonic possession nearby.

So, are these real reports of encounters with the demonic imps of folklore, or are they something else entirely? There is little to differentiate them from the numerous other accounts of sightings of gnomes, fairies, and other seemingly fairy tale creatures, but here we have something that seems especially evil and malicious in nature. What are these entities and what do they want? Are they real spirits, demons, interdimensional phenomena, or simply tall tales? No matter what the answer is, these are truly odd reports that mesh in with the long running myths and legends or demonic imps and gnomes, and serve as something to ponder at the very least.

#paranormal #supernatural

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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saibh29 · 7 years

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Tin Man

Pairing: Bucky / Reader

Warning: Fight Scene... Nothing else I don’t think.

Request: Hi! I LOVE your writtings, they are amazing! Can you do a Bucky x Reader imagine where she, Steve's friend, lives with Bucky hiding him from HYDRA? She is just a common girl who works at a bookstore, but one day while she is making dinner for both of them, HYDRA attacks. Bucky protects her and after that he conforts her because its the first time she witness a fight. Sorry for my grammar, and sorry if its too long. Love from Spain, Thank uu🐱🐱

AN: @lachicadelamanzana request all wrapped up sweetie! Hope you enjoy it. Also don’t apologise your request wasn’t to long and your grammar is perfectly fine! Love from UK xx

Please add yourself to my taglist over here.... TAGLIST

@just4muggles @morganlb23 @yet-another-lockup @theraputicwritings @unevenpages @littlepartofheaven @itsbubbaog @this-is-bucky-barnes @cassandras-musings @callmebucky-doll @frostbyte-horan @queendarkmuffin @justsomeboringperson @angelaiswriting @georgiagrl1990 @selldraug

The day Steve turned up on your door step with a nervous expression and another man hiding behind him sticking to the shadows was the day your life got weird very quickly. You’d stood there for a moment dumbly staring at him waiting for some sort of explanation as to why your friend was covered in cuts and bruises.

You had of course gotten an explanation, although it hadn’t exactly been an explanation that made you jump for joy, instead you’d listened quietly to him explain about Russian soldiers, mind control and a bunch of other things you didn’t really understand nor care to.

All it had resulted in was that you had somehow acquired a new house guest. A very quiet, sullen and some what dangerous looking one. James Barnes or Bucky as he insisted you call him kept mostly to himself, you could hear him sometimes at night moving around your living room and knew he didn’t sleep. He ate more than enough though and your grocery bill had tripled along with your water bill from the amount of time he spent stood in the shower.

It seemed your life now revolved around the trek from the little independent bookstore you worked at to the grocery store on the corner of your apartment building and then the struggle of carting the brown paper bags up the stairs to your 6th floor apartment. If it wasn’t for the fact that you owed so much to Steve Rogers than you’d have been kicking Bucky’s meat eating ass right out of the front door.

Gasping as you finally reached your floor you once again promised yourself that you’d go back to the gym starting tomorrow. Leaning against the wall you put the grocery bag on your hip as you scrabbled for keys in your seemingly bottomless purse.

“Bucky! I’m back” you shouted closing the door with your foot as you came into your kitchen dumping the grocery bag. “You want dinner?”

That brought him out of his room, the promise of food always would. He came and perched on one of the breakfast bar stools you’d gotten from a flea market down town. None of your furniture matched in the traditional sense but you kind of enjoyed the randomness of it.

“Spaghetti?”

He just grunted nodding his head at your question as you pulled ingredients out of the bag and gathered pots and pans from your cupboards. “Here” you gave him a chopping board and some tomatoes and basil. “Make yourself useful tin man, chop those up for me”

His lips quirked upwards slightly at your name for him but he still didn’t speak simply taking the knife you handed him and neatly beginning to slice up the herb.

“Do anything useful today?” you asked him filling a pan up with cold water ready for the spaghetti later, you set the flame to medium and left it to boil. “manage to come out of your room for a few hours or so?”

“Fire escape” he muttered knife still moving rhythmically over the herbs.

“Well fresh air at least” you agreed happily “or as fresh as the city ever gets”

“and you?”

“Same as usual” cheerfully moving around your small kitchen you were glorying in the normal and soothing tasks of cooking recipes your gran taught you. Blissfully unaware that your normal routine was about to be completely turned upside down.

Bucky must have heard something first because his whole posture changed, you’d thought he was tense in general but it was nothing like this. Every muscle in his body seemed to be poised ready to pounce into action. His eyes flicked to the window and he was halfway off his stool when your window smashed into hundreds of tiny slivers of glass.

You didn’t even have chance to scream in fear as three men jumped in through the now open pane, guns in hand aimed at you and Bucky.

Bucky jumped the breakfast bar he had his arm up, the metal one, and was using it to deflect bullets as he put his body in front of yours and pulled you down to the ground.

“Stay down doll” he warned you. “Y/N” he shook you gently when you didn’t answer. Your eyes met his and you managed to nod.

“Alright” crawling to the far corner of your kitchen you sat huddled as Bucky went to the other end suddenly jumping out.

All you could hear was crashing and what must be silenced gunfire. These men, they were here for Bucky. They were trying to kill him and you were sat here hiding.

Risking it you managed to peek over the top of the breakfast bar. One of the men was already down on the floor not moving, Bucky had engaged another and the final was coming towards you.

Oh god, crawling quickly back across the floor you back hit the cupboards just as the man came into view.

“Well look what we have here” he was smiling as he raised up the gun. He was going to shoot you. The though filtered through your head at just about the same time that the knowledge you were right next to the over did. The oven where you had a boiling pot of water.

Grabbing the handle of the pot you flung it at him, he screamed horribly clutching at his face and stumbling backwards as Bucky appeared once more grabbing him and quickly dispatching him as well. Then looking over at you.

“Y/N?” he came over to you, crouching down in front of you. “You alright?”

“I…” you looked at your hands, little drops of the water had fallen on you and parts of your skin had gone red and burnt. “I’ve never been in a fight before”

Bucky smiled sadly. “I’ve been in too many” he noticed your hands as well pulling you back to your feet he bundled you through the living room away from the bodies and into your bedroom firmly shutting the door behind him and sitting you down on your bed.

“What about… what about them?”

“I’ll sort it” he promised checking your bedroom window, he locked the shutter and drew the curtains grabbing his phone from his pocket and quickly sending a message. “Let me see your hands”

You held them out to him allowing Bucky to turn them over inspecting the burns there and on your wrists. You were aware that from the sudden shaking all over your body that it was likely you were going into some sort of shock.

“There’s nothing deep, it’s all surface burns” he crouched down in front of you once more.

“You’re speaking” you pointed out suddenly, not sure how that was relevant right now but just aware that you had to say something.

“Yes. I do know how”

“But you never do”

He shrugged, that half smile he’d perfected tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s because I like listening to you talk doll”

“Oh!” he’d gotten rid of your words again and you didn’t know what to say to that admission. “I didn’t know that” you paused again the shaking seemed to be subsiding, at least a fraction anyhow. “Did I… I mean did I kill that man?”

“No doll” he put his hand on your knee squeezing. “I killed him, that’s on me”

“I threw boiling water on him”

“Sweetheart you did what you had to” he comforted as you met his eyes.

Steve had warned you that people were looking for Bucky, that bad people were looking for him. That was why he was leaving him with you, no one would think to look for Bucky somewhere as normal as a woman who worked in a bookshops apartment. Now though, they knew where you lived, they had tried to kill you as well. You had three dead bodies in your apartment. What the hell were you meant to do next.

You realised you were having a panic attack about the same time that Bucky did because he gripped your shoulders as you desperately tried to get a lungful of oxygen past your closing up throat.

“Hey, hey Y/N look at me” Bucky’s raspy voice managed to get through the anxiety driven haze around your brain and you focused on his face. “Take a deep breath with me” he order breathing in through his mouth. You copied his movements managing to breath in and out then in and out. You breathing gradually stabilised and you broke eye contact with Bucky once again.

“Thank you”

“Can’t say I blame you” he got up off the floor to sit beside you one the bed. “Had a similar attack myself the first time I hurt someone”

“You did?”

You knew he was talking now just to keep you calm, he’d obviously messaged Steve earlier and now you were just waiting until he got here.

“Yeah, got dumped into France with the rest of my unit and straight into battle. First time I pulled the trigger, well afterwards I wasn’t much use to anyone”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better, aren’t you?”

“That depends” he took your hand with his flesh one holding it tightly. “Is it working?”

“A little” you admitted staring at his hand in your own. “What’s going to happen James? My job, my home can I stay here anymore? God my whole life…”

“Hey” he let go your hand to wrap his arm around your shoulders. “No one is getting to you Y/N, NO one. I won’t let anyone hurt you doll. I swear”

You sniffed, feeling tears build up in your eyes. You couldn’t help it anymore, you turned your face into Bucky’s chest and let his arms wrap fully around you. He lifted you up to sit on his knee and simply held you as you cried silent tears of grief for a life you somehow knew you’d already lost.

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consolatione · 7 years

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There is still light

I lie in bed looking at the windows. The nights are still light, but they are getting darker. It's easier to notice the change now that we only come to the country side on the weekends, driving up the coast on Fridays after work, arriving late. Soon it will be pitch black and we won't go here anymore, the house is too cold, and we are selling it to afford to move permanently to some place outside of the city. I can't wait. But I will miss this place, miss going for a morning swim. Miss the house. Miss the cobbled path we made.

In a few weeks, it will be pitch black at this hour, but now as I listen to my son go to sleep, the curtains are backlit even if it is quite late. As he gently snores and drifts away to his childhood dreams, I dream my dreams. I dream of this place. I dream of the place we will settle down in. The hunting season has started, and I dream of that too. To go out early in the morning and sit still waiting as the day breaks. To take care of the game and to cook it with chanterelles and eat it in the company of good friends. I dream of hiking, of going on a long ski trip, to sit around a fire in the winter, to smell of smoke and drink coffee made in a sooty pot.

He sleeps. I go outside and stand beneath the 100-year-old trees that are dark silhouettes against the starry, deep blue sky, and I listen to the strange chirping of the tawny owls, a sound that is very un-owl-like. The Norwegian neighbours are singing. I long for singing at a party with friends too, even if I doubt anyone but my kids long for my singing in return.

All these dreams are of quiet, connected places, and I scurry between them in my mind as if I was in a hurry. Maybe I long for them because I have lost them and have to recreate them. They are mine when I can make them mine, when I can buy their luxury. These things that feel like the most natural thing.

I have spent the day speaking about tech and devices. Thinking about things that should marvel us. I'm not marvelled. Instead I think of paths in the landscape, paths made by man's feet. Over lifetimes people have walked over landscapes, carving their journeys into the ground, even forcing trees to bend their branches so that they grow crooked. These are runes carved by walking, their stories quietly span millennia. The old oak stands witness.

This is Modernity, I think. To ever long for quiet. To be captured by the new, to make a commodity of that which is natural. The man who desired everything, and got it, only to find himself missing wanting itself. Not that I think all that is modern is bad, nothing is ever just bad. If it were, we would get rid of it. We are not victims of Modernity, we are spellbound by it. It's a drug. A spiral.

I read what is said about me. Getting messages from friends who understand. They sigh. I sigh. I tell them I don't care, but I can't help but getting angry anyway, so I postpone writing back. Nothing good ever comes from responding in anger, and anyway, every word I write feels sordid, dirty. Why should I have to reply to such nonsense? I remind myself that they are the voices I wrote about in the Taiga, voices that have no meaning unless you grant them meaning. I wish I had that old poetry collection here, so I could remind myself of those words. They still make sense to me, they paint an inner landscape.

I know how this sounds, I know how any reply to my detractors sounds too. Its dramaturgical. It has an almost Aristotelean dramatic structure to it. I have tried before to explain things prosaically, to explain how Modernity has caught us. My views put into words for people that are stuck in the loop. I remember telling the story of the freedom of the serfs in Russia. They had lived their lives in captivity, but were mostly left alone. They saw their masters a few times in a lifetime perhaps, the rest of the time they lived as they always had. Sang their songs, cooked their food. Toiled. It was a hard life at someone else’s mercy. Then they were freed, millions of illiterate people who for thousands of years had stayed in one place were let go, only to be mangled by industrialism, where Modernity was ready with her ideologies. ‘Escape this!’, she said, and they did, only to find themselves in yet another trap. And just a few decades earlier there had been life that made them humans beyond their destitution and serfdom, something that made things bearable. Expelled from the land they used to be bound to, they had instead looked to employment, and their new masters had clocks for them to punch and quotas to meet. Trying to escape that, they were caught in starvation, brutalism, the anonymity of urban life and the most savage wars. And then, they ran from that into atomisation. Someone thought out a new structure for society, perfect in the minds of ideologues. Straight lines, like borders on a map drawn by colonialists, far removed from the fabric which is actual life.

I tried telling their story, but in Modernity there is no fire to sit around and talk. A fire reduces the pedantry of the listener. Humans have listened to stories like that since the dawn of time, until the stories became archetypical and everlasting. I think that maybe we evolved to listen attentively and without hostility around a fire. But in Modernity we refuse to listen. ‘Would you rather we had serfs?’ ‘No.’ ‘Would you rather we had feudalism?’ ‘No.’ ‘You are suspect anyway.’ ‘I guess.’ You are missing the point. It’s the elk that flees that is driven towards the cliff, not the one that isn’t scared and calmly keeps his head with him. I am not sure the analogy holds up. In any case, the serfs ended up running from poverty and the injustice they knew, into a machine that ground them down and supplied them with an ideology that could only ever make things worse. They were played. In the new economy they were outdated, needed elsewhere. They were told they had to fight for freedom. The old structure which kept them up had to go and they ended up in Modernity’s battlefield.

At one time we were all tribes, tied together by blood. The biggest unit we could muster was that which could organically be upheld. Then arose the centralised state, cracking down on tribal allegiances and social structures, replacing them with institutions. It became possible to organise bigger groups of people, nations. Those who couldn’t make the transition were dominated by those who could. Tribal life was sometimes brutal, but they were never powerful enough to eradicate or colonise. To form a nation state, the kings had to change the structure of society, replace cultures, traditions with institutions the state had control over. Sometimes go to war with people who held on to their local loyalties, whose life wasn’t improved as they were forced to give up power. The nation states were necessary and over time some grew into peaceful, welfare states. Then a new power manifested itself. It had learned how to conquer, it had to attack the social fabric and undermine the institutions in place. Even the demography. The state itself was to be put under the thumb and relinquish its powers. Power, it was decided, should move farther away from people and into the hands of international courts of law; away from the troublesome nation states and demographic hegemonies. Smash it. In with the new. Just one more sacrifice and we’ll reach utopia. Give us the power to rule you and we’ll give you… nothing. Panem et circenses. The bank will own your house, your car, your institutions will lack power and only remain to uphold the bureaucracy to manage it all. You will not belong to anything, you are free, your family bonds are only contractual and temporary. You are an atom. Free as long as you do not rattle the cage.

My grandfather fought in WWI. He detested the generals after that and came close to joining the communist party, only to realise they were just as likely to send him to the slaughterhouse. He chose to bear his demons himself, or so I am told. Taking long walks. Maybe drinking too much. These people that stand before me now are fighting for their own disenfranchisement. They want the super state. They want to give up their institutions. They will get into a rage and froth at the very idea that maybe it isn’t the best of ideas to forever change the demographics of a country. They are marching again, throwing their hats into the air. We’ll be back in time for Christmas. This war will end all wars.

I get defensive, and I really shouldn’t. There's a fire in the fireplace and a stream of smoke rises across a starry sky. You never see the shifts in colour on the night sky in the city. I shouldn't be defensive, because that only means I have already failed to explain. Again. A trap.

The very participation in the debate is a trap. To not participate is the only thing that you can do, and hope there are those who see what you do anyway. To win is to do something else that is outside of their reach. To win is to build. To win is to take those who understand and make something that speaks by existing alone. Then I see that is what we do with these arts as well, but as soon as they are done, Modernity wants it. Demands it. And it uses the same fools it always has, those who find their truths in ideology and tell themselves they are the Good ones. Fighting the Good cause.

Is it too late? There’s not even a silver slither by the horizon. I need to calm down, enjoy the luxury of normality offered on the weekends until we can build something strong enough to withstand whatever this is, while he sleeps and dreams his childhood dreams.

No, it is not too late. I still believe in that which is the essence of being human. To write runes with your very life. To refuse to be caught in a loop and instead build on the love for that which is peaceful and connected. We will not be atomised.

#traditionalism #Peace #quiet #Love

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damon-rutherford · 7 years

Text

The Origins. Part 1.

“What the fuck, Rosie?” Tom Abbott smashed the bottle on the wall, smearing a worn-out, ancient, cheap knock-off painting with beer foam. “How did you let this happen, you stupid c*unt?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” a miniature woman so skinny that she was on a verge of being anorexic, with unwashed, dirty blonde hair and reddened nose, screamed in frustration.

“You can raise no baby,” Tom exclaimed, “look at you! You are a bloody disaster.”

Rosie struggled to find a place on the couch among old sandwiches, dirty laundry, and bills that were scattered on the surface. Hands pressed hard on her head, fingers digging into her scalp, she was rocking back and forth.

They lived in the outskirts of Bristol, if that kind of existing could have been qualified as such. The only valuable possession they owned was this old, run-down house which they got by scheming Tom’s cousin out of his inheritance. Once upon a time, this was a neat building, but years have taken their toll and a new piece of wood was falling out from one part of the house or the other almost every day. Half of the light bulbs weren’t working, the staircase creaked, walls have gone gray from dirt, you could barely make out the colour on the floor after years of not being cleaned. The only functioning electronic appliance was the fridge, which emitted an unbearable noise. No self-respecting human would call this dump their house. Neither Tom nor Rosie could boast with that particular character trait, though.

Tom Abbott was born in misery and poverty. His parents died early and he had no one to take care of him. Rosie, on the other hand, was from a hard-working, middle-class family. During her first year at university, she had been diagnosed bipolar. Her parents were strictly traditional and religious, blaming her for her craziness and deeming her antics as Rosie being Rosie, a daughter that brought shame to the family. They refused to acknowledge that bipolar disorder was an actual disease. After she was caught having sex with her professor, high on crack, the faculty kicked her out. It was the last straw for her family. They slammed the door on her and tossed her out in the streets.

She met Tom in a dive bar, flashing boobs at the bartender in hopes of scoring a free drink. Back then, she had still retained her beauty; long, curly blonde hair, green eyes, a slender figure. Tom had only intended to fuck her in the bathroom and disappear, but she herself was like a drug, giving him a high when she was around. They were terrible to one other, a relationship so toxic, nothing good could ever come out of it.

Still, Tom was the only person in the whole world, who stuck with Rosie. Even those times, when she would lay in bed, crying, refusing to leave the house or turn on the lights for three weeks straight. It wasn’t love between them. It was a mutual understanding that they had no one else except each other. The world was scary as it was and they didn’t want to face it completely alone.

“I thought you were on a pill,” Tom shot out of his armchair.

“I was, but it must have been expired,” her voice broke.

“Well, fix your fucking mistake yourself,” he yelled.

What Rosie hadn’t told him was that she had already tried to abort the baby, but couldn’t scrape enough money together.

Due to her illness, Rosie was in no condition to have a permanent job. Tom, with his horrible temper and no level of education, struggled to find one that he could keep for more than 2-3 months, too. There was no way they could afford a visit to a doctor. Too much of a coward to commit a crime before, it was the first time Tom actually did something illegal and decided to rob an electronics store to sell the goods later. He was lousy at that, just like he was at everything he ever attempted. The police caught him before he even laid a finger on a remote control and threw him in jail for six months.

By some miracle, Rosie managed to give birth to a perfectly healthy baby. It really was a miracle, considering how much she drank, smoked and took drugs during her pregnancy. She worked as a waitress at a new place every week, before she was fired again and again. It wasn’t enough, of course, and she’d give handjobs to customers in a parking lot for 20 pounds.

Finally, Tom got out. When he came home and saw a baby, there was no ounce of fatherly love in his eyes. Only rage. Pure rage. Rosie had hidden it from him that she gave birth, made him believe she aborted her pregnancy. The only good thing that happened to Abbotts that year was that a neighbour took a pity on them, upon seeing baby Damon and offered Tom a job as a storage worker.

Life didn’t get any easier for Damon, though. Unwanted, unloved, his parents never shared the slightest bite of affection for the kid. He was a complication, a nuisance. The only reason they didn’t get rid of him was that they were too afraid the neighbour would take the job away from Tom if he found out.

The world was cruel to Damon Abbott.

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jazzraft · 7 years

Note

I love Your noctnyx and thanks so much for writing them! I have this urge though like when noctis leaves to altissia Regis requests for Nyx to still have dinner with him and Nyx freaks out but agrees because Regis wants to say sorry for the luna noctis marriage but nyx says he understands and will continue to care for noctis. But more so i just want regis/nyx bonding!

nyx is essentially regis’s son-in-law and nobody can tell him otherwise. he’s the king. it is law. *gavel smash*

It had become a weekly tradition.

Every Saturday. Five o’ clock. Dinner with Dad.

It was coming up on the one year anniversary since the firsttime Regis had invited him to his table. (Nyx still had nightmares about it.) In all that time, Nyx had neverbeen late for one. But tonight, he nearly forgot about it entirely… Well, no,not “nearly,” he completely forgotabout it until Regis sent him an inquiring text half past five. He’d fallenlike a tumbleweed out of his apartment and nearly got run over – twice – as he bolted across the city. Hecollapsed into the doorway of the royal dining room, heaving air through hislungs like they were a goddamn accordion.

Regis had only a sympathetic smile and a glass of wine readyfor him.

Nyx had never quite gotten rid of the notion that the mostinsignificant of slights might offend the King into ordering his execution.(There was no death penalty in Lucis. Regis remained confounded as to how Nyxgot this idea into his head.) Despite the amiable repertoire Nyx and Regis hadbuilt together since Nyx’s romantic involvement with the King’s son, Nyx stillcouldn’t quite dissociate from his delusions of impending demise. While Regiswas kind and witty to a sharp point that could puncture through Nyx in longwheezes of laughter, the man was still a kingand his boss… And the father of the guy Nyx did absolutely filthy things to on various surfacesthroughout the Citadel. That part scared him the most.

“Distracted today?” Regis asked him as Nyx downed the profferedwine a little more greedily than normal.

“Lil’ bit,” Nyx sighed, dropping the glass to the table andreflexively tapping his phone, even though it had given no indication that ithad received a message.

Regis’s own phone was on the table, his hand curled justbeside it, barely restrained from snapping open to tap obsessively at the darkscreen. Noctis and his entourage had departed earlier that day. By somemiracle. Because when Nyx met Noctis in the shadow of the Citadel just beforehe left, he held him so hard and so tight that he was sure he would never lethim go.

It had been a long night of love-making the hours before, tomake up for how many days they would be apart. Nyx promised to send him incriminatingtext messages throughout the entire trip and levied for private video callsthat made Noctis turn a bright scarlet, but got no rejection. And he promisedthat Noctis could call him at any moment he was free and Nyx would tell him heloved him across all that distance. And Noctis promised to steal the wheel ofthe Regalia as much as he could to floor the gas pedal and shorten their timeabroad so they could come home that much quicker.

It had taken a mutually received text from Regis on theCitadel steps for them to break apart, and even then Noctis distracted himselffrom leaving by drawing lusting kisses out of Nyx. Prolonged, hot reminders of the intensity leftoverfrom their last night together.

It had been absolute agonywatching the Regalia pull out from the Citadel. Nyx still wondered if it wastoo late to bribe an official into letting him shadow the car all the way toAltissia and back. (He’d tried already. Drautos was a bitch. So was Cor – damn Crownsguard.)

“I had the chef prepare Galahdian tonight, given it’s justthe two of us,” Regis told him from across the table, helpfully distracting Nyxfrom his pining thoughts.

“Finally building up a stomach for it?” Nyx teased.

The first time Regis had tried Galahdian cuisine, Nyx brokeout in a cold sweat, thinking he’d inadvertently assassinated the King ofLucis. Galahd was in the middle of a desert.They liked it hot over there. Nyx didn’t know his voice could get so high whenhe went into full-on panic mode, thinking the amount of fiery peppers he’d putinto the garula was burning out his king’s aged heart. Meanwhile, Noctis hadlaughed so hard he’d cried. Nothing cemented a relationship better than nearlyhospitalizing your potential father-in-law with your cooking.

“I do believe I’m developing a tolerance for it, yes,” Regisreplied, straightening in his chair with a touch of indignation. “Besides that,I thought it might be a decent seg-way into apologizing.”

Nyx poured himself another glass of wine – something he’dlearned to grow a taste for since dining with the royal family.

“What could you do, right? It’s peace with the leastpeaceful people in the world. Not a deal you can pass up. Besides it doesn’tchange anything.”

Regis lifted an inquisitive brow, taking a more reserved sipof his own wine. “Really? I had feared it would change a great deal.”

“You’re definitely your son’s father, ‘cause he thought thesame thing,” Nyx chuckled, always marveling at just how similar the Caelumswere, even as they were so vastly different. “I’ll tell you what I told him:none of this changes how I feel about Noctis. I’m always gonna love him. It’sprobably going to make appearances for this marriage hell, but…”

Nyx spread his palms and shrugged. He wouldn’t stop seeingNoctis. He didn’t stop himself from falling for him because of Lucianprinciples, and he wouldn’t stop being in love with him for Niflheim’s wargames. They were both too stubborn for abiding by the rules, anyway.

“I would have liked having you as a son-in-law, Nyx. And I’mgrateful for how happy you continue to make Noctis,” Regis said, a weary smileon his face.

“It’s an honor and a privilege, Your Majesty.”

They each raised their glass in a silent toast.

As the wait staff was rolling out the meal, each of theirphone’s buzzed, one after the other. Nyx was on it like an imp on dropped gil.Answering text messages was like a tiny ritual for Regis. He unfolded a pair ofreading glasses from his shirt pocket, carefully adjusted them on his face,before blinking at the screen of the phone. He held it away from himself tobetter make out the tiny words.

“A little car trouble along the way, but they’ve made it toHammerhead. ‘Enjoying crotchety mechanic hospitality.’ Yes, that does soundlike Cid.” Regis snorted softly and proceeded to slowly traverse the keyboardwith a reply. “I suppose you received about the same?”

Nyx hid his face behind his phone so he could fight off theflush of his skin. He swallowed the gathering dryness in his throat from theobscene nature of Noct’s messages.

“Err, yeah! Pretty much the same.”

#nyx ulric #regis lucis caelum #nyxnoct #myfic #anonprompts

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itsworn · 5 years

Text

1965 Chevrolet Malibu: Street Car on the Outside, NASCAR on the Inside!

We’ve become enamored with resurrecting used NASCAR parts for street use [https://www.hotrod.com/articles/score-used-nascar-parts-cheap/], and this road-weathered 1965 Malibu provides a beautiful example of the potential that hand-me-down stock car parts provide. Second-hand NASCAR parts make up every piece of its suspension and drivetrain, including its screaming 10,000rpm, 14.5:1 compression SB2 small-block.

Dean Noseworthy, 57, of Mooresville, North Carolina, purchased this car nearly 20 years ago for $6,500. With original vintage steel, a modern engine, and homemade chassis, the car was built in the traditional manner that honors the sum of its NASCAR parts. “I raced years ago when I was 15,” said Dean whose dad raced an asphalt Super Late Model. “Then I got married and had a family, so I took a break.”

Other than the screaming exhaust tone, the low-hanging Jaz racing fuel cell and dry-sump reservoir are dead giveaways to the stockcar underneath.

You may assume a street-driven NASCAR engine has to be heavily detuned in order to drive on the street—quite the opposite here. Gibbons Motorsports of Mooresville, NC, helped Dean develop a NASCAR small-block with more torque than the actual racecars, as a street car doesn’t have to follow a rule book. The 410ci engine made 688 lb-ft of torque at the flywheel.

This version of the car started five years ago when Dean decided to return to his racing roots. He began collecting parts from used NASCAR parts houses (like Hendrick Raced Parts and SRI Performance) as well as local auctions. He fabricated parts and worked closely with Gibbons Motorsports for roughly ten months developing their version of an SB2.

The team at Gibbons Motorsports started with a bare SB2 block, boring and stroking it to 410 ci. Although electronically limited to 8,500 rpm, the engine is capable of over 10,000 rpm. Want NASCAR power for your ride? Check out where all the honey holes are here! [https://www.hotrod.com/articles/score-used-nascar-parts-cheap/]

“[I wanted] not only a fast car with a big motor, but drivability, handling, and stopping also,” said Dean. “I just wanted a monster.” After the engine was constructed, Dean hand-built a stockcar chassis using Penske coilovers and then swapped the body on top of it.

On the car’s first and only top-speed event—a standing half-mile—it ran an impressive 170 mph. Now Dean wants more, with plans to attend Bonneville with friend Bob Keselowski, who smashed the stock-car land-speed racing record last year (271.846 mph).

This SB2-powered 1965 Malibu strictly runs on 112 octane race fuel. The smell and sound of the car fills your senses.

The Malibu has a sheepish street appearance with a wolf lurking underneath. It’s far from a street car, but it is street-driven and road legal, making it the perfect car for us to love. Loud, brash, anti-social, politically incorrect—all the things we admire in a car, making it right as rain in our book.

The Malibu retains the factory dash with the addition of Autometer gauges. The Momo steering wheel sits on a quick-connect which is mounted to the factory steering column.

Dean was excited at the high torque output, which they’ll need to punch through the air at a place like Bonneville. Dean, satisfied with the final product, only worries about finding the time and resources to run all the tracks he wants with the Malibu. He got back into racing a couple of years ago, now campaigning an open-wheel, dirt-modified car most summers.

“I’ve always had racing in my blood. You never get rid of it,” said Dean. “It seems like if you start with it, you only take a break, it never goes away.”

The Malibu sits on used NASCAR 15-inch Aero steel wheels with BFGoodrich 245/60R15 street rubber.

Tech Notes Who: Dean Noseworthy What: 1965 Malibu Where: Mooresville, NC

Engine: Some engine builders consider the 327ci SB2 the best traditional small-block available. Its high-revving character allows builders to make reliable 900-plus horsepower naturally aspirated. The small-block generation 2 (SB2), as it’s formally known, replaced the original Chevrolet NASCAR small-block in 2001. The SB2’s current replacement, the R07 (2007 debut), departs from the traditional design, leaving the SB2 the last remaining true small-block.

Gibbons Motorsports doesn’t have a rulebook to adhere to, so they took the design and made it better. They started by upping the cubes to 410 ci on a bare block (the SB2 was limited to 327 ci), with a 4.155-inch bore and 3.75-inch stroke.

King Cranks in Denver, North Carolina, helped develop a one-off crank for the engine, with Carrillo H-beam rods and CP pistons with a 4.5cc dish. The ultra-lightweight crankshaft uses a unique combination of small Toyota main bearings. The resulting 14.5:1 compression ratio is higher than the 12:1 rulebook limit. The custom Comp roller cam with a .740-/.750-inch lift and 266/276 degrees duration features roller bearings and a Jesel belt drive. The valvetrain also includes Jesel .937 lifters, rockers, titanium retainers, and PSI double-springs.

An MSD blaster coil and MSD 6AL box feed power to an MSD Ford-style distributor. A Holley 850 double-pumper supplies fuel through an Edelbrock Victor SB2 Spider intake.

The SB2’s oiling technology keeps it alive for continuous high-rpm operation. An external, belt-driven oil pump with a dry sump oil reservoir resides in the trunk, and circulates 16 quarts of oil through the system. The valve covers also feature oil squirters to cool the valve springs.

Custom-built headers dump into 3.5-inch collectors and Schoenfeld connection mufflers. The pipes then dump into a tri-y design into a Cup-style slash-cut, rectangle-shaped boom tube, which exits behind the passenger door. The engine made an impressive 854 hp at 7,200 rpm and 688 lb-ft of torque at 6200 rpm.

Drivetrain: The SB2’s lightweight internals result in high-revving power. This lack of rotating mass means the driver needs talent and patience to get the skinny 7.25-inch clutch engaged without stalling or smoking the tires. The used road-course combo of G-Force 4-speed transmission and 10.5-inch flywheel shifts easily without the clutch. Unlike the SB2, the G-Force currently runs in the Cup series, meaning they hold their value on the used market.

A Ford 9-inch locker with 31-spline axles features a 4.22:1 final drive ratio. (A Ford 9-inch locker is much easier to find on the used market!) A custom aluminum driveshaft measures 4.5-inches.

Chassis: Dean and a friend built a 2×4 steel frame on a frame table while the Malibu remained intact. Dean pulled the schematics of the original frame and welded pedestals in place. The final chassis design is that of a stock car.

Dean built the double-wishbone front suspension with used tubular upper A-arms mounted on multiple slugs welded to the top of the frame. The optional slugs allow different positions of the upper A-arm for adjusting caster.

More precision was desired than a typical racecar, so Dean opted for Penske coilovers in place of OE-type shocks and springs. He simply welded mounting brackets to the lower arms beside the balljoint. The Malibu retains its original rear-steer design with a 12:01 ratio box. The final suspension settings are .5 degrees of camber, 8 degrees of caster, and 1/4-inch toe in.

Out back you’ll find a custom-built four-link rear suspension with coilovers. It also features an adjustable Panhard bar. The Malibu weighs 3,200 pounds with driver, 100 pounds lighter than a Cup car.

Interior: Dean left himself open to the possibility of competing in the Optima Ultimate Street Car Challenge, which awards points for radio and full interior. (He did adhere to at least one rule book!) The factory dash houses new AutoMeter gauges and a removable radio. The original steering column features a quick-release Momo steering wheel.

Procar by Scat racing seats and 5-point harnesses sit in front of the original rear bench. The NASCAR-certified steel roll cage (.090-inch diameter wall thickness) was custom built inside the car after the body swap.

Exterior: With all the road-weathered dents and dings, car show spectators are often surprised to learn that the body never served time on a stock car circuit. The otherwise stock body features a front and rear spoiler. Dean handmade the splitter starting with one from a Cup car, then fabricating an aluminum sheet to connect it to the Malibu’s original bumper. The rear spoiler is a simple piece of bent aluminum painted black with stock car supports.

Brakes: NASCAR-spec Wilwood brakes accompany the NASCAR spindles. They feature 12.12-inch rotors all the way around with six pistons up front and four in the rear. The brakes are designed to fit inside steel 15-inch NASCAR rims.

Wheels/Tires: The 15-inch Aero steel wheels are common on stock cars. These are wrapped in road-legal, white-lettered BFGoodrich 245/60R15 radials.

The post 1965 Chevrolet Malibu: Street Car on the Outside, NASCAR on the Inside! appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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idolizerp · 6 years

Photo

[ LOADING INFORMATION ON OLYMPUS’ LEAD VOCAL KIM SEWOON…. ]

DETAILS

CURRENT AGE: 29 DEBUT AGE: 21 SKILL POINTS: 15 VOCAL | 07 DANCE | 04 RAP | 14 PERFORMANCE SECONDARY SKILLS: Lyric writing

INTERVIEW

i. they called him dirty when he walked into the audition, bad hair colouring and clothing thrown into one big chaotic avant-garde piece on a body. he put the same chaos where his mouth was, fighting early judgement with a whip in the mouth. they couldn’t get rid of it then, there was too little time to teach an old dog new tricks, so, instead, they groomed him - cleaned up his appearance and cut his tongue rounder. he became the unlikely mix of sweet and toned down sour, his appearance serving for a cold demeanor while an inviting, proud smile emphasized all the fairy tales coming from his mouth. it cleaned up for anything straightforward that slipped out. there was little way to foresee how big his next step would be and how close he’d be willing to get to the edge of acceptable behavior. he played a game, nimble fingers rolling the dice exiting and eye catching – undeniably hard to ignore.

ii. it seems that everything about him is different when he comes back from the army. from his stance and walk all the way to his demeanor, he’s changed for the better or worse. there’s an aura of a grown up around him, a lack of a rebelling teenager smirk prominet. the calm and collected attitude is a whole other extreme none of the fans, members or staff in the company are used to. it was like a fall of personality, about which he found himself conversing in the company. after a head was nodded (‘make the change smoother, we don’t need culture-shock’ – as if the lost member coming back wasn’t one in the start), the new him was observed by a panel of others - one that seemed to be consisting of the whole world, as for the first six months comments about how different he seemed and how well he did in ‘tell me’ were the only things he heard. with ocean’s calm in his eyes and a smile of zen, he nodds along it and falls into an open discussion when given the chance. matured, they say, as they pat his shoulder. now he’s a real idol.

BIOGRAPHY

i. it was dead silent as they dined. not that many more voices ever rang in the household, ice walls tall and proud between each person kneeling behind the table. the most vivid sound in his memory is his father flipping pages of a newspaper while his mother blew into a spoon to cool down the tasteless everyday broth. the youngest pair of eyes behind the table were the only ones looking up, flickering between the rustling of a page turned and a human produced breeze throughout the whole hour of dinner. silence of strangers was natural for a family with discord, words the equivalent of static to each other’s ears as they leave the mouth. a man of authority whose uniform was glued to his frame no matter the occasion, controlling and prideful of sucking the life out of a rose-cheeked ten year younger prima ballerina who fell before her career could even start after a cruel twist of faith. or, rather, an ankle. and then there’s the kid - round, dove eyes and striking up conversations, questions raised fading into the dull atmosphere in the room having received no reaction. the best the young soul could do was chew at his rice as his curious gaze turned more spiteful with each evening passing.

ii. the first time the two gazes turned to their blood was when he smashed his metal chopsticks against the table, sound resonating in the dimly lit room. the boy who grew up in silence and in between cold demeanor was so surprised at the attention the original rant he had been writing in his head ever since realization that strangers is a more fitting way to describe the group of three than family.

“i- am bleaching my hair.”

he had never seen the visual of mother chocking and his father patting her back as something like a hiss left his mouth. from the look of it, it was directed at the notorious. it’s amusing, the reaction. so much so that he buys the silver box himself out of his pocket money for lunch. the work is sloppy and slightly remindful of one dropping a sunny-side egg on top of their head, but this time he’s the only one behind the table looking down, relishing with the slightest uplift of the corners of his lips as chopsticks hit them with peaces of food.

iii. everything in the open is based on obtaining a reaction, books read and subjects learned left to the darkness of his bedroom. but the hair colours changing with every other season became a casual occurrence. whatever ink left marks on his skin after the boy hit legal age along with the delusion of independence dried in the heads of his closest strangers. the turned man with the preference of an oil and fire combination slowly swung on his chair behind the table as he honked for attention much more purposefully than the teenager had a few years back.

“i’m auditioning.”

“where?”

“to be an idol.”

a hand hits the table, making the plates dance along to the song of the young man’s victory. one he also celebrated in his head as the amusement he longed for was back on his features.

“you don’t even sing.”

“you don’t know that.” he shoots his mother down, ignoring the bull-like breaths taken from his left, undeniable anger sprouting in his own tone. a spicy atmosphere would have felt endearing hadn’t the woman on the right opened the door of connection - the same one that didn’t exist in the household.

“can you dance?”

that’s more like it.

“can’t everyone?” no, he figured out later.

the fizzle coming out of his father’s nose was distracting, an image of a hog, breaths fogging up right at the tip of his nose. the image put up on the same wall of ice between the family members as an accomplishment, the boy has enough decency to thank his mother for the meal before excusing himself.

“son, you’re too old.”

“you would surely know that, mother.”

iv. too old. that didn’t seem like a reasonable factor but not all minds thought alike. it was one lesson the young man learned while standing in front of multiple panels, judges and camera tests. the habit of shooting blindly at any comment made – defense mechanism of sort – was effective only in front of ones he developed it in the first place.

the answer was always too similar “you can talk and have a good voice but it doesn’t make up for what you’re lacking. you’re a bad dancer, you’re attitude needs fixing, your appearance is dirty.” in the end it was all wrapped in a nice bow of not enough time for him to make up for what he was lacking and develop what he naturally had. no matter how many philosophies on time, it doesn’t wait, - by the years it might have taken the nineteen year old lacking, he would have become an unattractive age for a debuting idol.

after a twist of faith of his own, a thought flashes in his head that maybe he was, in fact, too old for this. he thought about it all the time as sweat dripped down on the floor from the tip of the nose of the crouched man after the n'th practice of the same dance routine or singing his breath out as songs blared loudly in the room. it was undeniable he lacked, stamina most of all, the nickname of ‘five’ sticking to him like glue as the trainee found himself showing the palm of his hand at people who tried talking to him in the moments of practice.

“five more minutes.”

in his defense, he was genuinely trying.

v. debut, comebacks and stable attention make time slip past digits like sand. it mixed well with the loud siren he was, portrayed as an unlikely sweet and sour that complimented his sharp eyes, he felt himself prospering even when labeled a growing concern inside of his group no matter how shiny and glittery the company served the lead vocalist.

the way his manager pushed a letter in front of him, typing on the letter too formal for it to be one of a fans’ was implicate, eyes quickly scanning trough the paper, the content triggering memories from teenage years. his father’s pushes in the ‘righteous’ direction with an underlying traditional want for his son to step into his shoes flashed in vivid, bleeding colour. except that the company had much more than family ties with the twenty-six year old. a contract straight from hell signed with his blood.

‘olympus’ sewoon early military enlistment’

not so breaking when most netizens seemed to have foreseen it, already blaming him for the breakup of the group in ten more years or so. meanwhile the man turned into a rebelling teenager once more, much more silent under contract as he hissed at the pains of the needle of a tattoo gun sinking into soft flesh, making as many feelings in pictures and words. they were the last kicks of a newborn before learning how to crawl.

vi. the comeback is rather underwhelming, a few waves and a subtile smile at a fan or two waiting before hiding in the comfort of the company van that picked him up.

h i d i n g.

he’s back unrecognisable. the changed body frame and stance couldn’t beat the absence of a once booming voice. eyes somehow softer, just like his new neutral smile, he became an observer – calm and collected, lingering somewhere in the back. a man with a the perfect ratio of gentleman and silence, all on top of an endearing visual. truthfully, he fell out of what was labelled as ‘himself’ as he marched between men dressed in neutrals. strategies replaced acting on impulse, encouragement bowed in front of a set amount of rules he got used to under the strict influence. cash pools of tattoo parlous suffered from the lack of the man under the gun even after he came back. conversations with fellow members becoming mellow, awkwardness heavy in the air after the reappearing of the two year lost member with collages of it molded into small videos all over internet. the company’s hair dressers were ecstatic - at least they didn’t have to guess what colour his hair would be when they show up to work anymore, because everything stopped abruptly.

kim sewoon became an enigma. there, but not really. loud, but not quite. attentive, but somewhere in his own head. a man lost in the papers he kept scribbling on ever since he developed the habit of lyrical thought during night time while away.

truthfully, he was becoming his father. the only thing he was lacking was a uniform.

#id.bio #id.olympus #id.midas #id.kim jaejoong

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gentlesquid-blog1 · 7 years

Text

I just founded a smart Religion, and so should you!

Part I: Why bother with religion at all?

I was raised by atheist parents. Ever since I can remember, religion was something dubious to me. Its teachings seemed so far off and far-fetched from an evidence-based, modern worldview. The fact that so many people in the world held religious believes with bizarre stories about humanoid animal-gods, omnipresent beings, creation myths and so on seemed odd - and, admittedly, a bit silly.

As I grew older, it started to make more sense to me why people would imagine stuff like that: religious believes clearly had something to offer beyond the strangeness. It provided them with easy answers for difficult questions, like how the earth was created or what happens after death. It awarded them with sense of importance, with concepts of people “build after the image of god” and earth as the center of the universe. And of course, it gave hope and something to hold on to for people unhappy in their live by promising rebirth, nirvana or life-after-death. So, while religion never made sense, I could make sense of why people would falsely belief in it. This is something called an Error Theory in Philosophy.

Based on this reasoning, one might assume that religion looked childish but harmless to me. But I was also told about the cruelties a zealous faith can cause. Over thousands of years, people all over the world were oppressed, tortured and murdered out of religion reasons. There were wars and terrorism, slavery and witch-hunts, forced marriages and female circumcision, all justified and supported by religious beliefs, communities and leaders. Religion was not a harmless game of make-belief, but a force of evil that not only stood in the way of reason and progress, but also brought out the worst in humanity and turned them into savages attacking each other in the name of this book or that prophet.

In my adult life, I finally matured into a more benevolent perspective. I still lack a true understanding of how a deeply religious mind perceives the world. It feels strange and alien to me to take religious stories and teachings at face value. And I still see the dangers of religious belief for a rational and humanitarian agenda. But I got to know more religious people and I started talking to them about their faith. It turns out to most of them, religion is something profoundly positive. It not only makes their own lives better with a profound feeling of being connected, loved, taking care of, but it also provides them with moral guidelines and motivates them to be friendly and helpful to other people. For them, their faith was a force of good and not of evil.

The factual claims of their faith still seemed dubious. Surprisingly, many of them agreed. It just didn’t matter that much to them. This got me thinking. How much does that really matter? Do people really have to base all their beliefs in evidence? By what authority? This is a question discussed in philosophy as the Ethics of Belief: what is the normative force to demand someone to believe one thing rather than another? It would take us too far astray to dive into the debate and all its nuances, but I invite everyone to read up on it as it is an utterly fascinating and very underappreciated subject.

Reading up on this subject, my conclusion was: No, they don’t. Evidence is not the only thing that matters. I’m not saying that people should belief anything arbitrarily and that there should be no discussion about competing beliefs. Far from it. I still think we should be able to justify what we believe in. I still require reasons. What I’m saying is that evidence is not the only way to justify a belief. Due to my background as a moral philosopher, I think every normative justification ultimately boils down to being good to yourself and others. So, the “best” belief is not equivalent with the most truthful belief.

However, in most cases, a truthful belief will turn out to be the best belief. Imagine a person asking you to use your smartphone for a quick call. The person could be either of two things: they could sincerely need you help or they might want to steal your phone. In this case, holding a true belief about their motives will lead to the best decision. But this is not necessarily always the case. Imagine knowing the exact time of your death. It may cause you immense distress for all your life, counting the years, days, hours, seconds until your inevitable demise. Not knowing or even having a wrong belief (that there is still plenty time while in fact there are only a few more days left) might be the better belief.

Another example more closely related to religion is the solace some people find in the notion that they will someday be reunited with their late loved ones or the unfounded hope that can provide strength to people in dire circumstance who would crumble in the face of the evidence-based chances for survival. Again, I must concede that this is an insufficient discussion of the complex relationship between evidence and other reasons for belief. We are just touching the surface here and many important things remain unsaid. And again, I must insist that evidence is a great reason for believing something and there are significant dangers straying from the path of truth.

Still, I stand by point. Truth is not all there is. And religion has something to offer that can’t be dismissed by pointing out a lack evidence. If a religion can offer something good for you and the world, it is worth believing. And I think there are good beliefs hidden in all religions I have read or heard about. Sadly, and to my utter distress, these faith-worthy beliefs are buried in a pile of garbage. The same religion that preaches to love your neighbor demands to smash his head in if he praises the wrong wooden idol. The same religion that preaches the sanctity of life defines another race as “less than human” and encourages abuse and slavery. And of course, almost all religions come with a baggage of empirical statements that are disproven and obsolete in the modern era, but can’t be dismissed or reformed because they are part of the canon – like every creation myth ever.

Part II: Criteria for a smart religion.

So, what if we had a religion that gets rid of all the bad beliefs and nonsensical historical baggage, but tries to keep and refine what is good and precious about religious faith? This is what I am proposing: to create a new religion, not based on any tradition, scripture, prophet, or relic, but with the clear and only goal of bettering the life of believers and the people they interact with. This is a constructed religion, but not a satirical one. It is serious, even though it doesn’t claim any evidence to support it. However, it doesn’t engage in any conflict with evidence and science, but makes sure to know its proper place in the overall system of believes.

I will make a proposal for such a religion in a moment – in acknowledgement that there is a plethora of other ways a smart religion could be constructed. I invite you to join me as fellow believers or make up your own religion and share it with the world. Too long was founding religions only something for people in the past or people with delusions of grandeur or ulterior motives. It’s time to reclaim religion as open-minded, creative and progressive people. But before we can dive into that, we need to clarify the criteria: what is the best a religion has to offer? And what is the worst it often carries along?

One of the main appeals of religion seems to be a feeling of connectiveness. Religious people often feel close to each other in light of their shared belief and tradition. But its more than just religious practice that unites them. Most religions promote an idea that people are in some sense spiritually connected to each other. This feeling can not only increase the quality of life of believers, it can also encourage them to be nicer to each other. I reject the notion that religion is the only (or even best) foundation for moral interaction. But I can’t dispute that for many people, kindness and decency towards each other is informed by religious beliefs and this is certainly something to appreciate.

Another important aspect is that faith can comfort people. It can give them meaning and purpose when they feel lost. It can help them surviving rough patches of life with the knowledge that some sort of happiness awaits them and that their suffering is not in vain. It can provide them with hope and encourage them to move on. And it can also give them a feeling of self-worth. Most religions stress the fact that people are more than “just” a collection of atoms, meaningless among all the other thing in the universe. Instead, people are unique by the fact that they have some sort of spirit, soul or essence that is immensely valuable – and so are they by possessing it.

Last but not least, religions often excel at telling wondrous stories about the universe and everything. This may sound condescending, but as a storyteller, I have the utmost respect for it. Sharing stories is a crucial part of being human. Religious narratives have a sense of grandeur that elevates them from down-to-earth literature. They explain the world in a way that is deeply relatable and convey this magnificent sense of wonder that makes people tell them over and over again. I consider this religious sense of wonder something very precious.

There are also bad habitats that a smart religion needs to avoid. Faith can not only unite, but also divide. It can make people turn on each other – on members of other religions or clans, as well as on members of their own religion or clan. A smart religion should not steer people in conflicts. It should accept the equal value of all people and not degrade some to elevate others. It should also refrain from pressuring people to act according to narrow, culturally-biased set of standards. It should encourage people to live the life they chose without any fear of spiritual repercussions or punishment. A smart religion should never make anyone afraid or question their own worth.

Part III: Faith of the Inquisitive Souls Collective

So, without further ado – and we certainly had enough ado by now – let me present to you a smart religion called the Faith of the Inquisitive Souls Collective.

There is a vast collective of souls floating in a semi-fluid space beyond the stars. Everyone who ever lived is part of that collective. It dwells in the accumulated experiences of all mankind in a state of eternal bliss and wonder. Being perfectly self-sufficient, it is still extremely curious and in a state of ongoing exploration of itself and its potential. So, from time to time a brave soul decides to manifest in the material world and sets forth on a Journey to gather new experiences to share. This is the Great Journey called life.

These valiant adventurers are prepared to face periods of great discomfort inherently to life and unnatural to their blissful natural state to return with marvelous new experiences. It might feel tiring and even senseless from time to time, but the great comfort is that they cannot fail. Whenever they return to the collective, they will bring something valuable to share. Just by starting the mission, they already accomplished its objective. But the longer they move on, the more joyful moments they experience and the more they learn about themselves, the more they will be able to contribute. Even stretches of suffering will be gladly taken once they return, as all experiences have a hidden value and meaning the collective will discover. And it grows bigger and wiser with each returning soul.

If the inquisitive souls experience too much pain in the material world, they might need more time in the warming bliss of gentle togetherness before they set forth on a new adventure. They have all the time and peace they need. If they feel they missed chances or that their life ended prematurely, they can set out again immediately. Or they can dwell in all the experiences every other soul has gathered. Trillions of lives, unimaginable joy and wonders, all waiting to be explored by the inquisitive souls.

All souls are distinct, but not separated. If they chose to, souls can merge into bigger and stronger units. For many adventuring souls, meeting other souls to reunite after the end of their journey is one of the greatest prices for visiting the material world and spend there a life or two. Imagine it like a lava lamp, always in a trance-like movement, seamlessly connecting in bigger groups and then splitting again into smaller units. People that created a particular strong bond in life will eternally merge in this collective and never part again.

There is still room for dissent within this framework. I link to imagine that there is still some sort of individuality and even privacy possible in the soul collective. Others might instead prefer to believe in the ultimate dissolution of self. Both can be possible in the same collective, though. Another open question would be the status of animals, plants or any other living being. Do they have a soul? I personally remain agnostic about this point, but feel free to imagine them all joining the collective. Imagine yourself being able to be reincarnated as any being that you consider a fit vessel for your soul.

There are a few religious practices – that are, of course, completely voluntary. For once, each year the 25th of august is sharing day. This day people that feel close to each other get together and share one of their most valuable experiences of the last year with each other. They describe it as vivid as possible to make the people excited about experiencing it itself one day.

A second practice comes into use when two souls get to know each other in life and plan to bond once they are back in the collective. As a symbol for that, they will mix two differently colored, non-soluble liquids in a glass container with water. At the anniversary, they will heat it and watch the liquids tenderly floating around, connecting and disconnecting. Of course, this bonding ceremony is not limited to any number of participants.

Part IV: What’s so smart about it?

For me, this religion has a lot to offer. I particularly enjoy the notion that all of us are heroes. Just by being born, by having decided to take the Great Journey, we risked all the perils life has to offer to inquire existence and gain new experiences to keep or share. And we are not just heroes, we are also already winners. Just by existing, we accomplished our biggest task. There is no pressure to compete with anyone or live up to artificial standards. On the other hand, there is still an incentive to do create the best possible live for us: so we can return with the possible experiences.

It also establishes a deep connection between all beings. We are not only infinitely valuable, immortal souls. We are also partners on the same mission. We all come from the same source and we will all return to the same place. Everything you experience, every joy you feel, is valuable to me too, because one day we might share them. On the other hand, I do not want you to die or suffer, because I want you to experience more and don’t be too traumatized when your Journey ends. I want you to return with the energy to go back and gather ever more magnificent lives.

Another aspect that is very important to me personally is how it solves the dreadful particularity of existence. My mind feels capable of so much more than living this particular life and this particular world in this particular body for this particular time. No more of that, I say! Now I will be able to experience everything ever experienced and will go forth and seek new experiences whenever I chose to. I can relive the best moments of my own life and the life of everybody else. I experience all ages of mankind or spend millennia in never ending orgasms or a trance-like like nirvana.

I am not saying that this religion is immune to abuse. Imagine a violent, masochistic psychopath that murders other people to experience the pain he inflicts first-hand once he returned to soul collective. What I am saying is that “how could a violent psychopath interpret a religion to justify inflicting pain” may not be the best test. Every theory can be spun to a certain agenda, no idea is immune to abuse. The more modest standard of a smart religion should be to not be inherently abuse. I consider the Faith of the Inquisitive Souls Collective sufficiently humanitarian in this respect.

However, the content of a religious belief is not all that matters. It is not only important what is taught, but also how it is taught. My firm belief is that people should not be born into religions. People must autonomously choose a religion, only then can it become an essential part of their being instead of a contingent part of their upbringing. Religious institutions, teaching and indoctrination is another subject, though, and shall be discussed another time.

Part V: Final plea.

I want to stress the point again that this is not the end, but the beginning. If you feel fine with any of the big religions, go for it. If you feel fine without any religion, go for that. But if you feel religion might have something to offer but don’t feel at home at any big religion, get creative and create your own.

Society loves to perpetuate the idea that religions require ancient traditions and millions of members to be taken seriously. They do not. History has repeatedly proven that millions of people are not smarter than a few. All religions are abstuse and you will not come up with anything weirder, sillier, more far-fetched than the things billions of people believed for thousands of years. So, don’t be intimidated, be inspired. There is no sanctity in the divine except that which you imbue in it.

Your faith is your own. You are free to believe in whatever you chose to. And you should always choose to belief what’s best for you.

#religion #philosophy

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